Readings in Pacific literature 9780864182708, 0864182708

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Readings in Pacific Literature

edited by

Paul Sharrad

New Literatures Research Centre University of Wollongong 1993

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0. 9 New Literatures Research Centre, Department o f English, University o f Wollongong, Northfields Avenue, Wollongong, Australia 2522.

© NLRC First published 1993 No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored or transmitted without permission. Copyright for the book and Introduction rests with the New Literatures Research Centre and for the individual articles with their respective authors and original publishers. Permissions have been sought from both author and publisher of the articles collected and the editor's grateful acknowledgement of their support is recorded here. The publishers would be pleased to hear from any interested parties in cases where attempts at contact were not successful.

Cover Photo: Manuel Sharrad

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Literary criticism Pacific Literature Post-colonial Literature

ISBN: 0-86418-270-8 Printed by the University o f Wollongong Printery

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In trod u ction

1

S outh Sea A uthors

Robert Dean Frisbie

6

T ow ards a New Oceania

Albert W endt

9

T h e Em ergence o f a P olynesian Literature

Ken Arvidson

20

B ook D istribution in the Pacific Islands

Ron Crocombe

39

’U nfolding Like Petals': T he D eveloping D efinition o f the Writer's Role in M odern Papua New Guinean Literature

Nigel Krauth

52

Betw een Two C ultures: In terpreting Vincent E ri’s 'The C rocodile'

Frances Devlin-Glass

63

R ussell Soaba's 'Wanpis'

Bill McGaw

74

The V oice in the Shadow: a Survey of W riting in Solomon Islands

Julian M aka’a & Stephen Oxenham

81

ln do-F ijian Fiction and the G irm it Ideology

Vijay Mishra

91

H one Tuwhare in his Poetry

Bernard Gadd

102

Witi Ihim aera: Literary D iplom acy

Richard Corballis

108

Doing her job: Patricia Grace's Fiction

Rachel Nunns

114

M aking the Net Whole: Design in Keri H ulm e's 'The Bone P eople'

Carmel Gaffney

119

continued

Telling Tales on Tiko: Epeli Hau'ofa's Satiric Art

Paul Sharrad

128

Samoan W riting: The Search fo r the Written Fagogo

Peggy Fairbaim-Dunlop

136

A lbert Wendt: an A ssessm ent

Roger Robinson

M ates, M um and M aui: the Theme o f M aturity in three A ntipodean N ovels

Chris Tiffin

173

M ountains in the Sea: The Em ergence o f C ontem porary H awaiian Poetry in English

Richard Hamasaki

190

Select bibliography

161

205

1

IN TR O D UCTIO N Since writing and printing came to the Pacific almost everywhere as a result of European contact, the production and study of literature about the region has, until the advent of indigenous literatures, been pigeonholed either w ithin the 'universalised' fields of scientific discourse, under the generalised Eurocentric heading of 'colonial' literature (M augham 's stories, for example, coalescing into a global C ook's Tour) or within the cultures 'owning' various writers. Thus Becke is given a small note as an Australian writer, Stevenson's Pacific stories are taken as part of his contribution to Scottish letters, Melville is a figure in American Literature courses, and so on. We see the early construction of Pacific Literature clearly defined in Robert Dean Frisbie's opening essay from 1946. With the exceptions he mentions, and a few notables since (Michener and, recently, Theroux), this white writing about the Pacific has been generally deemed 'sub-literary' for being too involved with artless yarning, travelogues and popular or children's romances. But the advent of discourse analysis, semiotics and narratology has altered ideas of 'the literary', and areas of cultural production previously disregarded have come under scrutiny as important elements of current systems of knowledge and power. The recuperation into 'the literary7 of writing about the Pacific by visitors and foreign settlers has been accompanied by a modem literary outpouring from the islanders themselves. Ironically, perhaps, one of the early moments in the em ergence of an authentic Pacific literature occurred two years after Frisbie's essay appeared, when his daughter, defining herself largely in terms of her mother's Polynesian heritage, published her m em oirs, M iss Ulysses from Puka Puka. Successive writing stems from boosted educational programmes after World War Two and from the raising of consciousness (and of cultural selfconsciousness) that went with the political self-determ ination of countries previously controlled by empires: French, German, British, Japanese, American, Australian and New Zealand. The works that are usually identified as marking the beginnings of an authentic Pacific literature are Albert Maori Kiki's autobiography, Kiki: Ten Thousand Years in a Lifetime (1968), Vincent Eri's novel The C rocodile (1970), W iti Ihim aera's and Patricia Grace's story collections — P ou n am u , P ou n am u (1972) and W aiariki (1975) — and Albert W endt's novel Sons fo r the Return Home (1973). This is not the whole story by any m eans, since it records only book publication, and even then Hone Tuwhare had a collection o f poems out in 1965, while Cook Islander Tom Davis had his name on a book cover in 1960. Nonetheless, as a field of literary study, Pacific writing came into its own as a fairly recent phenomenon, perhaps signposted by three events: the appearance of a South Pacific anthology (Albert W endt's Lali) in 1980, of Subramani's critical study South Pacific Literature: from Myth to Fabulation in 1985, and the award of the Booker Prize to Keri Hulme's The Bone People in the same year.

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It m akes sense to study these two literatu res (w hite and indigenous) in a regional framework and as a historical continuity. For a start, much of the early traveller literature offers itself as writing about 'the South Seas' rather than specific single locations, and the w riting of decolonisation and after was produced as a regional phenom enon, w riters as a rule training together on university cam puses in either Port Moresby or Suva or Guam , som etimes in Honolulu, Auckland and Wellington as well. Many of them published together in journals like M ana, run by the South Pacific Creative Arts Society in Fiji, or O n d o b o n d o from U.P.N .G ., Landfall and P a c ific Quarterly (M oana) from New Zealand, Xanadu from the University of Guam (now superseded by Storyboard) or Bamboo Ridge in Hawaii. A second linking factor is that a significant num ber of works w ere produced in a direct or generalised response to the earlier w hite colonial writing, so that there is a continuity of dialogue between pre­ contact traditions and modern cultural expression as well as between the post-contact cultures of 'sky breakers' and 'people of the land'. It is, however, the literature of the latter group which calls the field into being and which also claim s an extent beyond the 'South Seas' emphasis of earlier times. Clearly the islands of the Hawaiian chain are part of the wider Polynesian world and their history of colonialism, for all of its specific details, echoes the cultural and political dynamics of other parts of Oceania. The 'South Seas' model also obscured the connections with Kiribati and Micronesia, the latter linked to Hawaii because of the continuing influence of the United States. A further linking element (though not altogether a uniting one) is the common use of the English language as a significant if not major m eans of literary expression across the Pacific. W hile there are literatures — some growing in strength — in vernaculars and local lingua fran cas, w riting has tended to be identified with m odernity, schooling, nationhood and the global reach of English. (There are literatures as well in French and, from Rapanui, in Spanish, but they have generally continued to exist under the domination of the colonial culture and do not have the bulk o f English-language writing. Since the study of Pacific literature has tended to emerge out of Departments of English Literature and courses in Com m onwealth literature, the accent on English is hard to avoid and I am for the moment sticking to this lim itation.) There are argum ents for extending the boundaries of the field. Australian Aborigines take part in the Pacific Arts Festival on a regular basis and certainly, Torres Strait Islanders have cultural affinities with both Papua New Guinea and Polynesia. There also are a few works such as Faith Bandler's \Nacvie and Welou, my Brother that arise from the h istory of forced and indentured P a cific lab o u r in Queensland. But Aboriginal literary expression tends overall to define itself very much within its continental limits and within the national cultural debate and for that reason I exclude it here. Equally, I suppose the Philippines are part of the Pacific world, but politically and culturally they have looked more to Asia and the U.S., with the

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exception of those emigrants who have settled into the Hawaiian and M icronesian literary scenes. G enerally speaking, I define Pacific Literature as that of the 'Basin' rather than the 'Rim'. There have been many centres of Pacific research, but few courses on P acific literature. However, there are now regular offerings of literary packages at universities in the Pacific, in A ustralia, New Z ealan d and the U.S. and th ese o v erla p w ith v a rio u sly institutionalised and specialised interests in Pacific and post-colonial studies in many other places. Other than the constant unavailabilty of primary texts that go out of print at short notice, one major difficulty in teaching Pacific literature is that critical material is spread thinly across a range of journals and the early material in particular is now hard to obtain. To meet what I hope is a growing need, I have brought together a selection of articles that I have found to be useful in m y own teaching. Some of my choices are backed up by recurring citations, others are based on trying to cover the major early writers across the region. I have also attempted to confine m yself to early critical responses, keeping 1985 as a rough cut-off date. A lbert W endt eloquently canvasses the reasons w hy it is important to promote the idea that there is a solid body of writing from the Pacific worthy of literary study and amenable to comparisons across a reasonably (even surprisingly) consistent set of cultural dynamics. Even now, with the exception of a few tourist spots, the islands are still seen as a non-cultural region, providing only raw m aterial for consumption by Western factories, anthropologists and linguists while the sea is exploitable for its fish and its very emptiness (a 'space' for nuclear testing and garbage disposal contracts). As W endt also points out, constructions of national or ethnic identity in the Pacific have tended to perpetu ate a view by 'fix in g ' culture as trad itional perform ance arts — important elem ents of self-expression, it is true, but easily commodified and interpreted as 'folklore', and vulnerable (despite revivals and because of its very opposition to the 'modern' and 'w estern') to decay under the impact of urban drift and global massmedia. All of the essays in this collection see some dialogue between oral vernacular traditions and m odem cultural expression in print and in English, and for all the conflict between the indigenous and the introduced, it seems that such a dialogue is one key way of achieving the internal survival of and outside recognition for Pacific culture. The modern writing that this book hopes to bring into greater popularity carries with it not just the message that the Pacific is now a literary region, but that it has always had literature; that there was and still is a whole mass of cultural production supporting the printed word. And it is not merely outsiders and academics who need to be reminded of this. Only the other day I heard an Islander introduce a dance by claiming history began with white discovery and revealing that the 'traditional' performance was Psalm 23. The latter can certainly enter local tradition, but if it displaces cultural memory, there's something wrong. W hile part of this project is to encourage the study of modern literary expression within educational institutions, I would hope that it

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also causes some questioning of the assumptions of literary practice as it occurs in those institu tions. There is an im plicit m aterialistobjectivist model governing acceptance of a literature according to the volume of its output that is redolent of imperialist thinking. Quantity is not necessarily the condition of sustainable validity in the same way that size is often tacitly (and unnecessarily) assumed to be the basic requirem ent for nationhood. According to scientistic positivism — a sort o f 'm useum cu ltu re' — com m od ification , possession and collection confer significance; a field is not a field until it contains more than one cow and is fenced! Literature and its study cannot begin until there is a 'critical mass' to generate a tradition. The point is that the model of literature which has kept Pacific writing from more than passing recognition even in the islands themselves is founded on old and prejudicial Eurocentric values. There needs to be on the one hand a broadening of definitions of 'text', 'literature' and 'culture', and on the other an inspection of the critical apparatus that demands 'a body' of knowledge of a certain bulk or form. The 'critical mass' model for literary development carries with it a related requirement: a mass of criticism, a sign that mere writing has becom e conscious of its status as literature. This collection asserts that there is already such criticism. Like Pacific literature, it may not be accorded recognition by the current academ ic theorists of the First W orld, but, as Barbara Christian points out ("T he Race for Theory," Cultural Critique, volum e 6, 1987) in the context of promoting Black W om en's literature in North America and the Caribbean, this is not necessarily a bad thing. The problem in these academic times is that theory tends to drive literary recognition and curriculum innovation, and the theorists, while many of them have significant links with postcolonial or marginal positions, are authorised by their formation in the centres of First World intellectual power. Pacific literature 'sneaks in' under the um brella o f Com m onw ealth, or Third W orld, or Post­ colonial literary studies, but is generally not conceded sufficient prim ary or secondary output to warrant independent consideration. One problem in attaining this kind of independence is that, like much of the decolonising process, it is conferred in the terms of the colonial (or neo-colonial) culture. Barbara Christian makes the point that there are things to do different from and prior to the kind of theorising that attracts academic kudos these days. There is the raw fact that articles, journals, books disappear from view unless they have readers, and read ers are encou raged m ore by biographical, sociological and appreciatory criticism that makes literature more readily accessible in real-life terms than discussion of the problematics of textuality and the floating signifier. One kind of criticism need not develop into post-m odernism accord in g to som e hegem onic m od ern isin g m odel o f cu ltu ral 'progress'. M ind you, the very nature of Pacific writing as it juggles orality and literacy, two or more languages, community dissemination and authorship, Third World issues amid a global neo-colonialism , and so on, ought to m ake it am enable to contem porary literary

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theorists. It is important, however, that Pacific literature produces its own self-awareness. Even if it relies for its survival on a print-culture system that is tied to the multinational economy, it need not rely on the conceptual fram eworks of First World literary critics for it to generate dialogue and achieve recognition. Vilsoni Hereniku points to the continuing need for culturally appropriate systems of criticism ("P acific Island L iteratu re", M an oa, 5.1, 1993) and it is the writerscholars of the Pacific like him, Albert Wendt, Steven Winduo, Laura Souder, Hirini Melbourne (to name a few at random) who are properly assuming custodianship of the contemporary literary Pacific. It is true that the criticism assembled here is representative of early responses to some early texts of apparent significance. As such, some of it may seem simplistic in the light of more recent work. It is, nonetheless, of considerable value as part of an archive of a potential field of literary study, and it may well prove to be more in tune with the spirit of this particular oceanic field than attempts to 'problematise' the cultural production of the region. One thing that can perhaps be said for studying Pacific writing in English is that, while it may seem to produce a spuriously homogeneous package for outside consumption, it serves as a strategic ploy to achieve international recognition so that all the heterogeneous m odes of Pacific expression can then be m aintained as cultural forms in their own right. In this sense, no apologies need to be made for the writers or critics represented here. The limitations of editorial selection, however, (and those more m echanical ones on book production) mean that several diligent promoters of this field of study have been omitted, that there are few indigenous critics represented, and that interviews and commentary by writers themselves will not to be found here. All three are regrettable shortcomings, and I have added a short list of further reading to make up the loss. Later m aterial is more readily available and it would be presumptuous to anticipate which of the contemporary critical works will be the most influential. I hope that this collection will help further the study of Pacific literatures to the point where others with the benefit of hindsight will feel the need for a follow-up volume. In this one, I have kept editorial tinkering to a bare minimum. Obvious slips in proofing and the stray confusing phrase have been sorted out; otherwise, texts and footnotes are as they originally appeared. Finally, I want to express my deep gratitude to all the friends and colleagues who have supported my interest in Pacific writing. Special mention should be made of Syd Harrex and the Centre for Research in the New Literatures in English, Flinders University; Bob Kiste and the Center for Pacific Islands Studies, University of Hawaii; Jim Wieland and the New Literatures Research Centre, University of Wollongong. I trust they and many others will feel warmly embraced within the dedication of this book to two bands on the spectrum of my personal p o st-colon ial exp erien ce: my grand m other, Ju lia Lom as, from Lancashire, and my schoolfriend, Solo Tongia from Kalo, Papua. Paul Sharrad

6

SOUTH SEA AUTHORS Robert Dean Frisbfe Robert Dean Frisbie escaped from a rigid religious schooling and military academy to become a trader in the Cook Islands. He made a name for himself with his lively sketches in The Book of Puka Puka (1928). The piece below was written in 1946, two years before his death and the publication of his Polynesian daughter's diary-travelogue, Miss Ulysses from Puka Puka. Florence Johnny' Frisbie thus enters her father's resolutely Euro-American adventure playground as the forerunner of an indigenous Pacific written literature._________________

A Book of travel should give the reader a feeling of the spirit of place. If this is accom plished, the author has achieved his end far m ore effectively than could have been done by giving a factual description. For the student, in search of geographical or anthropological facts, there is the Encyclopeadia Britannica and, if his subject is the South Pacific, the memoirs of the Bishop Museum. Only a few geniuses among the South Sea authors have succeeded in marrying facts and readableness. Outstanding are Nordhoff and Hall in their classic of modem Tahiti, "No More G as"; and Eric M uspratt in his story of the Solomons, "M y South Sea Island." These books are like good photographs, interesting, full of action, and true to life. In the South Pacific, from Easter Island to the Marshalls, are lands as dissimilar as Siberia and Panama; but in the books about them two notes prevail: first, that of lushness, sensuality, and security; second, that of disease, hardship, and danger. This is unavoidable, for the reader will accept only the brown maidens and free lunch of Polynesia or the cannibals and square-face gin of Melanesia. If a South Sea author wishes his book to sell he must emphasise either the amenities or the asperities of island life, seasoned with love and thrills; for a good South Sea book is avowedly escape reading, and as such it exerts a healing effect on the frayed nerves of civilised man. Take the highly emotional books of Beatrice Grimshaw. In 1935 she told m e they had sold some quarter-million copies. N o one — Miss Grimshaw least of all — would claim her books exemplify fine literary qualities; but they are excellent relaxation reading. Set in N ew Guinea, they give me a feeling of the spirit of the place; when I need facts I will turn to "Th e Pacific Islands Year Book." I can understand Miss G rim shaw 's enthusiasm for that hard-bitten, perilous, fantastically beautiful island, for effeminacy is not among her weaknesses. Now war is over, aspiring authors will find a fertile field in the South-west Pacific. Save for Miss Grimshaw's romances and M uspratt's "M y South Sea Island," these am azing islands have been virtually untouched by popular writers. Likewise, the Gilbert, Ellice, Caroline and Marshall Islands to the north-east. M ost of these are coral atolls, scarcely more than 10 feet high, over-populated, poverty-stricken from a European's viewpoint, and figuratively begging for someone with a supple pen and an artistic eye to describe them to the world-at-large. Robert Louis Stevenson gave

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a living picture of Apemama in "In the South Seas," and Louis Becke wrote fine stories of the Marshalls and Carolines, but I know of no outstanding modern writer who has touched them. Perhaps the writers of to-day are not hardy enough to stray so far from the comforts of the island ports. I wonder if nine-tenths of the aspiring Odyssean-authors are not beguiled by the lotus-eaters in the Bougainville Club of Papeete, or by Circe in the International Club of Apia, or by Calypso in the Belmont Bar of Suva? And is not this the reason that there is such a surfeit of books about the island ports but scarcely a m urm ur from the truly rom antic islands in rem ote M icronesia? To this laym an's eyes the M icronesians are at least part Mongolian. There is a slant to their eyes, their hair is straight and black, th eir tem p eram en t u n resp o n siv e, b ro o d in g . B eliev in g them phlegm atic, one hears with surprise that in cases of adultery the offender is gaoled at once — solely to save his life from the injured husband. In Polynesia the husband might slap his faithless wife or shrug his shoulders and forget it; in Fiji he would take the offender to Court. A human study of Micronesia, in distinction to an ethnological study, awaits an author with a fine sense of values. Sam oa, with its three over w orked w ords — falavelave, famolemole, and fafitai (trouble, please, and thank you) — possesses no literature worthy of the name except Stevenson's "V ailim a Letters" and, if you are serious-minded, Keesing's "M odern Sam oa." "Vailima Letters," in my mind, is the work of an incurable romanticist seeing the island as he would like it to be. But who save a pedant would decry Stevenson's book because it is coloured by the author's rosy vision? Tonga, too, awaits its modern author. For som ething really fine you will have to turn to M ariner's 'T o n g a "; and turn to it, by all means, if you wish to escape to the Great South Sea in its Golden Age. And if M ariner only whets your appetite, then I recommend the "Journal" of Captain J.E. Erskine. With him you can sail to Tonga, Fiji, Samoa, New Hebrides, and New Guinea. By the time you have read the last appendix in this vivid account of the South Seas in the 1850's, you will probably be as avid for books on the great voyagers — Cook, Bougainville, Beechy, Wallis, Bligh, Byron — to name a few. The Cook Islands likewise have been virtually untouched, yet in this Group there are coral atolls of exquisite charm; upheaval coral islands bored by labyrinthine caves and inhabited by a people with traditions to awaken the spirit of the weariest writer; Rarotonga, with its fantastic mountains and its even more fantastic people, half puritan, half pagan. John W illiam s, in his "M issionary Enterprises," gave a readable account of these islands in the 1820's; but in modern times only Charles N ordhoff has written vividly of them, in his half of "Faerylands in the South Seas." South of the Tuamotus are the Gambiers and Australs. You will enjoy reading Robert Lee Eskridge's "M anga-reva" and delight in his fine water-colours; but he has only brushed the surface of these little-

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known islands; and no one, among the popular writers, has touched Rapa-iti and Rapa-nui. There is finally the M arquesas, which can be com pared with Arabia insofar as it has been fortunate in its authors. The three bestknown are Herman M elville, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Frederick O'Brien. The last of these, I am afraid, is at a disadvantage, due to the fine company he keeps. "W hite Shadows in the South Seas" is in the class I spoke of at the beginning of this paper; a book that introduces the reader to the spirit of a strange place at the expense of unim portant details. Because it is such a book, I heartily recommend it. But perhaps you are searching for a book of poetry about these islands. Correct me if I am wrong in believing it does not exist. Poets, spread your wings!

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TOWARDS A NEW OCEANIA Albert Wendt As writer, teacher, editor and leader of creative writing groups, Wendt has played a crucial role in promoting written literary expression throughout the Pacific. This article appeared in Mana, 1.1, 1976 and has been reprinted in various places, most notably reworked as the Introduction to Lali: a Pacific Anthology('79S0J. Wendt's own publications begin with Sons for the Return Home (1973) and continue through five other novels (two made into films), two books of short stories, and two poetry collections. He is currently a Professor at the University of Auckland, having also taught in Fiji and Samoa.______________

1.

A Rediscovery of Our Dead These islands rising from wave's edge blue myth brooding in orchid, fern and banyan, fearful gods awaiting birth from blood clot into stone image and chant to bind their wounds, bury their journey's dead, as I watched from shadow root, ready for birth generations after . . . ( f rom ’Inside Us the D ead ')

I belong to Oceania — or, at least, I am rooted in a fertile portion of it — and it nourishes my spirit, helps to define me, and feeds my im agination. A d e tach ed /o b jectiv e analysis I will leave to the sociologist and all the other 'ologists who have plagued Oceania since she captivated the im agination of the P ap alag i in his quest for El Dorado, a Southern Continent, and the Noble Savage in a tropical Eden. Objectivity is for such uncom m itted gods. My com m itm ent w on't allow me to confine myself to so narrow a vision. So vast, so fabulously varied a scatter of islands, nations, cultures, m ythologies and myths, so dazzling a creature, Oceania deserves m ore than an attem pt at mundane fact; only the imagination in free flight can hope — if not to contain her — to grasp some of her shape, plumage, and pain. I will not pretend that I know her in all her manifestations. No one — not even our gods — ever did; no one does (UNESCO 'experts and consultants' included); no one ever will because whenever we think we have captured her she has already assumed new guises — the love affair is endless, even her vital statistics, as it were, will change endlessly. In the final instance, our countries, cultures, nations, planets are what we im agine them to be. O ne human being's reality is another's fiction. Perhaps we ourselves exist only in one another's dream s. In our various groping ways, we are all in search of that heaven, that Hawaiki, where our hearts will find meaning; most of us never find it, or, at the moment of finding it, fail to recognise it. At this stage in my life I have found it in Oceania; it is a return to where I was born, or, put another way, it is a search for where I was born:

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One day I will reach the source again There at my beginnings another peace will welcome me (from "The River Flows Back", Kumalau Tawali: Manus, PNG)

Our dead are woven into our souls like the hypnotic m usic of bone flutes: we can never escape them. If we let them they can help illuminate us to ourselves and to one another. They can be the source of new-found pride, self-respect, and wisdom. Conversely they can be the aitu that will continue to destroy us by blinding us to the beauty we are so capable of becoming as individuals, cultures, nations. We must try to exorcise these aitu both old and modern. If we can't do so, then at least we can try and recognise them for what they are, adm it to their fearful existence and, by doing so, learn to control and live honestly with them. We are all familiar with such aitu. For me, the most evil is racism: it is the symbol of all repression. Chill you're a bastard ... You have trampled the whole world over Here your boot is on our necks, your spear into our intestines Your history and your size make me cry violently for air to breathe ( from The Reluctant Flame , John Kasaipwalova: Trobriands, PNG)

O ver the last two centuries or so, that m ost fearfu l ch ill, institutionalised in colonialism, was our perpetual cross in Oceania: Kros mi no wandem yu Yu kilim mi Yu sakem aot ol We blong mi Mi no ivandem yu Kros ( from "Kros", Albert

Cross I hate you You are killing me You are destroying My traditions 1 hate you Cross Leo mala: New Hebrides)

The chill continues to wound, transform , hum iliate us and our cultures. Any real understanding of ourselves and our existing cultures calls for an attempt to understand colonialism and what it did and is still doing to us. This understanding would better equip us to control or exorcise it so that, in the words of the Maori poet Hone Tuwhare, "w e can dream good dreams again", heal the wounds it inflicted on us and with the healing will return pride in ourselves — an ingredient so vital to creative nation-building. Pride, self-respect, self-reliance will help us cope so much more creatively with what is passing or to come. W ithout this healing m ost of our countries will rem ain perm anent w elfare cases not only econom ically but culturally. (And cultural dependency is even more soul-destroying than economic dependency). W ithout it we will continue to be exploited by vampires o f all colours, creeds, fangs. (Our home-grown species are often more rapacious). W ithou t it the tragic m im icry, abasem ent, and hu m iliation will continue, and we will remain the often grotesque colonial caricatures

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we were transformed into by the chill. As much as possible, we, mini in size though our countries are, must try and assume control of our destinies, both in utterance and in fact. To get this control we must train our own people as quickly as possible in all fields of national development. Our economic and cultural dependency will be lessened according to the rate at which we can produce trained manpower. In this, we are failing badly. In a flash he saw in front of his eyes all the wasted years of carrying the whiteman's cargo. (from The Crocodile , Vincent Eri: Papua, PNG)

If it has been a waste largely, where do we go from here? My body is tired My head aches I weep for our people Where are we going mother (from "Motherland", Mildred Sope: New Hebrides)

Again, we must rediscover and reaffirm our faith in the vitality of our past, our cultures, our dead, so that we may develop our own unique eyes, voices, muscles, and imagination. 2.

Some Questions and Possible Answers In considering 'the Role of Traditional Cultures in Promoting National Cultural Identity and Authenticity in Nation-Building in the Oceanic Islands’ (whoever thought up this mouthful should be edited out of the English language!) the following questions emerged: (a) (b) (c) (d) (e)

Is there such a creature as 'traditional culture'? If there is, what period in the growth of a culture is to be called 'traditional'? If 'traditional cultures' do exist in Oceania, to what extent are they colonial creations? What is authentic culture? Is the differentiation we usually make between the culture(s) of our urban areas (meaning 'foreign') and those of our rural areas (meaning 'traditional') a valid one?

Are not the life-styles of our towns sim ply developments of our traditional life-styles, or m erely sub-cultures within our national cultures? Why is it that many of us condemn urban life-styles (sub­ cultures) as being 'foreign' and therefore 'evil' forces contam inating/ corrupting the 'purity of our true cultures' (whatever this means)? (0

(g)

Why is it that the most vocal exponents of 'preserving our true cultures' live in our towns and pursue life-styles which, in their own terminology, are 'alien and impure'? Are some of us advocating the 'preservation of our cultures' not for ourselves but for our brothers, the rural

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(h)

masses, and by doing this ensure the maintenance of a status quo in which we enjoy privileged positions? Should there be ONE sanctified/official/sacred interpretation of one's culture? And who should do this interpreting?

These questions (and others which they im ply) have to be answered satisfactorily before any realistic policies concerning cultural conservation in Oceania can be formulated. The rest of this section is an attempt to answer these questions. Like a tree a culture is forever growing new branches, foliage, and roots. Our cultures, contrary to the sim plistic interpretation of our rom antics, were changing even in pre-papalagi times through inter­ island contact and the endeavours of exceptional individuals and groups who manipulated politics, religion, and other people. Contrary to the utterances of our elite groups, our pre-papalagi cultures were not perfect or beyond reproach. No culture is perfect or sacred even today. Individual dissent is essential to the healthy survival, developm ent, and sanity of any nation — without it our cultures will drown in selflove. Such dissent was allowed in our pre-papalagi cultures; what can be m ore dissenting than using war to challenge and over-throw existing power — and it was a frequent occurrence. No culture is ever static and can be preserved (a favourite word with our colonisers and romantic elite brethren) like a stuffed gorilla in a museum. There is no state of cultural purity (or perfect state of cultural 'goodness') from which there is decline: usage determines authenticity. There was no Fall, no sun-tanned Noble Savages existing in South Seas paradises, no Golden Age, except in Hollywood films, in the insanely rom antic literature and art by outsiders about the Pacific, in the b reath less serm ons of our elite vam pires, and in the fevered im aginations of our self-styled rom antic revolutionaries. W e, in Oceania, did n ot/an d do not have a monopoly on God and the idea! life. I do not advocate a return to an imaginary pre-papalagi Golden Age or utopian womb. Physically, we are too corrupted for such a re­ entry! Our quest should not be for a revival of our past cultures but for the creation of new cultures which are free of the taint o f colonialism and based firmly on our own pasts. The quest should be for a new Oceania. Racism is institutionalised in all cultures, and the desire to dominate and exploit others is not the sole prerogative of the papalagi. Even today, despite the glib tributes paid to a Pacific Way, there is much racial discrim ination between our many ethnic groups, and much heartless exploitation of one group by another. Many of us are guilty — whether we are aware of it or not — of perpetuating the destructive colonial chill, and are doing so in the avowed interest of 'preserving our racial/cu ltu ral purity' (w hatever this means). M aintaining the status quo using this pretext is not only ridiculous but dangerous. The only valid culture worth having is the one being lived out now, unless o f course we attain immortality or invent a time m achine that would

13

enable us to live in the past or future. Knowledge of our past cultures is a precious source of inspiration for living out the present. (An understanding also of other peoples and their cultures is vital). What may have been considered 'true' forms in the past may be ludicrous now: cannibalism and human sacrifice are better left in the history books, for example. Similarly, what at first may have been considered 'foreign' are now authentic pillars of our cultures: Christianity and the Rule of Law, for instance. It won't do to over-glorify the past. The present is all that we have and we should live it out as creatively as possible. Pride in our past bolsters our self-respect which is necessary if we are to cope as equals with others. However, too fervent or paranoid an identification with one's culture — or what one deems to be that culture — can lead to racial intolerance and the like. Hitler too had a Ministry of Culture! This is not to claim that there are no differences between cultures and peoples. Or to argue that we abolish these differences. We must recognise and respect these differences but not use them to try and justify our racist claim s to an im aginary superiority. All of us have individual prejudices, principles, and standards by which we judge which sub-cultures in our national cultures we want to live in, and those features of our national cultures we want conserved and those we want discarded. To advocate that in order to be a 'true Sam oan', for example, one must be 'fully-blooded Samoan' and behave/ thin k/ dance/ talk / dress/ and believe in a certain prescribed way (and that the prescribed way has not changed since time immemorial) is being racist, callously totalitarian, and stupid. This is a prescription for cultural stagnation, an invitation for a culture to choke in its own body odour, juices, and excreta. Equally unacceptable are outsiders (and these come in all disguises including the mask of 'adviser' or 'expert') who try to impose on me what they think my culture is and how I should live it and go about 'preserving' it. The colonisers prescribed for us the roles of domestic animal, amoral phallus, the lackey, the comic and lazy and happy-golucky fuzzy-haired boy, and the well-behaved colonised. Some of our own people are trying to do the same to us, to turn us into servile creatures they can exploit easily. W e must not consent to our own abasement. There are no 'true interpreters' or 'sacred guardians' of any culture. We are all entitled to our truths, insights, and intuitions into and interpretations of our cultures. No national culture is homogenous. Even our small pre-papalagi cultures were made up of sub-cultures. In Polynesia, for instance, the life-styles of priests and ariki/ali'i were very different from those of the commoners, women, and children. Contact with papalagi and Asian cultures (which are made up of numerous sub-cultures — and we, in Oceania, tend to forget this) has increased the number of sub-cultures or life-styles within our cultures. Many urban life-styles are now just as m uch part of our cultures as more traditional ones.

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To varying degrees, we as individuals all live in limbo within our cultures: there are many aspects of our ways of life we cannot subscribe to or live comfortably with; we all conform to some extent, but the life­ blood of any culture is the diverse contributions of its varied sub­ cultures. Basically, all societies are multi-cultural. And Oceania is more so than any other region on our sad planet.

3.

Colonialism: the Wounds Let m e take ju st two facets of our cultures and show how colonialism changed us. (a)

Education "Kidnapped” I was six when Mama was careless She sent me to school alone five days a week One day I was kidnapped by a band of Western philosophers armed with glossy-pictured textbooks and registered reputations 'Holder of B.A. and M. A. degrees' I was held in a classroom guarded by Churchill and Garibaldi pinned up on one wall and Hitler and Mao dictating from the other Guevara pointed a revolution at my brains from his 'Guerilla Warfare" Each three-month term they sent threats to my Mama and Papa Mama and Papa loved their son and paid ransom fees each time Each time Mama and Papa grew poorer and poorer and my kidnappers grew richer and richer 1 grew whiter and w hiter

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On my release fifteen years after I was handed ( among loud applause from fellow victims ) a piece of paper to decorate my walls certifying my release ( Ruperake Petaia: Western Samoa)

This rem arkable poem aptly describes what can be called the 'whitefication' of the colonised by a colonial education system. What the poem does not mention is that this system was enthusiastically welcomed by many of us, and is still being continued even in our independent nations — a tragic irony! The basic function of Education in all cultures is to prom ote conformity and obedience and respect, to fit children into roles society has determined for them. In practice it has always been an instrument for domesticating humankind. The typical formal educational process is lik e a lobotom y operation or a relentless life-long dosage of tranquillisers. The formal education systems (whether B ritish / New Z ealand/ A u stra lia n / A m erican / or French) that w ere established by the colonisers in our islands all had one main feature in common: they w ere based on the arrogantly m istaken racist assum ption that the cultures of the colonisers were superior (and preferable) to ours. Education was therefore devoted to 'civilising' us, to cutting us away from the roots of our cultures, from what the colonisers viewed as darkness, superstition, barbarism , and savagery. The production of bourgeois papalagi seemed the main objective; the process was one of castration . The m ission aries, irresp ectiv e of w hatever colon ial nationality or brand of Christianity they belonged to, intended the same conversion. N eedless to say, the most vital strand in any nation-building is education but our colonial education systems were not programmed to educate us for developm ent but to produce minor and inexpensive cogs, such as c le rk s/ glorified office b o y s/ o fficia ls/ and a few professionals, for the colonial adm inistrative machine. It was not in the colonial interests to encourage industries in our countries: it was m ore profitable for them that we remained exporters o f cheap raw m aterials and buyers of their expensive manufactured goods. So the ed u cation was narrow ly 'acad em ic' and ben efitted m ainly our traditional elite groups who saw great profit in serving our colonial masters who, in turn, propped them up because it was cheaper to use them to run our countries. The elitist and 'academ ic' nature of this education was not conducive to training us to survive in our own cultures. Colonial education helped reduce m any of us into a state of passivity, undermined our confidence and self-respect, and made many of us ashamed of our cultures, transformed many of us into Uncle Tom s and revenants and what V.S. Naipaul has called "m imic m en",

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inducing in us the feeling that only the foreign is right or proper or worthwhile. Let us see how this is evident in architecture. (b)

A rchitecture A frightening type of papalagi architecture is invading Oceania: the su p er-stain less/ su p er-p lastic/ su p er-h ygien ic/ super-soulless structure very similar to modern hospitals, and its most nightmarish form is the new type tourist hotel — a multi-storied edifice of concrete/ ste e l/ chrom ium / and air-conditioning. This species of architecture is an em bodim ent of those bourgeois values I find u n h ealth y/ souldestroying: the cu ltiv ation / worship of m ediocrity, a quest for a meaningless and precarious security based on material possessions, a deep-rooted fear of dirt and all things rich in our cultures, a fear of death revealed in an almost paranoiac quest for a super-hygienic cleanliness and godliness, a relentless attem pt to level out all individual differences in people and mould them into one faceless mass, a drive to preserve the status quo at all costs, and ETC. These values reveal themselves in the new tourist hotels constructed of dead m aterials which echo the spiritual, creative, and emotional emptiness in modern man. The drive is for deodorised/sanitized comfort, the very quicksand in which many of us are now drowning, willingly. What frightens me is the easy/unquestioning acceptance by our countries of all this without considering their adverse effects on our psyche. In my brief lifetim e, I have observed many of our countries imitating what we consider to be 'papalagi culture' (even though most of us will swear vehemently that we are not!). It is just one of the tragic effects of colonialism — the aping of colonial w a y s/ life -sty le s/ attitudes and values. In architecture this has led and is leading to the construction of dog-kennel-shaped papalagi houses (mainly as status symbols, as props to one's lack of self-confidence). The change from trad itio n al d w ellin g to box-sh ap ed m o n stro sity is g ath erin g momentum: the mushrooming o f this bew ildering soulless desert of shacks and boxes is erupting across Oceania because most of our leaders and style-setters, as soon they gain pow er/w ealth, construct opulent dog-kennels as well. Our governm ents' quest for the tourist hotel is not helping matters either; there is a failure to understand what such a quest is bringing. It may be bringing money through the middle-aged retired tourist, w ho travels from country to country through a variety of climates, within his cocoon of air-conditioned A m erica/ E urope/ N .Z ./ A u stralia/ Molochland, but it is also helping to bring these bourgeois values, attitudes, and life-styles which are com pellingly attractive illnesses that kill slow ly, com fortably, turning us away from the richness of our cultures. I think I know what such a death is like: for the past few years I have watched myself (and some of the people I admire) dying that death. In periods of unavoidable lucidity, I have often visualised the ultim ate developm ent of such an architecture — air-conditioned coffins lodged in air-conditioned mausoleums.

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4.

Diversity, a Valued Heritage The population of our region is only just over 5 million but we possess a cultural diversity more varied than any other in the world. There is also a multiplicity of social, economic, and political systems all undergoing different stages of decolonisation, ranging from politically independent nations (W estern Sam o a / F iji/ Papua New G u in ea/ T o n g a / N auru) through self-governing ones (the S o lo m o n s/ the G ilb erts/ Tuvalu) and colonies (mainly French and American) to our oppressed aboriginal brothers in Australia. This cultural, political, social, and econom ic diversity must be taken into account in any overall programme of cultural conservation. If as yet we may not be the most artistically creative region on our spaceship, we possess the potential to becom e the most artistically creative. There are more than 1200 indigenous languages plus English, French, Hindi, Spanish, and various forms of pidgin to catch and interpret the Void with, reinterpret our past with, create new historical and sociological visions of Oceania with, compose songs and poems and plays and other oral and written literature with. Also numerous other forms of artistic expression: hundreds of dance styles: wood and stone sculpture and carvings; artifacts as various as our cultures; pottery, painting, and tattooing. A fabulous treasure house of traditional m otifs, them es, styles, m aterial which we can use in contemporary forms to express our uniqueness, identity, pain, joy, and our own visions of Oceania and earth. Self-expression is a prerequisite of self-respect. Out of this artistic diversity has come and will continue to come our most w orthw hile contribution to humankind. So this diversity must be maintained and encouraged to flourish. Across the political barriers dividing our countries an intense artistic activity is starting to weave firm links between us. This cultural awakening, inspired and fostered and led by our own people, will not stop at the artificial frontiers drawn by the colonial powers. And for me, this awakening is the first real sign that we are breaking from the colonial chill and starting to find our own beings. As M arjorie Crocom be of the Cook Islands and editor of M A N A M agazine has written: Denigrated, inhibited and withdrawn during the colonial era, the Pacific people are again beginning to take confidence and express themselves in traditional forms of expression that remain part of a valued heritage, as well as in new forms and styles reflecting the changes within the continuity of the unique world of our Island cultures ... The canoe is afloat ... the volume and quality increase all the time.

One of the recent highlights of this awakening was the 1972 South Pacific Festival of Arts during which we came together in Fiji to perform our expressive arts; much of it was traditional, but new voices/new forms, especially in literature, were emerging. Up to a few years ago nearly all the literature about Oceania was written by papalagi and other outsiders. Our islands were and still are a

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gold m in e for rom an tic n o v elists and film m ak ers, bar-room journalists and sem i-literate tourists, sociologists and Ph.D. students, rem ittance men and sailing evangelists, UNO 'experts', and colonial administrators and their well-groomed spouses. Much of this literature ranges from the hilariously romantic through the pseudo-scholarly to the infuriatingly racist; from the 'noble savage' literary school through M argaret M ead and all her com ings of age, Som erset M augham 's puritan m issio n aries/d ru n k s/sain tly w hores and Jam es M ichener's rascals and golden people, to the stereotyped childlike pagan who needs to be steered to the Light. The Oceania found in this literature is largely papalagi fictions, more revealing of papalagi fantasies and hang-ups, dreams and nightmares, prejudices and ways of viewing our crippled cosmos, than of our actual islands. I am not saying we should reject such a literature, or that papalagi should not write about us, and vice versa. But the imagination must explore with lo v e/ honesty/ w isdom / and com passion; writers must write with aroha/ a lo h a / alofa / lolom a, respecting the people they are writing about, people who may view the Void differently and who, like all other human beings, live through the pores of their flesh and mind and bone, who suffer, laugh, cry, copulate, and die. In the last few years what can be called a South Pacific literature has started to blossom. In New Zealand, Alistair Cam pbell, of Cook Island descent, is acknowledged as a major poet; three Maori writers — Hone Tuw hare (poet), Witi Ihimaera (novelist), and Patricia G race (short stories) have becom e extremely well-known. In A ustralia, the aboriginal poets Kath W alker and Jack Davis continue to plot the suffering of their people. In Papua New G uinea, The C rocodile b y Vincent Eri — the first Papuan novel to be published — has already becom e a m inor classic. Also in that country poets such as John Kasaipwalova, Kumalau Tawali, Alan Natachee, and Apisai Enos, and playw rights like Arthur Jaw odim bari are publishing som e powerful work. Papua New Guinea has established a very forw ard-looking Creative Arts Centre, which is acting as a catalyst in the expressive arts movement, a travelling theatre, and an Institute of Papua New Guinea Studies. K O V A V E Magazine, put out by a group of Papua New Guinea writers, is already a respected literary journal. M A N A M agazine and MANA Publications, established by the South Pacific Creative Arts Society (ow ned/operated by some o f us), have been a m ajor catalyst in stim ulating the grow th o f this new literature, especially in countries outside Papua New Guinea. Already numerous young poets, prose writers, and playwrights have emerged; some of them, we hope, will develop into major writers. One thinks of Seri, Vanessa G riffen, and Raym ond Pillai of Fiji; o f Eti Sa'aga, Ruperake Petaia, Sano Malifa, Ata M a'ia'i, and Tili Peseta of Western Samoa; of Albert Leomala and Mildred Sope of the New Hebrides; of Celestine Kulagoe of the Solomons; of Maunaa Itaia of the Gilberts; of Makiuti Tongia of the Cook Islands; of Konai Helu Thaman of Tonga. I am proud to be also contributing to this literature. M ost of us know one another personally; if we don't, we know one another's work well.

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Our ties transcend barriers of culture, race, petty nationalism , and p o litic s. O ur w ritin g is ex p ressin g a rev o lt a g a in st the hyp ocritical/exploitative aspects of our tradition al/com m ercial/an d relig iou s h ierachies, colonialism and neo -colon ialism , and the degrading values being imposed from outside and by some elements in our societies. But they cannot erase my existence For my plight chimes with the hour And my blood they drink at cocktail parties Always full of smiling false faces Behind which lie authority and private interests (from "Uncivil Servants" , Konai Helu Thaman: Tonga) As I walk this rich suburb full of white and black chiefs I hear the barking of a dog 1 listen to its calls knowing I am that dog picking what it can from the overflowing rubbish tins. 1 say to you chiefs bury the scraps you can't eat So no hungry dog will come to eat at your locked gate. Chiefs, beware of hungry dogs! ("Beware of Dog", Makiuti Tongia: Cook Islands)

In the traditional visual arts there has been a tremendous revival, that revival is also finding contemporary expression in the work of Maori artists such as Selwyn Muru, Ralph Hotere, Para Matchitt, and Buck Nin; in the work of Aloi Pilioko of W allis and Futuna, Akis and Kauage of Papua New Guinea, Aleki Prescott of Tonga, Sven Orquist of Western Samoa, Kuai of the Solomons, and many others. The sam e is true in m usic and dance. The N ational Dance Theatres of Fiji and The Cook Islands are already w ell-know n throughout the world. This artistic renaissance is enriching our cultures further, reinforcing our identities/self-respect/and pride, and taking us through a genuine decolonisation; it is also acting as a unifying force in our region. In their individual journeys into the Void, these artists, through their work, are explaining us to ourselves and creating a new Oceania.

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THE EMERGENCE OF A POLYNESIAN LITERATURE Ken Arvidson This article was one of the first critical studies of modem literary expression in the Pacific, appearing with Wendt's in the first issue of Mana, the journal of the South Pacific Creative Arts Society, in 1976 after it became autonomous from its supplement in the Pacific Islands Monthly and annual compilations. Arvidson teaches at the University of Waikato, New Zealand.__________________________ ....Listen: beyond Falealupo lie the dead. There, footsteps beat a tempo no man has heard. ("Lam ent", Ata Ma'iia'i: Western Samoa.)

The three writers with whom this essay will be chiefly concerned belong firm ly within the milieu of New Zealand literature. Hone Tuw hare and Witi Ihimaera are Maoris, and Albert W endt, though a W estern Sam oan, began publishing while a student here, and has continued publishing through New Zealand outlets since his return to Samoa in 1965. Because of the stature of these three w riters, New Zealand rem ains for the present the focal area of study for those interested in Polynesian writing in English. In recent years how ever, w riting in the South Pacific has discovered for itself two new centres, one at Port M oresby in what is now known as N iugini, and the other at Suva in Fiji. N otice will be taken of these new literary centres in the course of this essay, although Niugini writing does not fall naturally within the scope of a Polynesian study. At this point it is worth considering why. The term Polynesian is commonly used rather loosely, though rarely with great inaccuracy. For a New Zealander, a Polynesian is 'someone more or less like a M aori'; for an Australian, he is 'a Pacific Islander'; and further afield he is known, rather more vaguely, as 'a South Sea native'. A useful clarification is provided by Dr. T. Barrow in his Art and Life in P o l y n e s i a sections of which I shall paraphrase. O ceania and the W estern Pacific are conveniently divided into six culture areas, five of them bearing some cultural relationship with one another. (The sixth area is Australia). (1)

(2) (3)

Austroasia: the coastal and near coastal lands of south C hina, V ietnam , Korea, C am bodia, T h ailan d , M alay Peninsula; A u stronesia: the island w orld of South East Asia including the Philippines, Formosa, and Japan; M icron esia: the ato lls and high isla n d s n orth o f M elanesia;

1 T. Barrow, PhD, An and Life in Polynesia. Wellington: A.H. and A.W. Reed, 1972. Passages paraphrased from p. 13 and p.29.

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(4)

(5)

M elanesia: the island chain betw een M icronesia and A u stralia (N iugini is shared by A u stro n esia and M elanesia); Polynesia: a vast triangle about 500 miles along each side with corners at New Zealand, Hawaii, and Easter Island.

A circle drawn on a map with the centre point at Tahiti and with New Zealand, Haw aii and Easter Island on the circum ference gives an encom passing view of Polynesia. Polynesia itself is capable of subdivision into four sub-areas comprising island clusters or groups of islands representing the basic artistic and cultural areas: (1) (2) (3) (4)

West Polynesia: Fiji, Tonga, Samoa; East Polynesia: Society Islands and Marquesas; Sub-m arginal Polynesia: Austral, G am bier, and Cook Islands; M arginal Polynesia: Easter Island, New Zealand, the Chatham Islands, and Hawaii.

There is insufficient material available at this time for any substantial argum ent to be advanced that literary d ifferences w ithin the Polynesian area will follow the same artistic and cultural divisions, though my own reading to date does suggest that the same divisions will be clearly perceptible in a decade or so. Finally in this introductory section, bearing in m ind that intensive European contact with Polynesian cultures extends over only a little more than 200 years, it is salutary to reflect upon the relative antiquity of these cultures. Again I draw upon Dr. T. Barrow, who sum m arises the chronology for settlem ents in Polynesia currently upheld by the Bishop Museum at Honolulu, Hawaii. The chronology is based primarily upon Carbon 14 samples, artefact typology, and other relevant data. The data suggested are acknowledged to be conservative; most settlements probably occurred earlier: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9)

Fiji, 1500 BC. Tonga, 500 BC. Samoa 300BC. Marquesas, (from Samoa), 300 AD. H aw aii, (from M arquesas), 750 AD; second m igration (from the Society Islands), 1250 AD. Easter Island, (from Marquesas), 800 AD. Society Islands, (from Marquesas), 850 AD N ew Zealand, (from Society Islands), 900 AD; second migration (from Marquesas), 1000 AD. Mangareva, (from Marquesas), 1200 AD.

The antiquity of a culture is perhaps no guarantee of that culture's self perpetuation; and the depradations of the European im pact upon Polynesia since the eighteenth century have perhaps m odified the

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original cu ltu res irrep arab ly. But in these tim es of p olitical independence and self-determ ination a kind of reconstruction is o ccu rrin g , aided su b sta n tia lly by the w ork o f eth n o lo g ists, anthropologists, and sociologists, and the various cultures of Polynesia are once more vigorously asserting their individual identities — partly through political end eavours, but m ore im portantly through a renascence in their arts and rituals. Among their arts, literature is the one most newly practised, and perhaps the one which will make the moving spirit of the Pacific most accessible to the rest of the world. "Listen: beyond Falealupo lie the dead...."

n Don't despise mo in your dawn beauty, my polynesian viking son. We inhabit the same nightmare. ('T o My Son'', Albert Wendt: Western Samoa)

The cultu ral divisions ou tlined above, together w ith the observation that the various cultures are vigorously asserting their individual identities nowadays, should not be read as an indication that the development of literature in Polynesia is going to be in any way a self-serving or factional matter. Literature has no enduring place for factionalism. The years during which New Zealand and Australia — and, earlier, the variously united States of America — sought consciously for a sense of national identity in their literatures are now behind us. If the same process is repeated in the island territories of Polynesia it will occur as fleetingly as it has done in Nigeria, say, or the W est Indies; it will be of as great an immediate political value to the developing territory, and of as little ultimate value in that sense to the true concerns of literature, which one hopes are more unifying than d ivisive. At this early stage in the development of a Polynesian literature, a m ore perplexing form of cultural division is worth some attention — the cultural gulf that exists between the Polynesian w riter and his predominantly white readers. The realisation that such a gulf exists has hit the New Zealand consciousness harder than the Australian, though possibly not harder than that of the white American, who has had many years by now of exposure to genuinely black values in the literary m edium. Until at least the mid '60s, the pakeha — the white New Zealander — was inclined to believe that a total synthesis between the European and M aori cultures would be achieved in time. There seemed to be ample evidence of a quite visible kind to support such a belief. M aoris were becoming increasingly more urbanised and better educated in European ways and institutions; and inter-radal marriages, if not proportionately increasing, were continuing at a steady rate, the children of such marriages suffering few if any social disadvantages. These phenomena are of course still observable, and those who wish to do so can still argue cogently that a mono-cultural New Zealand is in the long run inevitable. But during the 60s a new and pow erful

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tendency became apparent in the desire that maoritanga, the Maori culture, must not be further eroded by assimilation into the European way of life — which is what the proponents of cultural synthesis had really been thinking of — but that it must instead rediscover its old vigour and retain its uniqueness. The reasons for this new tendency appear in summary rather broad and even nebulous, but they include the reawakening of racial awareness inspired by developments in the T hird W orld and in the U .S.A ., the influence of anthropological studies in the universities, and the fine, conscience-rattling analyses of the real as opposed to the illusory social role of the M aori in New Zealand conducted by such scholars as Dr. W. H. Pearson. As a result of these and other influences, it is now widely felt to be both probable and desirable that social evolution in New Zealand will take the form of a harm onious bi-culturalism . "The search for the New Zealand ethic; not for M aori, Pakeha or even national identity, not for some generalised personality of either race, nor for a fusion of races; but for a fusion of the richness of both races....", as Professor H. W inston Rhodes put it recently, arguing in favour of bi-cultural development.1 Bi-cu lturalism , he goes on, "...is valuable to the extent that it substitutes for the sightly priggish and self-conscious, inward-turning attitude implied by the search for identity, an honest recognition of the variety of human cultures and the desirability of uniting their richness for the common good." Unquestionably desirable though this view is in a social sense, and in an artistic sense too, it does raise difficulties in literary criticism w hich have scarcely been defined as yet, let along worked out in practice. The difficulties are nicely hinted at by H. Winston Rhodes in an essay considering Witi Ihimaera's novel Tangi. 7 The influence of tradition on critical judgement is frequently unrecognised and rarely explored. Yet Tangi, the first novel published by a Maori writer, is such an honest and unusual book that differences in cultural background and artistic conventions should be frankly acknowledged. It is far from easy to discriminate and evaluate without a firm basis for comparison, and dishonest to praise or blame without turning a critical eye on one's own emotional and literary heritage.

And further: Tangi becomes accessible to the pakeha reader provided that the latter is patient with his own misunderstandings, aware that literary conventions are closely related to social traditions, and willing to acknowledge the value of different traditions, to recognise that otherness is other as well as significant.

In m y review of Albert W endt's novel Sons for the Return H o m e3 I made a similar point.

1 H. Winston Rhodes, “Racc Relations and Literature”, Meanjin Quarterly, Melbourne University Press, vol. 32 no.3, 1973; p.226. 2 H. Winston Rhodes, "Tangi", Landfall 108, Christchurch: Caxion Press, 1973, pp. 348-351. ^ K.O. Arvindson, "Sonsfor the Return Home”, Landfall, 111, 1974, pp. 256-260.

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The (critical] problem is not one simply of cultural information. Wendt provides in Sons an abundance of information concerning the fa'a Samoa, the Samoan way of life, and in the main this information is conveyed as an integral part of the narrative .... The problem is not one of information, but will appear to the reader as his own limited ability to assent totally, from his own cultural standpoint, to the emotional and moral logic of a different value-system.

I think I would now modify my view of a reader's ability to assent to the logic of a culture not his own by observing that in reading the prose and poetry of writers as gifted as Wendt, Ihimaera, and Tuwhare, one undergoes a cultural exposure so aesthetically binding that the validity of the emotional and moral logic one experiences is rarely in question. The problem of assent arises only after the aesthetic experience, and would seem to exist properly in that inscrutable area of the mind in which art impinges upon life. It is a problem which, it can reasonably be supposed, will dim inish for the w hite Pacific reader as m ore Polynesian literature is set before him.

ni I bear no malice, let none stain my valedictions For I am at one with the wind the clouds heave and the slapping rain the tattered sky and the wild solitude of the sea and streaming earth which I kneel to kiss ... ( "Lament", Hone Tuwhare, N.Z.)

Hone Tuwhare, one of the finest lyrical poets currently writing in New Zealand and certainly the most outstanding Maori poet writing in English, came late to the craft of poetry. He was born in 1922 into the northern Ngapuhi tribe, and belongs to the Ngapuhi hapuus (or sub­ groups) Ngati Korokoro, Ngati Tautahi, Te Popoto, and Uri-O-Hau. His form al education ended when he was fifteen, since when he has worked in the boilerm aking trade, with some time out to pursue his interest in Socialist politics and, more recently, to write. It is a measure of his literary stature that he was awarded the University of O tago's Centennial Burns Fellowship in 1969, and that he was awarded the Burns Fellowship at the same University again for 1974. His volumes to date are No Ordinary Sun (1964), Come Rain Hail (1970), Sap-w ood and M ilk (1972), and Something Nothing (1974).1 N o-O rdinary Sun was prefaced by a Foreword by the late R.A.K. Mason, himself the first poet to make it possible in the 1920s to speak of a truly indigenous N ew Zealand poetry, and a man w hose own Socialist sym pathies m ade him a natural source of inspiration and encouragement to Hone Tuwhare. In his Foreword Mason wrote:

1 Hone Tuwhare, No Ordinary Sun. Auckland: Longman Paul, 1964; Come Rain Hail. Dunedin: University of Otago Library, 1970; Dunedin: Caveman Press, 1973; Sap-wood and Milk, Caveman Press, 1972, graphics by Ralph Hotere; Something Nothing. Caveman Press, 1974, graphics by Robin While.

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After many generations of racial intermingling in our country, things have become interfused: in poetry, as in life itself, this is manifested in many forms. Here — and I think this is for the first time — is a member of the Maori race qualifying as a poet in English and in the idiom of his own generation, but still drawing his main strength from his own people. Time and again, as one reads a poem, it becomes apparent how, in treating some aspect of present-day life, the inspiration is buoyed and thrust up by the power of tradition, the force of a people organised for life, (My italics).

In one of his later poems Tuwhare acknowledges his debt to the dead poet, which in small part can be seen in a terseness of languages and a philosophical stoicism: in the same poem, "Ron M ason", Tuwhare also points out a difficulty confronting all Polynesian writers, the lack of a specifically literary tradition: Your granite words remain. Austere fare, but nonetheless adequate for the honest sustenance they give. And for myself a challenge. A preoccupation now more keenly felt, to tilt a broken taiaha inexpertly to my old lady, Hine-nui-te-Po, bless the old bitch: shrewd guardian of that infrequent duende that you and Lorca knew about, playing hard-to-get. Easy for you now, man. You've joined your literary ancestors, while 1 have problems still in finding mine, lost somewhere.... (from Something Nothing ) [taiaha: a small, beautifully carved hand-spear, of practical, symbolic, and ritualistic signficance. Hine-nui-te-Po: The Great Woman of Darkness; the Death Goddess.]

The savour and tenor of Hone Tuw hare's poetry can best be conveyed by reproducing here a small number of complete poems, with limited comments on each, rather than by a general illustrated com m entary. No Ordinary Sun Tree let your arms fall: raise them not shapely in supplication to the bright enhaloed cloud. Let your arms lack toughness and resilience for this is no mere axe to blunt, nor fire to smother. Your sap shall not rise again to the moon's pull. No more incline a deferential head to the wind's talk, or stir to the tickle of coursing rain. Your former shagginess shall not be wreathed with the delightful flight

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of birds nor shield nor cool the ardour of unheeding lovers from the monstrous sun. Tree let your naked arms fall nor extend vain entreaties to the radiant ball. This is no gallant monsoon's flash, no dashing trade wind's blast. The fading green of your magic emanations shall not make pure again these polluted skies ... for this is no ordinary suru O tree in the shadowless mountains the white plains and the drab sea floor your end at last is written. (from No Ordinary Sun )

The subject of the poem is of course the nuclear bomb, and Tuw hare's poem seems to draw an unusual strength from the fact that his im agery does not draw upon m ore p red ictab le urban or technological sources, nor directly upon images of humanity itself, but upon purely naturalistic sources. As Dr. W.H. Pearson has observed, "N atu ral elem ents in Mr Tuw h are's verse are hum anised and dramatised in a way that would be false in pakeha con ven tion ".1 O ne feels the observation to be true, of contemporary W estern poetry at least. But there have been times in the evolution of European culture when such a mode of writing has been far from uncommon, and they have been tim es when a m ore stable cosm ology prevailed than prevails today. Polynesian cosm ologies retain m uch of their old vigour, and their integrated vision is surely an important element in what the Polynesian writer has to offer the world at large. Muscle and Bone of Song And of trees and the river no more say that these alone are sources for the deft song and the sad: nor from wave-curl and the sun cross moon wind and hail calm and storm come. Joyfully 1 sing to the young girl's hip-knock and taunt: swing-cheerful breasts shape my hands to eternal begging-bowls. (from No Ordinary Sun)

1 Bill (Dr W.H.) Pearson, “The Recognition of reality". Fretful Sleepers and Other Essays, Auckland: Heinemann N.Z., 1974; p.148.

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The Muse, Graves's White Goddess, is here brought sharply down to earth, with sexuality and the poet's supplication of Woman as sources of poetic inspiration firmly embedded in an image at once graphic and amusing. It is the quality of humour above all which sets this M aori 'M use' poem apart from others of the same genre. The poem is also, in a non-specific way, a love song — a waiata aroha — and the apparently conventional "I sing" in the poem should be seen as a reminder that for the Maori, as for all Polynesians, poetry is song, w aiata. A splendid analysis of the categories of Maori song, together w ith an extensively docum ented collection of songs and their translations, may be found in Barry M itcalfe's Maori Poetry, the singing word. 1 Because he has chosen to work in a literary medium, it is not always easy to relate Tuwhare's poetry to the categories of the oral tradition; but even a casual reader of his poetry is struck by the number of laments — waiata tangi — among his work. These range from the formal "Lam ent" from which the epigraph to this section was taken, and the equally formal "Tangi-hanga", the address to the dead at a fu n eral, (Com e Rain H ail), to broadly elegiac poem s in which celebration, humour, and grief are interfused, as in "Ron Mason" and "H eem i". Both of these latter poems, while genuinely private in their inspiration, fall naturally enough into the area of public statement which has behind it the Polynesian rhetorical mode, as both concern major New Zealand literary figures. 'H eem i' is the Maori form of James, and the poem "H eem i" describes the journey to the burial of James K. Baxter. Baxter was without doubt the most signficant pakeha poet to emerge in the post-World War II period, and in the final years of his life he became the centre of a commune at Jerusalem on the banks of the Wanganui River, where he adopted as fully as he could the Maori life-style and ethic, preaching and practising especially the p rinciple of aroha — a term which conveys not only the notion of perfect sexual love, but also the larger connotations of love implied by the Latin caritas. A Tail for M aui's Wife Hine:

lam moved as water moved by eel's verve and impudence

Tuna:

I move with her I move against her I move inside her She is water

Maui:

There, just behind the gills, my fingers dig soft belly: tighten

1 Barry Mitcalfe, Maori Poetry, the singing word. Wellington: Price Milbum for the Victoria University Press, 1974.

28 With his body coiling hard and shuddery against my wrists, I glop eel from his hole See, wife: I've chewed his head off. I shall grill him Throw wood on the fire Hine:

You disgust me 1 am nerveless, without pulse. I am still water (from Something Nothing)

H one Tuw hare's note on this poem reads: "H in e-a-te-R ep o (the swamp-maid) complained one day, to her husband M aui, that Tuna (the eel) had touched her most improperly. Whereupon Maui caught the eel and killed him ". Tuw hare's latest volume, Som ething N othing, apparently takes its title from the Pidgin dialect of the Solomons and the M elanesian islands to the north through which Tuw hare has travelled — sam ting n atin g: a verbal shrug of the shoulders. The diffidence of the phrase is belied by the volum e's contents, which suggest that Tuwhare is increasingly exploring the uses in English of more specifically Maori material than had been employed in his earlier volum es. If the shrug of the shoulders implied by the title means anything more than the poet's personal diffidence, it might be read to imply T h is is the way we Maori are. Take it or leave it'. In a television interview during 1974, Tuwhare has hinted that in future much of his poetry will be written in the Maori language. Since his pakeha readers can be reasonably sure that the Maori poems will appear also in English translation (for New Zealanders are as yet competent in m ore than a few phrases of M aori), Tuw hare's final achievement will be seen to have been genuinely bi-cultural in the sense outlined earlier in this essay. To a Kaumatua in Hospital, Fading Too few; and rarely now we come to visit you, indiscreetly as the rustle of exceptional thighs: with lots of love and lies (yes) minute and tabloid white and sinister as spiders. (from Something Nothing ) (kaumatua: a tribal elder, man or woman.)

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Brief though it is, this poem is a particularly good treatment of a dilemma that confronts all of us from time to time, and seems to strike upon the Polynesian consciousness m ore acutely than upon the European. How do we behave in the presence of approaching death, especially that of an old relative? The Polynesian extended family is still a reality, with ties of love and reverence all but unknown to the modern European family. Love requires that the final obeisances be made, and Tuwhare perceives the dual tensions this gives rise to: the 'indiscretion' of parading the fullness of life before one who is dying; and from the same love the 'lies', the assurances that all will be well, which are 'sinister' in that they cocoon and suffocate, obscuring the hard starkness of reality. It is a paradox of behaviour that concerns Tuwhare in this poem as in many other poems, and it rests on the deep cultural awareness that all modes of interpersonal behaviour, while essentially ambiguous, are ritualistically necessary. To recapitulate R.A.K. M ason's observation, Tuw hare's inspiration is "buoyed and thrust up .... by the force of a people organised for life". IV Inside me the dead woven into my flesh like the music of bone flutes.... ("Inside Us the Dead", Albert Wendt: Western Samoa.)

Albert W endt was born in W estern Samoa in 1939; a German ancestor entered his Samoan lineage some generations back. He went through high school and university stu dies in N ew Z ealand, graduating with a M aster's Degree in H istory from the Victoria University of W ellington, and subsequently taught in a New Zealand H igh School. He returned to W estern Sam oa in 1965 and is the principal of Samoa College in Apia. During 1974 he has been on the staff of the University of the South Pacific at Suva, Fiji, teaching in the field of cultural creativity. W endt is probably the most complex of the three writers with whom this essay is chiefly concerned. In a purely literary sense, he commands a wide variety of forms. His short stories have earned him considerable respect over a period of thirteen years, and his first co llectio n Flying-fox in a Freedom Tree is due for publication in N ovem ber of 1974.’ He is also highly regarded for his poetry. In the islands o f Polynesia he is acknowledged to be the leading poet, perhaps because he has articulated more forcibly than most other island poets the widespread resentment against white mercantilism, politics, and religion characteristic of regions reacquiring their own independence; in N ew Zealand his poetic stature, while high, rests largely on his lyrical and epigram m atic gifts, New Z ealanders being curiously 1 Albert Wendt, Sons fo r the Return Home. Auckland: Longman Paul, 1973: Flying-fox in a Freedom Tree. Longman Paul, 1974; The Leaves o f the Banyan Tree. Longman Paul, at press; Poems, Longman Paul, at press.

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unaware in the main of the political foment currently surging through the islands, and less inclined to take W endt's political poems seriously. In 1973 W endt's first novel appeared, Sons fo r the Return H om e. A further two novels, Leaves o f the Banyan Tree, and P ou liu li, are at press. To illustrate the way in which W endt's complexity goes beyond the purely literary I shall draw upon a lengthy interview conducted with him by Marjorie Tuainekore Crocombe.1 (a )

M.C.: Could you pinpoint the beginnings of your interest in writing? A.W .: .... Samoa was and still is extremely rich in its oral traditions, and 1 was lucky to have the grandmother I had .... She was steeped in Samoan culture and the Bible, and spoke fairly fluent English. Every night she would reward us with fagogo. I didn't realise until I read Aesop's fables and Grimm's fairy tales in English years later that some of grandmother's stories were from these collections, but she was telling them the fagogo way in Samoan....

(b)M.C.:

Did your experiences in New Zealand contribute to or detract from your creative inclinations? A.W .: My whole New Zealand experience was and still is very important in my writing ... New Zealand is my second home.... My work, I believe, belongs in the main stream of New Zealand literature...

(c)

M.C.: How far has your Polynesian background influenced your writing? A.W .: It has influenced it in every way. Not that I deliberately or consciously write from a Polynesian viewpoint (whatever that may mean!). Nearly all the things I have written have been about Polynesians (Samoans) and Polynesia. I include in this category pakeha (New Zealanders).... Speaking figuratively, I am mongrel - 1 am of two worlds in almost every way ... In many ways, it is a very lonely position to be in because you can never again, no matter how hard you try, belong totally to either of the cultures you grew up in. You will always remain an outsider .... (my italics).

Sons fo r the Return Home deals with the life of a Sam oan fam ily in W ellington and later in Samoa. The family have come to W ellington with the primary purpose of securing for their sons an education at least as good as that of the white palagi (equiv. Maori pakeha ) doctor whose knowledge had enabled the Samoan mother to bear children. The father's motives have their origin in gratitude and extend to the hope that a sound education will enable his sons to work effectively for the advancement of their own race. At the same time, it is seen that the acquisition of Western ways involves the danger that the boys will lose som ething of their Samoan identity; and this real cultural fear works throughout the novel in opposition to the equally real cross-cultural hopes the family has. The opposition finds its focus in the younger son, the central character, to whom Western attainments come easily, but in whom his father's tutelage also develops a deeply m ystical sense of 1 M.T. Crocombe and Albert Wendt, Mana, in the Pacific Islands Monthly. Sydney, June 1973, p. 75; July 1973, p71; reproduced in Mana Annual. 1973, Sydney: Pacific Publications, p.45.

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identity with the literal and the semi-mythical realities of his ancestry and his race. The final 'return home' to Samoa produces in this younger son a clim actic disillusionment. This is partly because the Samoa of his fam ilial memory has succum bed long since to the gim crackeries of W estern m aterialistic and religious invasions; more importantly, this disillusionment is because he discovers that his own mother has betrayed him in a matter of intim ate personal concern. While studying at the University, he had fallen in love with a palagi girl, and they conceived a child. Their wish to marry was largely acceded to by the white girl's parents, but unbeknown to the young man his mother prevailed upon the girl to go away (which she does, to Sydney in Australia, to "think things over" as far as the young man knows) — and to have an abortion. Although he had strongly wished to have the child, the young man reluctantly accepted the girl's action, which she reported to him, and later reconciled himself to the loss of the girl as well. But the final discovery, back home in Samoa, that his own mother had engineered the loss of his girl and also the loss o f his child is intolerable to him. He disowns his mother, thereby rejecting his family, and by implication his race. His mother, who had borne children through the knowledge of a palag i doctor and doted upon them was incapable of adjusting to the thought of a S am oan -p alag i grandchild; and by this irony Wendt reveals her as the betrayer not only of her own son and her own blood, but also of the whole fa 'a Sam oa, the Samoan way of life with its central stress on kinship. The young man leaves Samoa to return to New Zealand, not because of any absolute commitment to New Zealand, but because at the book's end he is committed to nothing but Polynesia, the Pacific itself; a pelagic m an. (An unusual feature of W endt's style in this novel is that none of the main characters are named. One is inclined to suppose that behind this curious practice there might lie a definable custom, based perhaps on the considerable m ystique attached to names and naming in Polynesia. In certain islands it is insulting to demand a man's name of him; and conversely, it is a mark of the highest esteem and courtesy that a stranger should be freely told the name and encouraged to use it. But it is not easy to identify any such custom to account for W endt's practice in this novel, and any theory that might be advanced would in all probability be false, as Wendt uses names freely enough in his short stories. But it is tempting to see the namelessness of this novel as being connected in som e way with the widespread Polynesian practice of technonomy, whereby a man is commonly known by his relationship with others rather than by his own name. If W endt is in fact adhering to this practice in Sons for the Return Home, then it must be taken as an index of the intensity with which he is examining intimate personal relationships.) Stylistically Wendt encompasses in Sons a wide range of human types and attitu des and beliefs, ranging from the approxim ate sophistication of a university environment through the crassness of factory workers to the relatively sublime passages of Samoan life with

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its finely evoked 'presence of the past'. Especially compelling are the chapters in which the young man and his father speak together alone, in which a Polynesian decorum com pounded of authoritarianism (more accurately mana, the natural prestige proper to an elder or a wise man) and aroha (Samoan alofa )gives a markedly non-W estern dignity to the warm intimacy of their exchanges. Only occasionally are there passages of stylistic unease — those in which the young man and his girl indulge in ribald gaiety; most of the party scenes. The idiom in these is roughly correct, but the tenor of the writing generally rings somewhat false. In two essays, "Attitudes to the Maori in Some Pakeha Fiction", and "The Maori and Literature 1938-65",’ Dr W.H. (Bill) Pearson has noted the ease and frequency with which racial stereotypes can be insinuated into prose fiction by the pakeha writer; and it appears that among Polynesian writers, if Wendt may be taken as the present guide, the same phenomenon will occur. The stereotyping to which the Polynesian writer might be prone however is more likely to be of a linguistic order solely, and less likely to be a matter of social valuejudgments, than is the case with the white writer. Sons for the Return Home is a novel which lends itself readily to debates about racial tensions, culture-clashes, cross-culturation and the like. These things form much of the matter of the novel. (It is for exam ple of some surprise to many New Zealanders to discover that Sam oans, Tongans, Cook Islanders, M aoris, etc., co-exist in New Zealand with no less abrasion among themselves than exists between Polynesians and Europeans.) But it is difficult to extrapolate any m essage from the novel on this level, beyond that w hich I have already hinted at in observing that finally, the main character shakes him self free of all other commitments to become purely a Pacific man — retaining, it would appear, the finest elements of the cultures that have formed him. This is an attractive and even an attainable ideal. But any final understanding of the novel would be incom plete if it failed to take account of the humour, possibly even the irony, with w hich W endt tem pers its conclu sion. The novel end s w ith a reiteration of the death of the demi-god Maui: '"And H ine-nui-te-P o w oke up and found him in there. And she crossed her legs and thus ended forever m an’s quest fo r immortality'. He imagined Maui to have been happy in his death". The legend of Maui is a recurring m otif throughout the novel, and plainly holds some kind of clue to the novel's total meaning. Inevitably there may be a number o f divergent responses to any given myth and its function in a literary work, but the suggestion I would make suits well enough a pattern discoverable not only in Sons but in some of W endt's short stories as well. Maui is a Promethean figure, one who achieves much that is of benefit to man like the creation of fire, and one who invariably suffers accordingly. For in the great com ic strain of Polynesian m ythology M aui is also a hubristic figure; and his final self-imposed task, of conquering death by 1 Bill Pearson, “Attitudes to the Maori in some Pakeha Fiction”, Fretful Sleepers, op. cits, pp. 46-71; The Maori and Literature. Essays on New Zealand Literature, ed. Wystan Cumow, Auckland: Hienemann, 1973, pp. 99-138.

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re-entering the body of H ine-nui-te-Po, is not only an abhorrently absurd conceit, it is frustrated fatally for Maui by an absurdly trivial interruption: the laughter of the little birds, the p iw aiw aka, who see the grotesquerie of M aui's re-entry through the vaginal teeth of the Great Woman of Darkness. It would appear that W endt's hero having sym bolically failed with the death of his child to effect a racial synthesis, and having literally failed through disaffection to reconcile the cultural elements warring within himself, dies a metaphoric death; and that his final discovery, with its promise of a new birth, is the desirability of being able to laugh at himself — or at any rate, of not taking himself too seriously. To add a little weight to this line of interpretation, reference m ight be made to one of Albert W endt's earliest published short stories, 'Tagata, the man who search for the Freedom T ree".1 Tagata is born tiny, and physically he stays that way, puny and self-conscious. He loses all the fights. His only strengths are his remarkable intelligence, and the market-place he inherits from his parents. But these serve only to giv e him power, and do nothing to advance his self-esteem . Religion serves only to depress him. Whatever he does he remains a laughing-stock. Until he discovers Tarzan movies. He trains in Tarzan style two hours daily and becomes fit, and people lie to him that he really is becoming a real man at last. He takes a wife called Fafine, a fat and evil woman. She dominates him in everything and cheats people in Tagata's marketplace. Finally all that is left for Tagata, scorned and deserted, is his dream of Tarzan-like freedom. Until his wife begins to have affairs with other men. Then Tagata discovers his way out. "One evening when the sun set over the m ountains, the people in the market-place, they hear the loud ape-call. They run to the back of the market-place. And there they see him. And he hang down dead like over-ripe fruit." Wendt's prose works reflect a continuing struggle for balance, for a central point of rest between the extremes of absolute selfassertion and absolute self-destruction; and it might cogently be argued that in Sons for the Return Home he finds it for himself, and implies it for Polynesia. V My father was the Sky. He held dominion over night and day. He was both sun and moon, keeping constant watch over his children. Everyday he arose to keep Papatuanuku warm. Every night he cast his wistful light upon her. Sometimes he wept and the dew of his tears fell softly upon her. She, to console him, grew beautiful with crops and fruit and flowers. And often she would rise with the mist from the hills and reach out to brush his sorrow away. (from the novel Tangi, Witi Ihimaera: N.Z.)

Witi Ihimaera was born in Gisborne in 1944 and belongs to Te W hanauaa Kai, a sub-tribe of Rongowhakaata. He graduated Bachelor of Arts from the Victoria University of W ellington in 1971, and now 1 Albert Wendt, ‘Tagata, the Man who search for the Freedom Tree”, New Zealand Universities Arts Festivals Yearbook, an N.Z.U. publication, 1963; pp. 24-29.

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works as a journalist with the New Zealand Post Office in Wellington. In 1975, in the footsteps of Hone Tuwhare, he will take up the Burns Fellowship awarded to writers of outstanding merit by the University of Otago. Ihimaera frankly acknowledges that he was provoked into writing by the critical essays of Bill Pearson, deploring the absence as late of 1969 of Maori novelists and playwrights. A reading of his works leaves the reader in little doubt that Bill Pearson's provocation was an occasion rather than a cause of Ihim aera's creativity. Since 1970 his short stories have appeared frequently in The New Zealand Listener, To Ao Hou, (a journal devoted to Maori affairs and writing; its title m eans 'the new w orld') and Landfall. In 1972 his best stories were collected in the volume Pounamu, Pounamu Pounam u is the Maori word for greenstone, a form of nephrite which is sometimes opaque like deep still water, and sometimes translucent like the new leaves in the native bush. Because of its propensity to sustain both fine carvings and hard use as a weapon, pounamu is the most highly prized of the gemstones available to the Maori craftsman, and both its artistic worth and its belligerent value may be claimed to provide the title of the volum e with its evocative force. That volume of short stories was followed in 1973 by a novel, Tangi, which in 1974 was awarded the Book of the Year prize.2 W iti Ihim aera's prose defies easy description. It requires the closely analytical methods more appropriate to lyrical poetry for its fullest elucidation. Tangi, his novel, cannot be summarised in the way that W endt's Sons can be, according to a story line and a thematic consideration. The Publisher's note that Tangi is "a poetic drama in prose", is disconcertingly accurate. The story concerns the sorrow and bewilderm ent of Tama Mahana after the death of his father Rongo, as he grieves for him and prepares to take his father's place in his family. That is the story. For a perceptive account of the structural means by which Ihimaera gives the story the substance necessary to round out 207 pages of extraordinary writing, I turn yet again to H. W inston Rhodes. "It is only when the reader is finally involved .... (and it is) a measure of Witi Ihim aera's achievement that he succeeds in drawing even an unregenerate pakeha into his world, that he realises that Tama in successive chapters is returning home to the tangi, and travelling back to W ellington after it is over." On his flight to G isborne his thoughts are with his father and everything reminds him of the past. On his long train journey back to Wellington to arrange his affairs for a final return, his mind is likewise filled with memories, but he arrives at his destination with the understanding that 1 am Tama Mahana, and my father is dead. This is the end of my journey, but it is also my journey beginning. It is a journey out of the upheaval of the tangi. The tangi is over. The hands of the clock stand at the beginning of another hour. 1 Wili Ihimaera. Pounamu. Pounamu. London and Auckland: Hcinemann, 1972; Tangi. London and Auckland: Hcinemann, 1973. 2 The Book of the Year Award is made annually by the James Wauie group of industrial companies, it is the largest cash award available in New Zealand in recognition of writing of outstanding merit.

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The two journeys, together with the whole vivid description of the tangi, serve the double purpose of enabling Witi Ihimaera to tell the story of Tama's life in the midst of his family and of focussing attention on the underlying theme — “This is Tangi, an account of death, but also an affirmation of life." The ultim ate mastery of T an g i lies in Ihim aera's rem orseless evocation of the flux of past and present and future, of birth life and death, to a point at which all is stasis. That point is death experienced, prophetically and in the event and in subsequent grief. The total manifestation of that point is regenerative. "After such knowledge ..." there can be nothing but life. Other deaths will be of the same moment, but not at this same moment. Tangi does not contain the complexity, the range of experience revealed in W endt's Sons; but it is a much m ore intuitive, perhaps more truly visionary novel. It is with little doubt the most intense revelation of the Maori moral and emotional world yet bared to the public gaze. It is certainly a novel of a kind no pakeha could have written. Of Witi Ihimaera's short stories little can be said.1 The emotional intensity that pervades them, as it does Tangi, has occasionally led to accusations of sentim entality in his work, in particular in the short sto ry "T a n g i" w hich w as a direct p recu rsor of th e novel. 'Sentimentality' in its pejorative usage is perhaps technically provable, but instinctively it has much to do with one's own capacity to absorb an unaccustom ed em otional force. It is perhaps as well to recall an observation by H. Winston Rhodes cited earlier: 'I t is far from easy to discrim inate and evaluate without a firm basis for com parison, and dishonest to praise or blame without turning a critical eye on one's own emotional and literary heritage". There can be no question that the em otional force of much Polynesian writing requires some such cultu ral re-evaluation on the part of the pakeha reader. New Zealanders are not widely noted for any great fullness of em otional expression, and might well be suspected of suffering a strain, of com plicated evolution, of em otional retardation. It is signficant, though it might appear irrelevant in the context of this essay, that at times of genuine national grief — as on the occasion of the death of the late Prim e M inister Norman Kirk — the fullest and m ost widely acceptable expression of grief is provided not by the pakeha poets, nor even by the traditional modes of Western Christian mourning, but by the actions and the waiata tangi of the M aori people. Polynesian renascence has much to teach the offspring of Victorian England and Lutheran Europe.

VI There are of course other M aori writers in English. Two are worth mention, though both are in fact worth extensive consideration. One is 1 Two of Witi Ihimaera’s short stories, “A Game of Cards” and “The Whale”, will appear in the forthcoming New Zealand Short Stories (Third Series), selected with an Introduction by Vincent O’Sullivan. Wellington: Oxford University Press.

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Harry Dansey, an ariki or high chief of the Arawa tribe, who for many years has been known as a journalist of the first rank and an ethnologist of unusual skill, particularly in his work am ong the m inutiae of Maori folk-lore and legend. His play Te Raukura (The F eath ers of the A lb atro ss), d ealin g w ith the M ao ri-p a k eh a confrontation during the land-wars of the nineteenth century, is due to appear in print shortly. It was first performed during the Auckland Festival of 1972, and is a play of deep historical and cultural insights. And Patricia Grace (European names among Polynesians can be as m isleading as they are among West Indians), already well-known for her short stories. Her first collection of stories, Waiariki, was published in August 1975. VII I does my work hard and think of me. Is good to have me think of me for there's no one to think of me but me. ("M e# the Labourer", Eti Sa'aga: Western Samoa)

Polynesian w riters may have found their focus and their chief publishing outlets so far in New Zealand, but what of those who work in the relative isolation of the islands, in Fiji and Tonga and Samoa and the Cook Islands and the rest? Their literacy in English is of a high standard; (so is their literacy in their own languages, but for the present it is assumed that if their work is to achieve universal recognition it w ill be through the m edium of English; an assum ption which reasonably enough appears to many talented Polynesians offensively arrogant); their stim ulus to write is great and increasing; and their w orks have an im m ediacy which w ithout any other cultural or political ingredient gives them a claim to recognition. Tw o m ajor points are worth noting. Firstly, the use of literature as a creative outlet is a relatively new phenomenon in the islands of Polynesia. For many years, the islanders have been exporting 'hardware' arts in the form of priceless carvings, weavings, and sem i-ritualistic items like the tabua or w hale's-tooth, and even recorded songs, all for a small price to the purchaser (who gains m ightily on the international curio m arket for his purchase), without having really transm itted a great deal of their innerm ost cultural drives and preoccupations. Literature, together with certain of the visual arts, offers a way out — an 'im age' art as opposed to a 'hard w are' art. This realisation com es close on the heels of a rem arkable upsurge of writing in N iugini, and has been in part stim ulated by it. Niugini writing becam e a reality in international terms as a result of the labours during the 60's of Ulli Beier, Professor of English for a time at the University of Papua New Guinea. One cannot say that Ulli Beier was the sole cause that a Niugini literature emerged

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during that time; the people of that diverse area flatly deny it. But Beier did act as a catalyst, by gathering about him a sympathetic readership, and m ore im portantly by diligently locating and even creating pu blishing ou tlets geared for w ide consum ption. W hence the continuing value of the literary journal K ov av e published by the Jacaranda Press in Brisbane, Australia, and the unique series of Papua Pocket Poets, published in Port Moresby. Writers directly or indirectly encouraged by Beier have included Albert Maori Kiki (K iki: Ten Thousand Years in a Lifetim e), Vincent Eri, whose The C rocodile 1 m ust rank with Camara Laye's African Child, and Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart, and num erous poets. Of these, Pokw ari Kale, Kumalau Tawali, Apisai Enos, and John Kasaipwalova have proved to have the true voice and stamina of dedicated artists. Kasaipwalova's long poem Reluctant Flame sold out a complete edition in New York alone in 1972. All of these poets and many others now feature strongly in foreign journals, most notably in Australia. But for the writers in the Polynesian islands, the publishing situation continues to be bleak by comparison. Since the foundation of the University of the South Pacific in the late '60s a nucleus of writers and supporters has been formed in the South Pacific Creative Arts Society, a body not affiliated with the University nor sponsored by it, but existing as it were under its aegis. Through the enterprise of Marjorie Tuainekore Cromcombe a small but effective publishing outlet has been established in M ana, a literary 'journal' which is carried to the extent of eight pages monthly by the Pacific Islands M onthly; the same publishers also produce the year's contributions in an augmented Mana Annual. And that is the only international vehicle at present for the works of the oceanic Polynesians. The economics of the South Pacific scarcely allow for m ore; but one wonders how much more dynamic the literature of Polynesia m ight be if more finance was available, to enable more comprehensive publication and wider distribution. The second point to be m ade concerns the vitality and the diversity of the writing being done in virtual isolation in the Pacific. Most of this writing it is true is in the short story form or poetry — who but the few like Albert W endt, with established outlets behind him , would bother to produce a novel in a region of uneconom ic literary consum ption? The vitality of the works that are being published has many causes. Most writing is done in close proximity to an oral tradition and yet, like the poetry of Hone Tuwhare, reveals a completely contemporary awareness on the moral-political level; most writing displays a fineness of regional detail which can only enrich the consciousness o f the non-Polynesian reader; and m ost w riting em bodies dialectal variants of English which are stim ulating well beyond their linguistic curiosity value. Above all there is an air of juvescence coupled with a maturity of viewpoint consistent with the antiquity of Polynesia. As for the diversity of Polynesian writing, one need only note that Mana draws on some ten distinct island territories for its contributors; that m any of these are in varying degrees 1 Vincent Eri, The Crocodile. Brisbane: Jacaranda Press, 1970; Penguin, 1973.

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bicultural; and that one, Fiji, is tricultural, incorporating Fijian, Indian, and C hinese com m unities. To nam e w riters p resently active in Polynesia is a little invidious, in that so many must be left out; but am ong the prose w riters one finds exceptional talent in Sitiveni Kalouniviti of Fiji, Raymond Pillai of Fiji, Vanessa Griffen of Fiji, and Alison Fong of Fiji; among the poets a group with the potential to rival the poets of Niugini: Ata M a'ia'i, Eti Sa'aga, and Ruperake Petaia of W estern Sam oa, Konai Helu Thaman of Tonga, M auna Itaia of the Gilbert and Ellice Islands, Makiuti Tongia of the Cook Islands, Dhurup Chand and Shashikant Nair of Fiji.... and so on.1 As editorial policies become more liberalised in New Zealand and Australia there is hope that more of these writers will achieve publication in periodicals of good circulation. But at this time of writing, the lines of the epigraph to this final section have a sad relevance for the Polynesian writers of the islands.

1 K.O. Arvidson, “Aspccts of Writing in the Soulh Pacific”, Mana Annual, 1973, op.cii. pp.5-8, contains a more extensive account of these and other Polynesian writers.

BOOK DISTRIBUTION IN THE PACIFIC ISLANDS Ron Crocombe Ron Crocombe is in active and peripatetic retirement based in Rarotonga after an extended career at the University of the South Pacific where he was Professor of Pacific Studies and Director of the Institute of Pacific Studies. His publications are legion, from specialist articles to general texts such as The South Pacific: an In tro d u c tio n (1983). This article first appeared in the Pacific Islands Communication Journal, 14.2, 1985. It is reprinted with the permission of the Institute of Pacific Studies and not to be further duplicated without permission of the Institute of Pacific Studies, P.O. Box 1168, Suva, Fiji.___________________

This article refers mainly to the countries served by the University of the South Pacific (USP), Solomon Islands, Vanuatu, Fiji, N auru, K iribati, Tuvalu, Tonga, Niue, W estern Sam oa, Cook Islands and Tokelau, but also to some extent to the Pacific Islands countries and territories outside the University region, i.e., Papua New Guinea, the French territories (New C aledonia, W allis and Futuna, French Polynesia), the U.S. territories (American Samoa, M arshall Islands, Federated States of M icronesia, Palau, Guam and the N orthern Marianas) and the Chilean territory (Easter Island). A. THE MARKET People: 5 m illion There are about 5 million Pacific Islanders (not including Hawaii, New Zealand and Irian Jaya or West New Guinea). Of this total, the 11 nations which constitute the University of the South Pacific region have only 1.5 m illion. There are 3 m illion people in Papua New Guinea, about 300,000 in the French Pacific colonies, 150,000 in the US Pacific colonies and 3,000 in Easter Island. The other relevant population figure is the 4 billion people of the world. Not all of them want Pacific books, but we love the few that do. W e have a useful, though modest, market for Pacific books especially in the Pacific Rim countries (which incidentally contain h alf of the world's population). Pacific language: 40 copies makes best-seller proportions A pproxim ately 1,200 indigenous languages are spoken in the Pacific Islands. The average islands language has only about 4,000 speakers — less than 1,000 nuclear families — so that print runs for almost any publication (except the few like the Bible or a dictionary that might find their way into every home), would have a very limited m arket indeed. This does not totally preclude publication for those languages, but it does provide extreme constraints. The largest Pacific Islands languages are Sam oan, with over 300,000 speakers (in Western Samoa, American Samoa, USA and New Zealand), Fijian (nearly 300,000), Tongan (about 150,000, including the Kingdom and Tongans abroad), Kiribati (about 60,000) and Cook Islands

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Maori (about 40,000 — but over half of it abroad). There are some relatively large languages among the 720 in Papua New Guinea. W e have had some interesting experiences with vernacular publishing. USP has facilitated the writing and publication of books on history, culture and other topics in various countries and asked authors whether they would prefer to write in their own language or in English. Authors often say they would prefer to write in their own language and for them or someone else to translate their work if an English edition is to be printed. But in practice, almost invariably, those w ho said they were going to write in their own language, in fact write in English. The Head of the Governm ent of one of the countries concerned, when I mentioned to him that a number of his people who were expert in their own vernacular and had said they wanted to write in that language had in fact written in English, said he would tell me the reason, but I must not tell them or they would be angry with him. T he reason, he said, was that they could not write in their own language — they were expert in it as an oral language, but made little use of it in written form and almost all their reading and writing was done in English. They were generally not aware of the lim itations of their written vernacular because they did not use it until they came to try a serious and extensive piece of writing. The same phenomenon seems to apply with reading: many Pacific islanders who have a first class know ledge of their own spoken language and a second class knowledge of spoken English, nevertheless find it easier to read in English than in their own language. Naturally, this relates to the fact that schooling has given the priority to English. Such a vastly wider range of learning m aterials — in w riting, illustration, film, video, radio, and other, is so readily available in English and so extrem ely difficult and expensive to produce in vernaculars for very small populations, that this tendency is likely to continue. Likew ise, all Pacific island teachers' colleges train their teachers in English or French. It would be possible for a country like W estern Samoa or Tonga to train their teachers entirely in their own language (though this is not the present policy and there is no indication of it becoming so). This would be impossible for a country like Vanuatu which has 112 languages or Solomon Islands which has

88. So while governments alm ost universally give strong em phasis to encouraging their indigenous languages, and while every effort should be made by everyone concerned with book publication to respond to that wish as far as possible, it should also be recognized that there will be significant constraints on its being achieved as fully as som e governments would wish. One also needs to note the common ambivalence, such as where a government policy is for top priority to be given to the vernacular(s) while the very politicians and senior officials who expound the policy so convincingly, themselves ensure that their children are taught in English or French and obtain written m aterials mainly in those languages. Again, there are situations like that in the Cook Islands where the governm ent gives very strong

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support to vernacular education and published materials, but where the public is very divided on the issue. Some are very supportive of the policy while others are equally strongly opposed. Richard Benton's book The Flight o f the Amokura is interesting in this connection. It discusses language and language policy in various Pacific countries and notes the probability, based on experience in other parts of the world, of various Pacific languages surviving as effective languages. His general conclusion is that while the larger ones are likely to do so, the smaller ones are not. But even for small languages which may not survive in the long term, if there is a demand for publications in those languages in the short term, all of us who are involved with publication in the Pacific should do what we can to respond to that wish. (For example USP recently published 1000 copies of a small book, Tales o f Manihiki, of 60 pages, in a language which has not much more than 1,000 speakers — but it does contain English translations. It is nearly sold out.) There will be additional costs (for example very few typesetters are as efficient in vernacular languages and charges are therefore higher, markets are generally very much sm aller and so on) and therefore subsidies are m ore likely to be necessary to achieve the goal. Linguae francae: lim ited penetration Five linguae francae are spoken in the region. Much the largest is English, which is the international language of Papua New Guinea, the USP region countries and the American territories. These countries have a total population of nearly 5 million, but that is very misleading as only a minority of them are literate in English. O f those who are, m uch the largest num ber would be literate in relatively sim ple English, therefore the demand will be both for generally fairly elem entary educational books in English and for books in simple English for adult populations. French is the language of only about 300,000 people. Although average incomes in the French Pacific territories are very high, book purchases by indigenous Pacific islanders there do not seem to be commensurate with the income levels. Reasons for this may be that: • book prices in the French colonies tend to be extremely high; • almost everything available in French bookshops is written by white Frenchmen; • the high incomes are derived disproportionately by the nonindigenous populations. D espite enorm ous expenditure on education in the French colonies, they are subjected to a classic imperial pattern (as with US Pacific colonies) in which the superiority of the colonial power is constantly inculcated. O ne by-product o f this is that only the perspectives of writers from the colonial power are made available to the colonised. No realistic encouragem ent is given to the colonised people to express themselves, or even to believe that they might have the talent for self-expression, or any know ledge that would be of

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interest. The implied assumption is that inform ation of any value comes from the colonisers. French is also spoken by a minority of the population of Vanuatu (as a product of it having formerly been a joint French/British colony). One gains the impression that English-speaking Ni-Vanuatu buy and read m ore books than their French-speaking counterparts — again despite m ore m oney spent on education in the French-speaking schools. It is an education for dependence. In Papua New G uinea, Solom on Islands and Vanuatu, N eoM elanesian (in one of its various generally mutually understandable dialects and referred to variously as Pidgin, Pijin, Pisin or Bislama) is the most effective lingua franca for oral communication. It is less so for w ritten com m unication, though there is considerable potential for m aterials published in N eo-M elanesian, particularly those which are relatively sim ple and straightforw ard, as m any N eo-M elanesian speakers have only limited literacy. But for certain purposes it is the most w idespread and effective language in the Pacific. A slow ly increasing volum e of m aterial is being published in new spaper, journal and book form in the various Neo-Melanesian dialects. Spanish is spoken only in Easter Island. It is several years since I was there but at that time only two small books were available in the Easter Island language, both of them elementary educational books produced by the Summer Institute of Linguistics. The colonial power, Chile, follows a strongly assimilationist policy (like France and USA) and tries to encourage reading only (or at least overwhelmingly) by authors from the colonial power. Chilean officials on Easter Island claimed that the population is too small to publish anything in the Easter Island language. This is shown to be false by such facts as that for Niue, an island with about the same population and likewise with its own unique language and culture, the University of the South Pacific alone published five separate books in a space of three years and found a very ready demand for them. Probably the main reason is that the books have been written mainly by Niuean authors — some writing in English, som e Niuean and some both. However in 1985 ten small books in Rapanui (Easter Island) language and by Rapanui authors, were published. Bahasa Indonesia is the 'official' language now of one million W est Papua New Guineans (in Irian Jaya) but they are so totally oppressed that discussion of book distribution there at this time would be futile, so they are not considered further in this paper.

Education levels W hile the m ajority of the population in the 'English-speaking' countries do not speak English to a level which would make them major users of books printed in that language, and most of those who do would require books in elementary English,, there is a growing body of highly educated Pacific islanders. About 12,000 people are taking courses in any one year with the University of the South Pacific — either for degrees or diplomas, on a campus or by extension, or in

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continuing education program mes. The U niversity of Papua New G uinea and the PNG University of Technology likew ise have a substantial throughput. In addition there are many teachers' colleges, theological colleges, medical colleges, agricultural colleges, community colleges, high schools and other specialised training institutions for everything from civil aviation to rural development. And the more highly educated, generally the greater the demand for books. The importance of inside views If Australia had been conquered by Japan in World War II, and ruled as a colony by Japan thereafter w ith Japanese as the elite language, and if everything written about Australia was written by Japanese and other Asians, there might not be a very big demand in Australia for more books by Asians about Australians. But there might nevertheless be a great demand for books by A ustralians about A ustralians. That is roughly the situation in the Pacific: almost everything written about it is written by foreigners, and while Pacific islanders do not object to external perspectives — and in principle often appreciate them — they at times express resentm ent at the overw helm ing proportion of foreign perspectives. Even heads of Pacific islands governm ents have spoken rather strongly in recent times about this overwhelming foreign cultural imperialism. The experience of the University of the South Pacific (and the University of Papua New Guinea probably has a similar experience) is that relative to population size the demand for books written by island people is quite fantastic. That is still a small print run in absolute terms, but vast in relative terms. For exam ple, Kiribati: A spects o f H istory is a book of 212 pages written by twenty-five I-Kiribati. USP published 10,000 copies of it in 1979 for a nation of only 55,000 people (the equivalent of a print-run of 50 million for USA or 3 million for Australia). It was sold out by 1982. Vanuatu, a book of 291 pages written by twenty Ni-Vanuatu in 1980, has sold almost 10,000 copies. C ook Islands Politics, a book of 284 pages incorporating the writings of eighteen Cook Islanders, sold 5,000 copies in four years, largely to a population of less than 20,000 people. There are many other similar examples. B. FINANCIAL ISSUES Income: about US $500 per capita I'm told for most people the first priority is safety, then food, than a little sex comes in around here, but books come well down the list, and the poor often don't let any book interfere with their more vital priorities. There is a correlation between levels of income and expenditure on reading material, but not nearly as high a correlation as might be expected. The Republic of Nauru, with one of the highest per capita incom e levels in the world and heavy expenditure on education, probably does not spend as much per capita on books as Rarotonga,

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which is an island of similar size and population number but much lower income and lower expenditure on education. Subsidies A recent annual report of the University of California Press, which claims to be the largest university press in the Americas, noted that approximately half the books they publish are written by academic staff of the University of California. They note also that the great majority of the books have to be subsidised in order to be viable. When the largest and most successful university press, with the largest market, in the world's richest country, requires most of its publications to be subsidised, we should not be troubled by seeking a little subsidy for publications by Pacific islands writers selling to the world's smallest markets, and with low incomes and limited literacy as well.

Capital Obtaining working capital for publication has not been as big a problem as might have been expected. Publications by the universities and the churches (which are the biggest book publishers in the islands) have generally been helped by external sources of capital. And private publications can often qualify for Development Bank loans. Mark-ups The University of the South Pacific does not seek to influence retail prices. The conditions vary so widely that any attem pt to standardize prices would be futile. For example, the Fiji International Airport buys USP publications and sells them at a very high mark-up. But the International Airport shop has to pay very high rentals and to operate round the clock. On the other hand some church bookshops operate from subsidised accom modation and are there primarily to provide a service and not to make profit. Incidentally, some of the best bookshops in the Pacific islands are run by church organizations and some of them stock a wide range of books to serve their clients even though the demand for them is small and the turn-over limited. That is the kind of service that a subsidised bookshop can provide which a fully commercial bookshop cannot. C. DISTRIBUTION Distribution of Pacific books in the Pacific islands There are obvious unavoidable constraints of large distances, sm all populations, low incomes and lim ited levels o f literacy. But within those constraints what can be done to facilitate distribution? Agencies like UNESCO could assist by financing the production, in the islands, of brief radio and video programmes reviewing island books for island audiences. This would be relatively low cost, straight forw ard and very helpful. L ikew ise a m odest contribution to advertising w ithin P acific islands new spapers and journals, and overseas, would be effective.

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But probably the greatest help such agencies could provide — and we would like to record the very positive assistance that UNESCO and the Australian Pacific Cultures Fund has given in this field — is to provide m odest funds to facilitate the w riting, production and publishing of relevant books by Pacific islanders for Pacific audiences. For example, the book mentioned above, Kiribati: Aspects of History, written by twenty-five I-Kiribati and produced by the University of the South Pacific in association with the Kiribati Ministry of Education, was made possible by a UNESCO grant which paid perhaps 20 percent of the total real costs. Such a grant often makes the difference between such an exercise being or not being able to be carried out. The History o f Tuvalu, a book of 208 pages written by eighteen Tuvaluans, is another exam ple of a m odest but much appreciated and very effective contribution by UNESCO. The Fijian Way o f Life by Asesela Ravuvu, and various other books we are facilitating on the cultures of particular Pacific nations written by people of those nations, has received similar modest but effective assistance. And many others we have carried out with no assistance. The main constraint, in our experience, is in the area of writers' workshops, editing, book production and financing rather than in distribution. The constraints are not insurm ountable and a great deal has been achieved. But if resources are to be made available it is in that area that they are needed more than in the actual distribution in the islands. Islands publishers in the islands generally know how to distribute their products and have been successful in doing so.

Distribution of Pacific materials overseas There is a modest but growing demand overseas for materials written by Pacific people and published in the Pacific islands. How can this demand most effectively be met? O ur original assum ption was that w hat one needed w as a professional book distributor. Our experience, on the other hand, indicates that this is not necessarily the most effective approach. Undoubtedly, if vast volumes were being produced for an extensive m arket, then a professional distributor would be the appropriate channel. But at present — and for the foreseeable future — the demand in the industrialised countries for books published in the islands and about the islands is likely to be limited, and to be confined largely to a specialist audience of academ ics, business people and others with interests in the islands. There will be some publications for which there might well be a major educational market, for example a book on the geography of the Pacific islands for overseas high schools, or a case study of life on a particular island. But this is likely to be a fairly small percentage of the total production. In such cases there is good reason to look to an overseas distributor. But our general experience has been that, since the volume is low, the overseas distributor understandably does not give the marketing of island books high priority, and we find that in many cases we can sell

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considerably more without a distributor. A distributor has specialised knowledge which will be of considerable value, but one should not assume that he necessarily has the relevant specialised knowledge. For exam ple, we may have a better know ledge of which historians, anthropologists, libraries, church bookshops, business firms etc. in Australia are interested in a particular Pacific islands book than an Australian book distributor would have. Then there is the question of cost. Australia and other highly industrialised countries tend to have very high cost structures, which can be absorbed if volume is high. But volume of Pacific books in industrialised countries is usually low and therefore by the time an Australian book distributor covers his costs our books would sell at such a high price that the market for them is greatly reduced. For this reason again, we are often better off doing our own marketing. How can external agencies help Pacific islands publishers in this task? There are a number of ways — one would be through subsidizing m odest ad vertising in sp ecialist journals (e.g., P acific H istory A ssociation new sletter, A u stralian A n thropological A ssociation new sletter, Pacific Islands M onthly which is a Sydney publication) and so on. W e are hoping that the recently established South Pacific Trade Commission in Sydney will be a realistic form of assistance. The South P acific Forum (the m eeting of Prim e M inisters, Presidents and Premiers of all independent Pacific islands nations including Australia and N ew Zealand) in 1982 adopted the im portant SPARTECA agreem ent, the function of which is to encourage production and manufacture in the islands for sale in Australia and New Zealand. This policy has the full support of all governments, reinforced by tariff and other preferences, and it also has a substantial econom ic logic in relation to the publishing industry as costs are lower in the islands than in Australia. This is offset to some extent by lower efficiency in the printing industry in most islands, but this can be overcome with e ffe ctiv e train in g. It is also co n sisten t w ith the A u stralian G overnm ent's policy that every opportunity should be looked at for the publication of Australian books, written by Australians and for the A ustralian m arket, to be printed (and possibly published) in the islands. There is considerable scope for this. There is a small problem of unauthorised use of islands material overseas. For exam ple the South Pacific C reative Arts Society, a voluntary organisation which publishes the journal M ana and various books of poetry, drama, short stories etc, has found that works by Pacific islanders that they have published have been translated and published in French, German, Russian, Chinese and a variety of other languages. Many items from M ana publications have been reprinted for use in books, anthologies and journals not only in various south Pacific co u n tries but in A u stralia, N ew Z ealand , C an ad a, T h ailan d , Switzerland, USA and various other places. Some of their material has also been converted into radio program mes. They have a generous policy of allowing people to reprint their material by arrangement, but

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have been disappointed with the number of times that they have located reprints of their material either without acknowledgement or permission. While they appreciate the wider distribution of writings by Pacific authors, there is understandable resentm ent of reprinting without permission or acknowledgement. Distributing foreign books in the islands The proportion of books about the Pacific and for the Pacific will be a minority of the total books purchased in the Pacific islands. It is understood that New Zealand, for example, with three million people, has one of the highest rates of book production in the world and still imports two-thirds of the books it uses — at least that is what I was told some years ago. It is very much more so for the Pacific islands with very much lower levels of population, literacy and income. Imports probably account for over 99 percent of books read in the islands today. If 10 percent can be produced in the islands by the end of this century that would be a tremendous advance. For the rest, if we are genuinely interested in facilitating the flow of relevant published materials from elsewhere in the world in the Pacific islands, several factors need to be borne in mind. First, and particularly because islands incom es are low, the cheapest possible source needs to be sought. Increasingly, in published materials as in many other products, this will mean purchasing from East and South East Asia. Australia and USA are the most expensive places from which to buy books and therefore any organisation with island interests at heart will probably aim to constrain distribution from high cost sources and facilitate that from low cost sources. A particular problem, with which the assistance of UNESCO and the International Booksellers Federation could be helpful, is in overcoming the vicious exploitation of Pacific islanders by the artificial creation of territories by international publishers who designate the Pacific islands as a subsidiary under Australia or New Zealand. W hether so intended or not (and probably not, but unintended exploitation causes just as much suffering for the exploited as does intended exploitation), this is a substantial problem. At the University of the South Pacific, for example, students may require a text book published by a major US firm and available in US at a certain price. We will order from that US supplier who will indicate that our part of the world has been designated for that purpose as a commercial colony of Australia and that we must buy through the Australian supplier (or they will forward the order direct to the Australian supplier) and the book is supplied at a very much higher price than we could buy it direct from the US were it not for this exploitative monopoly which costs more and results in delays in obtaining the books. This problem is not only faced by universities, but by schools and the general public.

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D. WHO CAN HELP AND HOW? Who does the International Booksellers Federation help? In order for us to determ ine w hether, and if so how, the Federation might be able to help these objectives (in organizing the 1983 seminar Pacific Book Distribution it and UNESCO proclaimed that its aim was to help Pacific islanders), we need to know more about the Federation. Who are its formal members? Islands booksellers are not. The price of membership in terms of money, time and other commitments is not generally considered worth the potential gains. Who wields the effective power in the International Booksellers Federation? W hose interests was it formally set up to serve and whose interests in practice are served by it? The logical assumption would be that an international booksellers federation was an organization set up to prom ote the interests of international booksellers. If so, should UNESCO be facilitating its further penetration in the islands, or protecting the islands from it? These are honest questions. Already international booksellers have carved up Pacific territories to serve their interests which are contrary to the interests of Pacific people. Are they aiming, as some people suggest, to use UNESCO and meetings of that kind to facilitate their more effective penetration into the Pacific islands market? Or is it a genuine attempt to make the best books available at the best prices to Pacific people? Focussing external help UNESCO activities in the Pacific islands had been characterised by several problems. First the bureaucratic m achinery of UNESCO is exceedingly cum bersom e and thus constrains effectiveness. Second, UNESCO sponsored activities which are described as (and often intend to) help the Pacific islands, have often been deflected in such a way that they help individuals, institutions and enterprises in the industrialised countries more than they help the Pacific islands — in fact in a number of cases they widen the gap between the industrialised countries and the islands rather than close it. For many years the main contribution of UNESCO in relation to the Pacific islands was to provide trips for foreign academ ics, subsidies to foreign universities, grants to films from foreign perspectives, and generally to disadvantage the Pacific and widen the gap between the industrialised nations and Pacific peoples. This began to change when Albert Wendt took over the Chairmanship of the UNESCO South Pacific Cultures Program m e, but because UNESCO is located in an industrialised country, it operates as a large international bureaucracy with a high cost structure, and because the larger universities and other interest groups have more time and resources to apply pressure on it, there will always be a danger of this happening. We are happy to record, however, that there has been a considerable im provem ent in recent years. UNESCO involvem ent is increasingly positive and of value to the Pacific. For every task in

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relation to the Pacific islands for which external assistance is sought, it is probably safe to work on the assumption that the resources should be applied only to work by indigenous Pacific islanders. Some tasks will require external assistance — e.g. archaeology, as there are few Pacific islands archaeologists; some aspects of linguistic analysis also, but external resources are very lim ited, and resources available to researchers from high income countries are relatively much more extensive, so it is probably a safe assumption for UNESCO and other agencies which aim to help the islands to confine its grants to the work of indigenous Pacific islanders — at least for ten years to make up for the ten years during which they provided funds labeled 'Pacific Islands' exclusively to the benefit of foreigners. Training needs One area of considerable potential is that of training for editors, printers, illustrators, typesetters, layout specialists, booksellers and various other people involved in the book production and distribution industry. There will be some cases where providing scholarships or other facilities for selected island people to work or study in overseas firm s or institutions would be of value, and others where bringing well selected highly skilled staff from industrialised nations (or other Third World nations, or other parts of the Pacific islands) would be useful. But a word of caution is merited. Exercises designed to achieve these goals also often turn the other way and provide trips to the South Seas for persons who may be highly competent in their own context but not at all effective in the quite different Pacific context. One particular area of shortage in our experience is that of persons skilled in illustrating books — both those for children and those for adults. Perhaps a workshop in this area would be a priority. Anything that can be realistically done to upgrade those skills is worthwhile. Sometimes the fine points of typesetting, layout, printing and binding are not of as high a quality as might be desired, though standards are improving all the time. Any effective effort to improve those standards would be well worthwhile. Transfer as many functions as possible to the islands For example, in many cases, even where printing is done in the islands, colour separation has to be done overseas (although some is now done in some islands). Therefore realistic assistance to developing high quality colour separation skills in the islands would be a positive help. Share the opportunities among Pacific nations Effort is needed to ensure as high a degree of equity in the distribution of printing and publishing opportunities as possible. No individual country in Asia would be satisfied with an international effort which was aimed at improving printing skills in Asia but which focused all its resources on any one country. Every country must have som e printing facilities. Every one prints one or more daily or weekly

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new spapers, every one must produce the m ultifarious docum ents required by governments. In every country commercial and religious organizations require some publishing. Pacific islands nations are among the most isolated in the world, so the alternative of sending everything overseas is sim ply not feasible. Sending some things overseas perhaps — but some things must be printed and published locally. Therefore there must be (and there are) printing and publishing facilities in every single Pacific islands country. The task is to see how far such facilities can be upgraded and how far the total publishing needs of that country (or of the region as a whole) can be undertaken there. There is scope in every country. The University of the South Pacific began by publishing mostly in Fiji and has made a significant contribution to the developm ent of book publishing in that country. The volume produced in the early stages of USP involvement was very small and the quality generally poor. There has been a consistent and steady increase in volume, range of skills and quality of product. We would hope that this continues. But it is also our responsibility to ensure that this development, with its concomitant employment and income creation, not be simply transferred from one foreign country to another. For example, if work for Solomon Islands was formerly undertaken in Australia and is now done in Fiji, that is no help to Solomon Islands. We have published several small books in Solomon Islands, quite successfully, although the resources and skills there are very much less than in Fiji. But that provides m ore reason for allocating more of the available aid for development in this area to countries like Solomon Islands. We have published several books in Vanuatu. This too is a recent developm ent, very worthwhile, and with considerable potential. The range of type faces available is limited, but overall quality has been good and improving. W e assisted with one publication (the Tongan Dictionary) which was printed by the Government of Tonga. Tonga has a relatively highly educated population, vast unem ploym ent and desperately needs industrial developm ent in the areas requiring middle-level technical skills. The printing industry is such an area. Book printing capacity in Western Samoa has improved greatly since 1984. Print quality so far is im proving and book typesetting capacity was added in 1986, along with better binding and other equipment. There is still room for further development. Even in such a small and isolated society as the Cook Islands the U niversity cooperated with G overm ent in the publication of a nutrition book which sold very well and has been reprinted. The only su b stan tial printery there, the G overnm ent Printing O ffice, is understandably limited in its resources, but has dem onstrated that book production is not beyond the realm of possibility. Local private interests are now considering establishing book production factories there in 1987. The only countries of the USP region in which we have not, to date, been associated with book production on the ground are Niue,

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Kiribati, Tuvalu, Nauru and Tokelau — all very small nations — but the example of the Cook Islands indicates that while smallness usually correlates with a more limited range of equipment and expertise, that does not necessarily preclude book publication. It probably does preclude the production of highly complex books in the short term at least, but most of the publications required, while needing good quality craftsmanship, do not need to be of international coffee-table standard. Summ ary and Conclusion 1. The market is limited by population, language and income levels. 2. There is a keen demand for more books by Pacific writers provided prices are within their range. 3. Subsidies to the industry within the islands are merited. 4. There is scope to develop overseas distribution of books printed and published in the islands. 5. There is more scope under SPARTECA to print and publish foreign books in the islands for marketing in Australia and New Zealand. 6. Foreign books are needed in the islands, but cheapest sources must be identified and monopolies and restrictive practices overcom e. 7. There is a need for training opportunities to develop various printing and publishing skills in the islands. 8. Almost all Pacific Islands nations print and publish books and any assistance must be equitably distributed, with priority to those most in need.

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'UNFOLDING LIKE PETALS': THE DEVELOPING DEFINITION OF THE WRITER'S ROLE IN MODERN PAPUA NEW GUINEAN LITERATURE Nigel Krauth Nigel Krauth taught at the University of Papua New Guinea during the seventies. He has published a critical anthology of outsider' views of PNG, New Guinea Images in Australian Literature (1982). This article is based on a paper for the First Independent Papua New Guinea Writers' Conference, July 1-4, 1976 and appeared in the ACLALS Bulletin. 5.1, 1978.______________________________

In 1975, the year of Papua New G uinea's Independence, Taban to Liyong expressed his concern at the "lack of growth and continuity amongst writers; lack of interest amongst readers; and a general decline in creativity". Poets and dramatists who produced work in creative writing courses at university had received their degrees and stopped writing. Those who continued to write had not developed significantly: some had not produced work to match their earliest efforts. The lone novel of 1970 was still the lone published novel of 1975. The role of the writer in other Third World countries approaching Independence was rarely that of silent onlooker — unless, of course, censorship silenced him. There was no censorship of creative writers in Papua New Guinea. In fact, a case might be made for the complete opposite: radical literature was positively encouraged. So the road was clear. Writers could say what they liked in order to direct and mould the thoughts and actions of the people. But they said rather little. If Professor Mazrui was right about Australia's too gentle and generous pre-Independence adm inistration of Papua N ew Guinea, perhaps he has provided an explanation for lack of motivation in the literary as well as the political spheres.' Applying his theory one concludes that the writers were not stimulated because there were no obstacles, no opposition, and therefore no victory to be won. The road was indeed clear and hence there was no particular need to move along it quickly. There may be some truth in this for some kinds of writing, but literary motivation of the more artistic kind springs from deeper wells than Professor M azrui's idea can cater for. W riters (indeed, all artists) d o n 't respond only to external stim u li; th eir d eepest motivations are likely to come from within — from a need to identify and assert the essential self, from a need to husband the im agination's fertility, from a need to authenticate relationships with the contextual world, or from a need simply to fulfil the capacities for learning or delighting or loving or — what you will. The w riter's causes are internal, and internally, or between internal and external, there are plenty of stops, obstacles, traps, tortures and suffering to provide the im petus, the challenge, the provocation to write. The road is never clear for the artistic mind no matter what conditions prevail in the society around it. * In “An African's View of New Guinea", New Guinea, number 3, October 1970.

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Possibly the most difficult task facing any artist is the definition of his or her role in society. The task includes all the problems of defining himself as well as the terrors of facing his audience. It demands that he commit himself to goals and directions. It forces him forward into the largely unknown. Papua New Guinean writers have begun to define their role. A lthough in speeches they have gallan tly claim ed to be spokesm en for their people, w riters in their works have seen themselves as outsiders from those societies they wanted to represent. Education helped them to be writers but the people in the villages do not have the same kind of education. The English language helped them to be writers but the villagers don't speak it. The towns helped them to be writers but few of their relatives and friends have lived there. Publishing institutions helped them to be writers but there is no grass roots publishing in English as there was Nigeria, India and the West Indies, so neither the villagers nor even the educated buy books. In his poem "Public C onfession"1 Kama Kerpi looks at him self through his village people's eyes and sees the hopeful village thrust into the new world, the new leader, the new direction, the new faith, the glittering new product. But in each of these images is falseness and artificiality, and a painful dislocation from the essential values of the village people themselves: Tossed spear white- washed to glitter conspicuously strange to startled eyes. I a 'golden calf' at the village square, am I the painted sign post to look majestic? And I knock at your door steps a stranger?

The stranger is knocking because is he lost. He has come to the village to find the way, yet the villagers expect him to be their guide. Ironically, Kama Kerpi has said that "a poet in a developing Papua New Guinea can be a voice of vision playing a redemptive role".2 But in "Public Confession" the vision is an "alm ost lost m em ory", the voice is a "whim pering", and before the poet can do any redeeming he must confess to his blindness, his weakness and his ignorance. The poet felt too distant from his people to speak for, or speak to, them m eaningfully. Arthur Jawodimbari has dramatised aspects of this problem with the character of Owade in his play 'T h e Sun". Owade is the orator of Towara village. He fulfils Kerpi's criteria for the poet — a voice of vision playing a redemptive role. Owade clearly perceives the effects of disruptive behaviour on the society and warns against it. He looks into the future and predicts long-term outcomes. He advises the people in their m isfortune and ultim ately is instrum ental in guiding them to better times. But he isn't really part of the village. He doesn't seem to 1 Kama Kerpi, Call o f Midnight Bird, Port Moresby: Papua Pocket Poets, 1973, p.27. 2 Ibid., p.35.

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have any other power apart from the power to speak. He sees Bunani leave with the bowl of stones that will offend the keeper of the sun and bring chaos to the village, but he doesn't leap after him, he merely whimpers impotently: A man carries our fortunes in a bowl of stones. May his foot stumble, may his mind falter and his heart lose courage.... Sleep soundly men and women of Towara the tim e could be near

when you no longer want to sleep....1

Later in the play, when the people of Towara are suffering and dying because of the lack of sun, Owade is the only one with enough mental energy to suggest pursuit of the offended sun-keeper (he also seems to be the only one, apart from the sun-keeper's sister, with physical energy to stand and walk), and even though he can see the solution to the problem he does not attempt to set out in pursuit himself. He seems unaffected by the conditions in the village and powerless to act to change them. Here Jawodimbari has created a poet figure who is both inside and outside the world of the play in much the same way that the Papua New Guinean writers are both inside and outside their own culture. It is an especially frustrating position: the lucid perception of problems makes the impotence more sharply felt. But at least Owade speaks the same language as his villagers. Jawodimbari, in his play doesn't, even though the play updates a village myth for consumption at the village level during times of turmoil. The irony of Papua New Guineans writing in English hardly needs elaboration. It is like writing in a vacuum. There is no audience, apart from a dwindling number of expatriates and the slowly growing num ber of the small elite minority. There is no em pathy with the rhythms and sounds of the language: few right-handed workers ever feel happy or achieve perfection with a left-handed tool. There is no traditional use of the language: no foundation, no context, no standards to work towards or rebel against, no boundaries to break through. There is no grass root publishing: no immediate market, no appreciable recognition or reinforcement, no dialogue with readers. Of course, there is no traditional use of writing itself, so one of the questions haunting Papua New Guinean writers is the relevance of their actual medium to the village world. Writing itself, let alone the English language and education, puts a gap between writers and the populace. Faced with this kind of situation it is no wonder writers are moving slowly. If the years between 1968 and 1973 produced all the excited energy of the birth of a literature, perhaps the recent silence is the stunned realisation that the infant is a bastard. Kum alau Tawali found an area of com m itm ent for the w riter when he set him self up as an interpreter between the old and new 1 Arthur Jawodimbari, "The Sun", in Kovavc, 2.1, November 1970, p.48.

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ways in his poem "The Bush Kanaka Speaks".1 The bush kanaka spoke and Taw ali interpreted for the w hites, revealing to them their misconceived colonialist attitudes towards a less developed, though no less satisfying, technology and life-style. But there was another interpreting job for the poet to do, and Tawali was not yet qualified for it, or rather, he was over-qualified. In the poem "Signs in the Sky" Tawali shows a village man interpreting the universe for him self and his own people, a traditional role of poets in all cultures. But when Tawali interprets for himself and his village people in the poem 'T h e Skull", his knowledge of the new world impinges and he cannot come to firm decision. In the sam e way that his people see it, he acknowledges that the ancestral skull has the power to protect or harm, cure or make ill. He sees it as useful, influential, fearful. But he also sees it as the white man would see it — a useless old smoked bone. In the end he can say no more than that it is "m ysterious". The kind of stand-still that Tawali came to was one which question his role as in terp reter/p o et across cultural boundaries when the real job of interpretation was needed back in his family house. Taw ali's dilemma grew out of genuine involvem ent in both cultures. Some poets have appeared more confident than Tawali, but their approaches have been naive and su perficial rather than com m itted. Allan N atachee dem onstrates som e aspects of the alienation of the artist from his community. Although his recent work with dramatised myths and his translations of traditional poetry show where his strength and sensitvity lie, in his earlier English poetry he was exiled from his Mekeo people because his poetic inspiration came from areas outside his own culture. Before being seen as anything but a parody of a poet, he would have to publicly confess to blindness and misdirection (as Kerpi did in "Public Confession") during those years when he was infatuated with the new world and wrote his grotesque pseudo-Victorian verse. Natachee's contention that there are "not enough words" in Motu for writing poetry, his habit of having, as he says, "a fountain pen and a book with [him] alw ays",2 and the laurel crown he wears in the street, presented to him by United Poets Laureate International (?), serve only to label as eccentricity what he is convinced is commitment. John Kasaipwalova's "Cow Boi" poem pays tribute to an eccentric street poet figure who is seem ingly an outsider like Natachee. He strum s his guitar "in and out of every pub like the coloured trout in its reef," never finding a place or group of friends to belong to. However, unlike N atachee, Cow Boi's most im portant characteristic is his profound identification with the submerged forces of the people's consciousness. Those not in tune with the deepest cultural rhythms see him as a m adm an. Yet Cow Boi, as poet, speaks to his people and they understand, although that communication occurs at a level beyond language: 1 See Kumalau Tawali's poems in Signs in the Sky, Port Moresby: Papua Pocket Poets. 1970. 2 Quotations from an interview: "Natachee: Distinguished Poet of Papua New Guinea", Papua New Guinea Writing, 7, September 1972, p.12.

56 There is no song, there is no tune But his voice, his guitar and his rippling hips make music... Who will not feel the laugh the sorrow the guilt the praise the wonder The river of his presence?1

A similar naivety to N atachee’s was seen in Jack Lahui's "Poet's C om er" in early issues of the Literature Bureau's Papua New Guinea W riting journal, but Lahui has written much better poetry than his fatuous advice to budding poets would suggest. Those poets who solely espou se or work for the w hite cu ltu re's causes seem doom ed. K asaipw alova's rejection of "paper status" in Reluctant Flam e is relevant here. He claimed it was part of the "weighty impotence" of the white culture stifling soul-felt creativity. If writing itself is part of the paper status mess then perhaps all poets are doomed unless they put down their pens and redirect their creative energies towards village politics, business and welfare, as Kasaipwalova him self has done. A vindictation of K asaipw alova's notions concerning the sm othering effects of paper status may lie in the number of writers who were silenced on entering the public service, though there are notable exceptions in Narakobi and Soaba. Russell Soaba has continually struggled with the concept of the self-expressive individual who is the odd man out of his community. In his play "Scattered by the W ind" the character James finds himself alienated from his own family who have espoused some of the ways and all of the religion of the white culture.2 Although, being educated, Jam es is quite different from the village people, he is much closer to them than he is to his parents and brother. His generosity and open mindedness link him to the villagers who have severed contacts with his parents. Thus his family are outcasts from the village, and he is an outcast from the family. Soaba builds him into an artist figure through the play's songs. James sings the same songs as the village people, songs which question the values of the society and the direction in which it is moving. In songs Jam es tries to establish his own position in the community, and in songs the villagers try to understand his dilemma too. Soaba links James to the values of the oral traditions, and in so doing makes allusion to the role of the committed artist in modern society. Although the artist is, by virtue of his education, alienated to a certain extent from the villagers, if he remains true to himself by not selling out to introduced values, he can stay in contact with the village people and provide them with guidance. When James is killed by his

1 John Kasaipwalova, Hanuabada, Port Moresby: Papua Pocket Poets, 1972. Reference is also made to his Reluctant Flame, Port Moresby: Papua Pocket Poets, 1971. 2 Russell Soaba, "Scattered by the Wind", in Kovave, 4.1, November 1972, pp.30-42.

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brother, who represents all the worst features of the new world, it is the villagers who mourn his death and who recognise his martyrdom. In the character of James is a young poet searching for self in cultural limbo, misunderstood by both cultures, yet finally identified with the village world where his deepest roots lie. Jam es's youth and searching and lack of experience reflect characteristics common to most of the Papua New Guinean writers. In the first phase of Papua New Guinean writing (1968-73) there were few intellectually challenging works; there were few truly biting satires either. There were no soul-rending self-exam inations except in the work of K asaipw alova, Kerpi and Soaba. W riters were distinctly modest and inhibited; their writing rarely looked anyone in the eye. K asaip w alov a's Reluctant Flam e and H a n u a b a d a were distinctive because in them the poet did not avoid admission of weakness and guilts, yet the soul-baring provided defiant energy. To know himself and his culture fully Kasapiwalova understood that he must strip naked in front of all eyes and be proud doing it. Either because of youth and lack of experience, or because of a propriety imposed by the English language, Papua New Guinea writers had not uncovered their full selves in literature. The terrors of love, the tyranny of memory, the torture of existence, the ridiculousness of humanity, and so on, are topics which come with experience and which haven't appeared in Papua New Guinean literature. With, once again, the exception of, K asaipw alova, com edy and satire were not favoured, invective punches were pulled, there was, and still is, an undeserved respect for all the white man and his language, and perhaps an underserved respect for all of humanity. Most of the issues were over-simplified; most of the characters were one-dimensional. In pidgin writing alone have humour and irony shown up regularly. Only lack of individual experience can account for all this. Perhaps the writers as indivduals have to be blooded some more, have to die some more. The literary silence (1974-5) may be part of such a process. The cries after birth quieten, and a slumbering begins which allows the infant to grow and get strong. Or, by another analogy, 1974-5 has been a fallow period, but the lack of external actvity in a fallow field does not reflect the inner activity, the developments beneath the surface. The young writers of Papua New G uinea m ust develop them selves and their internal landscapes before their art can develop. In effect, the literature to 1974 has been a literature of innocence. The literary silence indicates, hopefully, that the writers are aware of the fact that their literature must grow up, must strengthen itself, must becom e more whole in its knowledge of its context and aims. The literary silence should prove to have been a necessary stocktaking period. In Vincent Eri’s The Crocodile Hoiri never grows up in the sense that he never sees through his childhood illusions pertaining to the modern world, in spite of the fact that he recognises the general absence of truly humane values among the white men. He remains proud of the small amount of English throughout the book and enjoys

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being interpreter for white men, but the traumatic experience in the final chapter, where he prints his name rather than writing it as the government officer had ordered, suggests the inadequacies inherent in the new w ay's modes of expression. The old culture dem ands a medium forged in its own image for the undistorted conveyance of its values. Oral literature provided such a medium. It involved senses of sharing, reciprocity, and intimate community contact, whereas writing and reading are essentially lone acts asssum ing a distance between individuals. This lack of personal contact is what Hoiri found to be the basis of the introduced society.’ The early modern w riters found writing in English adequate for contact with administrators, educators and missionaries, but now they want to talk to the people and a crisis has developed. Several of the best writers have given up writing and gone back to their villages to talk and act. I have left a consideration of Apisai Enos until late in this paper because, to my mind, his poetry has held the most promising ideas on the role of the artist in modern Papua New Guinea, in spite of the fact that his vision seems the most removed of all writers' from the present social and political issues. His ideas are by no means exhaustively worked out, as is the case with the other writers I have referred to, but the hints are positive and perhaps Enos has held the key for the future of Papua New Guinea writing since the publication of High Water in 1971. Enos has identifed himself with the flying fox — at odds with a confusing world that seems to reverse all his deeply rooted values — an outsider. He ends his poem 'T h e Flying Fox" with the following exhortation: Flying fox defy the gods let birds be birds let beasts be beasts be a bat of the night.2

This works as a broadly political negritude-type assertion, but is in fact a simple assertion of the individual self's validity. It has in it the kind of confidence that Kasaipwalova exhibited and Kerpi wanted to attain, but Enos was working in areas deeper w ithin the poetic im agination than either of these writers. He is working at a level where social and historical details don't really matter — a level where magic and beauty and love are the prime forces. In the poem 'T h e Sacred Voice of the Cockatoo" Enos rejected the notion that the art world (dream world, imagination world — call it what you will) is divorced from the real world:

1 For further discussion of this point sec my aniclc, "Innocence and Experience in the Design of Vincent Eri’s The Crocodile", Westerly, number 3. September 1972, pp.70-73. 2 Apisai Enos, "The Flying Fox" and "The Sacred Voice of the Cockatoo", in Kovave, 3.2, June 1972, pp.51-2.

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The sacred voice of the cockatoo is like a lullaby in my ears It makes me sleep and dream in noonday sun to think of Wuilom beyond the clouds where crystal rivers snake their way through manna bountiful but when 1 wake I know that Wuilom is here 1 hold it in my hands Cockatoo! leave me alone pursue the emptiness beyond the clouds yourself.

This bold statement goes beyond mere attempts to combine or divide two culture worlds. It fuses the real and the unreal, the waking and the dreaming, the here and the nowhere, the now and the ever. Enos is in the deepest recesses of being where only the most important aspects of existence — beauty and truth — are given attention. Much of his poetry looks escapist, but it is not. His preference for whisking experience out of the real dimension into the poetic, where it can be more rigorously analysed in universally human terms, reveals not an avoidance of problems in the here and now but a willingness to attack the complexities and paradoxes of existence at its deepest levels. Enos has moved constantly betw een the stresses of the present mom ent and the overview from a universal vantage point. He is the only Papua New Guinean writer to em phasise the im portance of language diversity in the progress of Papua New Guinean literature. For him, "uniform ity is a destructive device which will destroy rich and interesting cultural d iv ersity ".1 He believes that the choice of language is a political and therefore superficial aspect of creative endeavour. The real development must occur at levels deeper than the printed or spoken word. In 1972 he said: "Niuginean contemporary literature is yet to hatch out of its political shell to become an artistic form as w ell."2 In the High Water collection Enos celebrates a delicate and moonglistening vision of Papua New Guinea in whose dark corners lurk powers of fear and fire. His main themes are the sweet intoxication and m addening wildness of love, the seductiveness and elusiveness of beauty, and the haunting palpability of magic and desire. The poems owe much of their power to the warbat love magic in Enos's traditional Tolai background: they draw on forbidden areas in the primal recesses of all m en's consciousness.

1 Speech by Enos printed in ’’Writers' Day Speakers”, Papua New Guinea Writing, 12, December 1973, p. 13. 2 Apisai Enos, "Niugini Literature: A View from the Editor", Kovave, 4.1, 1972, p.47.

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Basic to Enos's poetic vision is the power of the artist to draw his muse towards him in the same way that the warbat magician draws the prospective lover towards him. Poetry is an incantation that brings beauty to within the grasp of the poet (and the reader). Poetry is also a means of contact with the world of spirits, the imaginative world. The magic doesn't always work perfectly, as in "Ingal", where the spirit of beauty (on other levels the poetic muse and the love ideal) is contacted but not captured: "you dissolve between my hands/ all to nothing like wind to now here."1 In "New Guinea" the country itself becomes the inspiringly beautiful female: Be quiet New Guinea ancient cocoon be still! Don't you know that I am your husband betrothed to you in childhood promised to you in the womb? I have come to celebrate our wedding 1 have come to elope with you into better times.

Strengthened by love and their primal oneness, poet and bride will survive the "mighty bush fire" raging in the present political and social upheaval. In the poem "V oid " Enos exam ines the perm anent state of unfulfilment which defines the artist's position: I know if 1 could fill the void in my heart 1 would be dead a living corpse no more to discover invent create

and in his second collection of poems, Tabapot, he takes this traditional notion further. Tabapot is the space within that is occupied by man's "sp iritu al m a tte r".2 The richness and integrity of the forms a man creates on this internal stage define the quality o f that man. In the investigation of the forms within his own personality carried out in the poems and designs in the Tabapot collection, Enos has completed a more thorough description of the internal landscape, a more rigorous testing of the creative apparatus, than the other Papua New Guinean writers. In "Escape in the W ind" (from the High Water volume) Enos provided a most hopeful view for the future of creativity in his country. Posana is the muse, embodying all the values significant for the artist — beauty, fertility, expressiveness, delicacy. The whirlwind bushfire is Papua New G uinea's present turm oil. The artist-lover 1 See Enos's poems in High Water, Port Moresby: Papua Pocket Poets, 1971. 2 Apisai Enos, Tabapot, Port Moresby: Papua Pocket Poets, 1975.

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creates, through his loving relationship with Posana, the poetic strength which harnesses the energy of turmoil and uses it to achieve survival and victory. Out of present problems is bom truly surviving creativity: Posana fresh like the evening star playing a solitary bamboo flute strolls, crawls downhill to the waiting lover, Posana stretched on the tapa cloth deep in the forest beside the river the artist breathes colour texture tone and life into her mind. Her peace unfolds like petals. Then broken silence dancing beasts whirlwind firerange — Posana defy escape caught up in the whirlwind ride the wind to win.

W hat I have referred to in this paper as 'the literary silence' of 1974-5 has been partly a publisher's silence. The uncertainty of Independence and the resultant lapsing of copyright laws, coupled with the fact that pu blishers had lost m oney on Papua New G uinean ventures previously, adversely affected their willingness to get further involved. At the W riters' Conference (July, 1976) John Kaniku claimed that Papua New Guineans had continued writing and at least two writers (Kerpi and Soaba) were 'sitting on' novels, and Kaniku him self was 'sitting on' several plays, waiting for the copyright laws to be sorted out. Those works which did appear during 1974-5 included a significantly consolidating output by writers who are establishing commitments to their art. A major play by Kama Kerpi was undoubtedly the most im portant work to appear, but poems from Enos, Jaw odim bari and Lahui w ere welcome developm ents, and hints of another Eri novel p rovid ed h op e.1 1974-5 also saw the first collection of poems by promising newcomer Henginike Riyong. To call such output a 'silence' perhaps indicates mainly the impatience of commentators to see the continuing mushrooming of a new literature, but, in spite of these important works, the general fall-off in published literary activity was significant. In the most recent works are new and positive outlines for the role of the artist. Kama Kerpi's startlingly successful play Voices from

1 Vincent Eri, "From a Novel in Progress", in Aspects: Art and Literature, Spring 1975, pp.19-

20 .

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the Ridge redefines his previously unhappy view of the artist.' W hen Boma, the young teacher, in the last act digs up clay and begins moulding it with his hands, the chorus of W ise Women indicate that he is m oulding a new image for the ridge people, an ancestorsanctioned identity for a people emerging from confusion about selfknowledge. Bom a's fashioning of clay links back to the old fem ale witch doctor's statement that "w hoever created the landscape is the greatest artist" (Act 2, scene 1). Boma realises that for survival he must take his identity into his own hands and not be m oulded into the m issionary's image. This entails, to a certain extent, becoming his own god. Such a decision, while completed in response to the ancestral spirits' demands, does not guarantee freedom from despair — in fact, the spirits take back Bom a's son — but it does guarantee Bom a's integrity and authenticity. Kerpi was searching for this kind of solution in Call o f M idnight Bird, but he had not internalised the argum ent sufficiently. The artist's role is not defined by outward circumstances as much as by inner commitment. Also positive in recent examination of the poet's role are three poem s by Henginike Riyong, Jack Lahui and Kumalau Taw ali. Each takes up the theme of the uncovering of something hidden. Riyong's "T h e H idden G o sp e l"2 portrays the poet as a mad archaeologist "shaking the earth" to "proudly uncover/ head s/ of sp e a r/ bam boo/ p ip es/ buried deep in Nokondi" — small fragments of a past existence, but the genuine articles nevertheless. Lahui's 'T h e G allery"3 portrays the poet as an avid reader of public convenience graffiti. He ploughs through all the "pun, fun and farce" to find "a piece of worthy sagacity/ Amidst all that scornful literature". And Taw ali's "V oice of the Sea" (delivered, significantly, by oral means at the Writers' Conference, July 2, 1976) portrayed the poet as the ironically clear-sighted young man who learns from the old sage how to guide a canoe through the dark waters by listening the the wash of the sea on the reefs. The significant point about each of these poem s is that the object o f the poet's searching in each case is attained. No more the unreached, far-off treasure of Kama Kerpi's quest in "Distant Love",4 nor the frustration of understanding in Tawali's 'T h e Skull", but rather, the possession of knowledge, the gaining of enlightenment, the assurance of direction, even if accompanied by pain, humiliation or frenzy. Such positive insight into the artist's situation indicates a new beginning. Shoots appear in the fallow field: the unfolding of petals continues.

1 Kama Kerpi, Voices from the Ridge, Port Moresby: Creative Arts Centre, 1974. (First performed 1975). 2 Henginike Riyong, Nema Mamba, Port Moresby: Papua Pocket Poets, 1974. ^ Jack Lahui, Gamblers Niugini Style, Port Moresby: Papua Pocket Poets, 1974. 4 Kama Kerpi, Call o f Midnight Bird, p. 12. The title of the poem was unfortunately omitted by the printer.

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BETWEEN TW O CULTURES: INTERPRETING V. ERI’S THE CROCODILE Frances Devlin Glass Originally presented at the Suva Triennial Conference of ACLALS, this paper appeared in the proceedings, Language and Literature in Multicultural Contexts (ed. Satendra Nandan, University of the South Pacific, 1983). Dr Devlin Glass teaches at the Rusden campus of Deakin University. _______________________

Linguistic anthropologists have for some decades now investigated the linguistic and cultural changes which occur when there is contact between two societies whose members speak different languages. In d ealin g w ith the com plex p rocesses of b ilin g u a liz a tio n and acculturation, the normal procedure has been to examine data which furnish examples of deviation from the norms of either language in the speech of bilinguals. And so, the attention of such linguists has been directed at phenomena occurring as a result of contact between tw o languages and such features as syntactic and phonological variations have been grist to their mill. My interest, however, is not in "code-sw itching" as such; rather, it is in the analogous phenomenon which I shall term "culture-switching". This occurs when a bicultural, bilingual writer like Vincent Eri has access to two utterly different modes of thinking, and this is manifest in a single language, in his case, English. In wanting to investigate this phenomenon, I am, of course, venturing into quicksands, the problem being that in T h e C rocodile, the lexical items are English, but they may have as their semantic import meanings derived from either English or Papua New Guinean culture or thinking. Han Suyin, herself bicultural, suggests in one of her novels (A M any Splendour'd Thing) that the im plications of biculturalism are more than semantic: she speaks of the emotionally debilitating effects of what she calls "intellectual Eurasianism ", of the development of "Split two-layered souls", capable of "sudden brusque turnovers, of lightning contrasts in reasoning thought". She also claims that such contrasts can occur without the bicultural person's appearing conscious of the change.1 This is an apt description of the kind of conflict which Eri's central consciousness, Hoiri, experiences. He naturally encodes the world around him, including the encroaching white culture, in terms of his primary culture. This process leads him into misconceptions (as for example, when he assumes that steel liners are kept afloat by "spirit people") but on the other hand, the mind he brings to white culture is also tough, analytic and critical: comparison between white and black values often highlights that white culture is destitute of values integral to the society to which Hoiri belongs and he frequently rejects white mores in favour of his own culture's ways. This is especially true of the emotional issues in his life, how he conducts himself sexually and how he deals with death. Although he is intellectually and em otionally 1 Han Suyin, A Many Splendour'd Thing, London: Jonathan Cape, 1952, pp.296-7.

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critical of white culture, Hoiri's admiration for it paradoxically ensures his own defeat at its hands. Finally he is reduced to the status of being destitute of a viable culture: he can never compete with whites on equal terms; nor can he any longer derive emotional security from his own culture. Culturally and emotionally he occupies a wasteland. To suggest that Hoiri makes a straightforward set o f choices in favour of his prim ary culture would be to distort the novel. He becom es essen tially bicu ltu ral and quite u n con scio u s o f the inconsistencies in his cultural framework; he is unaware of the dual nature of his thinking. Although on emotional issues he frequently evaluates white culture negatively and reverts to the dictates of his heart and o f the primary culture, he casts his lot in a fundamental way with the secondary ascendant culture: he is represented as eager to learn numeracy skills and English, ironically because of its prestige within his primary culture; he is curious to discover what magic the w hite man possesses which renders him more pow erful, and more technologically wealthy than the Gulf District People. Hoiri displays a high degree of adaptability, assimilating white culture to his own ways of thinking. In representing this process, Eri engages in som e understated irony: on the one hand, Eri portrays the colonial culture as absurdly ethnocentric to the extent that it is unaware of the possibility of different ways of thinking, whereas the young Hoiri is presented as flexible in his thinking. Nonetheless, the cultural choice Hoiri makes finally is not an open one. In the final paragraphs of the novel, he is portrayed as oscillating between one culture and the other: He felt cold in his heart and incredibly lonely. His life seemed a confused mess. He was insensitive to the noisy shouting of the people around him. In a flash he saw in front of his eyes all the wasted years of carrying the white m an's cargo. He knew that the white man, with all his wisdom and power, could not help him to get his wife back. He did not see the policeman striding up to him and he was only vaguely aware of the hot rusty grip of the handcuffs around his wrists. As he started walking, he felt the square shape of the bank book in his pocket. "Maybe this money will send Sevese to the white man's school, maybe he will grow up to understand the things that baffle m e/' he thought numbly, as he was led back to the office he had wished never again to see.1

A lthough he is aw are that the w hite culture cannot fulfil his emotional needs, nonetheless, he is resigned to being trapped by it, and desires that his son will understand white culture more effectively and that the alien and alienating education be more fully his son's heritage. It is crucial, I believe, to distinguish between Eri's and H oiri's views of the colonial experience. Eri is realist enough to know that white contact has wrought irreversible changes, but there is an occasion in the novel where he uses Hoiri as a mouthpiece to express in a sym bolic vision the way politics ought to operate in Papua New Guinea.

1 Vincent Eri, The Crocodile, [1970) Ringwood: Penguin, 1973, p. 178.

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There was something about the clouds that was similar to the world of men. They travel in groups. There are some that seem to be more important than others and travel on a higher level. Perhaps the darker ones are the heads of the clans who make decisions for the white fluffy ones below them. They even seem to have problems because occasionally they shed tears. But how much nicer it would be, if all people travelled in the one direction just as the clouds d o .1

W hereas Hoiri is unable to sustain this vision and his final act of wishing a white education for Sevese is an act of despair, the novel dramatises, albeit in a heavily qualified way, Eri's trust not only in the intrinsic worth of black culture, but also in the kind of democratic white culture of which Bill, the soldier (significantly not a colonizer), and the self-assured American negroes are the representatives. Eri's vision of hope is, however, counterpointed by the elegiac tone of the last few pages of the novel: Hoiri's confusion and sense of loss belong to a lost soul, and his act of faith in Sevese's future is a delusion, because the implication of his learning white ways more effectively is that he will lose respect for himself and for what is valuable in his own culture. To my mind, the most interesting feature of this novel is not its resolu tion or even E ri's relativ istic final ju d gm en ts, but its dram atisation of a mind operating simultaneously within two alien cultures. To a reader, the fact of Hoiri's biculturalism becomes manifest at the lexical level, and I wish to analyse in some detail two examples which illustrate the point. If I may take a very simple example as a starting point: when Hoiri exultantly compares M itoro's buttocks to "tw o smooth round pots", it is essential to realise that the function of the word is not merely to describe her pleasing physical contours, which is the main sem antic function it would perform within a W estern fram e of thinking. Eri here uses a word which has particular and precise connotations in the Papua New Guinean context because of the high value placed on pots as articles of trade in the ritualised trade cycle of the G ulf District people. This is a case where to some extent the novel internally defines how such details are to be read; anthropological and historical studies, that is, knowledge external to the novel, add further insights. But there are occasions in reading the novel where it is difficult for a Western reader to be confident that h e/sh e is decoding the novel in terms that are not ethnocentric, and that are sensitive to the culture of which the novel is an expression. Much more important, indeed central, to an understanding of the novel, is the second set of related words, nam ely, "crocodile", "snake", "python", which Eri uses in a sense peculiar to his culture. The novel abounds in references to such creatures, and it is striking that Hoiri and his fellow countrymen adopt a curiously mixed tone when speaking of them: crocodiles, pythons and snakes are feared (an em otional association shared by W esterners) but they are also

1 Ibid., p. 145.

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paradoxically admired and held in awe, precisely because of the brute pow er they have to kill. So, when Jim Green, the A ssistant District O fficer from K erem a, notorious for his u ncom prom ising court convictions, is nicknamed by the villagers "the crocodile", Eri notes "the title ... was one of praise rather than abuse". It seems that the issue here is not the morality of G reen's actions (which Eri sees as highly dubious) but the power over life and death that the man holds which the subordinated culture respects. Sim ilarly, A vava, the feared sorceror, is described metaphorically as a "python" who will "sooner or later turn into a crocod ile". The ritu alistic way in w hich local mythology describes crocodiles as taking their victims (p. 106) is further evidence of the Moveave people's respect for the brute pow er of the crocodile: they concede a certain legitimacy to the crocodile's use of its powers. W ithin the novel and through the allusions to reptiles Eri makes a powerful evaluative distinction which is characteristic of his culture but which marks it off as radically different from W estern thinking. The W esterner w hose creation myth in volves an evil serpent, traditionally evaluates snakes in terms of the g o o d /e v il dichotomy; Eri, on the other hand, requires his reader to view reptiles as the em bodim ent of power and to see power in itself as a good because power guarantees the continuance of life for the person or force who possesses it. That which is powerful, therefore, commands respect. In Road Belong Cargo, the anthropologist Peter Law rence asserts that "th e keynotes of the traditional relig ion w ere its materialism and anthropocentrism. It was not concerned with spiritual values — problems of moral good and evil — but was regarded as a 'technology', by means of which a man could guarantee his wellb e in g " .1 W hereas the W esterner traditionally questions w hether the exercise of power is good or evil, in traditional Papua N ew Guinean cultures, as Lawrence describes it, a code of ethics certainly operates but survival and the power which guarantees it are of prim e value, and override, and even make irrelevant, the question of whether power is exercised for good or evil purposes. The Western notion of a morality based in part on a m etaphysical belief system is em phatically not appropriate in traditional Papua New G uinea culture. The novel therefore requires the Western reader to abandon the usual symbolic associations of his culture with snakes, and more radically still, to abandon the ethical framework of his own culture in relation to the concept of power and to see it, as Eri does, as a good. Perhaps one of the most exciting features of this novel is the way in w hich, partly through his presentation of the crocodile and the sym bology which underlies it, Eri makes clear how w hite culture established its hold on the M oveave district. The fact that power is valued in Papua New Guinean culture for its own sake makes possible the acceptance of superior white technology by the villagers. Eri is sufficiently westernized in his education to make it clear to his reader that the exploitation of this value system by the white man for his own 1 Peter Lawrence, Road Belong Cargo, Melbourne University Press, 1964, p.75.

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benefit is inherently evil. And so, this central symbol in the novel, with its two markedly different potential frames of reference, is an important device which Eri uses to explore his view of the process of acculturation. Although Eri is less ambivalent about the two cultures to which he belongs than his protagonist, Hoiri, he nonetheless explores the am bivalence he does feel, eschewing simple-minded distribution of praise and blame. His main technique for doing this is to dramatise, often without authorial intrusion, H oiri's biculturalism. H oiri's mind is one which continually speculates, and which moves from one cultural framework into the other, sometimes in a single sentence. To take a striking example: No one had ever gone beyond the rapids. No one would dare, even if it were possible to drag canoes over it. Hoiri was glad that the paddling was over. He thanked the Lord for creating the rapids. What a great thing it would be if he saw some of the shiny mountain sides, the huge crocodiles that had no intention of eating human beings and understood what the human beings said to them, and the snakes that looked as if they were fed three times a day, Hoiri thought. Beautiful flowers were said to blossom on numerous islands rising out of the calm waters above the rapids. All these resembled the Garden of Eden that he had been told about in his catechism lessons. This was perhaps their share of the beautiful garden. All the talk he had heard about the place might be superstition — or whatever name the missionaries gave to such talking and thinking. But Hoiri was not going to try to disprove his ancestors and then have to go through the rest of his life with a football-sized pair of testicles.1

W ithin this paragraph I can identify at least four and at most seven 'culture shifts'. His thanking of "the Lord" and mention of the Garden of Eden are clearly impedimenta of his Christian upbringing, and it is p ossib le that the allusion to the snakes also belongs to that constellation of ideas. However, the particular form that the images of crocodiles and snakes takes in this passage suggests that what Hoiri is doing mentally is accommodating the Christian idea of Paradise to a particularly Papua New Guinean utopia. The sym bolic significance which Eri attaches to crocodiles and snakes, and which his culture endorses, is probably more relevant than the Christian reading. It is instructive that in Hoiri's utopia, reptiles are not envisaged as toothless or pow erless, but rather as not needing to use their strength aggressively because their subsistence needs are met! Another shift in consciousness occurs in the sentence beginning "All these resembled ...". Just how naive or ironic Hoiri is when he refers to "their share of the beautiful garden" is, of course, debatable. It is unlikely, however, that Eri is not in control of the irony which is implicity directed at whites who would control the world's wealth for their exclusive enjoyment. One wonders, too, if this phrase does not implicitly dramatise the conflict between Church teachings of equality in G od's eyes and the inconsistent practice of colonial overlords, and

1 Eri, op. tit., p.91.

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the C hu rch's attem pt to rationalise tem poral inequalities by the promise of equality in the after-life? A further cultural shift may occur in the sentence, "A ll the talk he had heard about the place might be superstition — or whatever name the missionaries gave to such talking and thinking". There is some ambiguity as to the referent of "the place". The obvious referent is "the place above the rapids": however, in context, it could refer to what im m ediately precedes it — H oiri's reference to a C hristian heaven. If the latter is the case, then Hoiri is engaging in a kind of 'double-think' which puts him intellectually beyond both the thinking of his own culture and that of the whites: the implication is that he has applied the evaluation that missionaries have used to denigrate his own culture's mythology (i.e., that it is mere superstition) to Christian mythology. However, the sentence which follows suggests it is more likely that Hoiri has in mind the country above the rapids. In the last sentence of the paragraph, Hoiri operates within his own cultural framework. Again it is significant that when his own culture speaks authoritatively or enjoins penalties if its beliefs are not acted upon, rationality is abandoned in favour of the dictates o f the heart. The primary culture offers a greater security. In exam ining this passage I have chosen an extract which illu strates the phenom enon of culture-sw itching to a rem arkable degree. I wish to emphasise the frequency with which Hoiri changes his cultural framework and the fluidity of his unconscious movements from a European frame of reference to a Papua New G uinean one. W hereas Hoiri moves subconsciously and rapidly from one culture to another, the organization of the novel suggests that Eri him self has a large m easure of conscious control over the phenom enon, which he uses throughout the novel. Perhaps the most crucial event in the novel, H oiri's singlehanded defeat of the crocodile, exhibits a very different phenomenon. It represents a number of challenges for the Western reader as for the first time in the novel Hoiri acts exclusively as a Papua New Guinean. Elsewhere in the novel, when Eri is mindful of a non-PNG readership, he is careful to explain peculiarities of PNG belief, so it is unusual that in this ep isod e he refrain s from com m ent o f this sort. His representation of Hoiri's confrontation with the crocodile exem plifies a claim made by anthropologists that whatever their cause, deaths are widely attributed to sorcerers in PNG thinking.1 In this incident, Hoiri does not make any rational distinction between the physical cause of "death" and the agent (sorcerer) who engineered it. They are identical: the crocodile and the sorcerer are one. Eri sustains throughout the latter half of the novel a deliberate ambiguity as to whether Mitoro was in fact taken by a crocodile or whether she was kidnapped by sorcerers. I intend to establish the reasons Eri has for setting up such an ambiguity, and to argue it is a fruitful and rich ambiguity in the novel. 1 C.D. Rowley, The New Guinea Villager, Melbourne: F.W. Cheshire, 1965, p.46; Leonard B. Glick, "Sorcery and Witchcraft”, Encyclopaedia o f Papua New Guinea, Volume II, Melbourne University Press, 1972, pp.1080-82.

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The confrontation with the crocodile is preceded by an event — the fall of a coconut which almost kills Hoiri — which is susceptible of rational explanation, but which Hoiri interprets in a magical sense. Throughout the crocodile incident, Hoiri's thinking is peculiarly fluid: literal and sym bolic fact are freely interchangeable and rational explantations have no place: the crocodile is sometimes a literal beast, and at other times, it is seen as if it were actually under the control of "hunting m agicians", who ride either the crocodile itself, or a "huge dug-out canoe": A moving object faintly visible, attracted Hoiri's attention. The object was moving upstream in a west-east direction. Gentle ripples rolled away from a ball-like object that formed the bow, a sure sign that the marine creature was a crocodile. The soft light of the Oamalala constellation was reflected by one of the eyeballs. But its cool blue glow was transformed into a reddish brown, more like the coals that are left after the flames are out .... "Yes, this is no ordinary crocodile/' Hoiri said to himself when he saw the crocodile make an about-turn and head towards him. He heard a whistle, presumably in reply to his, come from the direction of the crocodile. He did not reply, fearing he might give himself away the second time. Still the crocodile kept coming straight towards him. The edge of the water was no more than a foot away from where Hoiri stood. Finding itself in shallow water, the reptile raised itself on its legs and hands. The object that had seemed no more than a yard in length a few seconds ago, had suddenly transformed itself into a huge dug-out canoe. With slow steps the horrifying creature advanced then it stopped .... The coconut palm which he had leaned on for stability and comfort now shielded him from the hideous beast. He knew that someone was alighting from the tail end of the crocodile: the splashes his feet made in the water were unmistakable. The head of the crocodile was on dry land, so Hoiri could not tell whether anyone was alighting from that end. His eyes were fixed on the splashing footsteps that were moving towards him. He placed his spear loosely against the trunk, ready to use when he needed it. When the footsteps had come quite close, Hoiri lunged at the invisible being with all his might. There was a scream that almost drowned Hoiri's battlecry. His axe had stuck fast into some invisible object and before he could retrieve it for a second blow it had disappeared into the night. Hoiri jumped aside from the tail of the crocodile to avoid having all the bones in his body broken. He hurled his spear, and it struck deep behind the crocodile's right shoulder. One after another, his arrows penetrated the sinewy flesh .... The crocodile seemed unaware of Hoiri's presence. All the yelling that Hoiri made neither increased the swiping movement of its tail nor made it go into a frenzy. The greatest source of its troubles was Hoiri's big spear which must have gone through the ribs midway between the right arm and the right leg.... The sky had opened up and, for the first time since the tragedy, the sun seemed to shine sympathetically, happy that the exhaustive search had been fruitful. But just as its life-warming rays had kindled the hope of the men, it also enabled the crocodile to reconsider its position and act wisely. The steel point of the spear dug a small trench as it laboured to reach the water. Whenever the point got caught in a shallow root the crocodile mooed like a cow in pain. But its senses were too late in returning. Just as its head went under water, it had to stop. Sharp tomahawks were quickly cutting through the base of its tail. In vain its powerful claws dug deep into the mud as it was being hauled up on to the land. Soon these too became useless. When it opened its mouth a short stick sharpened on both ends was stuck fast between the upper and lower jaws.

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It was Hoiri's privilege to deal the fatal blow. Scvese handed his son a middle-sized axe. The first blow only made a dent and produced a lot of sparks. On the second blow the axe stuck fast, embedded in the skull.1

The circumstantial detail used to describe the approach of the marine object renders it indubitably a crocodile. H oiri's assertion that it is "no ordinary crocodile" has elements of magic in it, as do the answering whistles. I wish to draw attention to the metam orphosis which occurs w hen the rep tile is transform ed into a canoe. T h is is not a metamorphosis in the usual sense: it is not that Hoiri's perception has changed, or that the object itself has changed; rather H oiri's mind holds both of the phenomena together in suspension — one is and explains the other. An earlier version of this incident reveals that Eri revised this passage with a view to strengthening the effect I have described. The earlier version reads thus: "The object that had seemed no more than a yard in length a few seconds ago seemed to transform itself into a huge dugout can oe".2 Instead of "seem ed to transform itself", Eri writes "had suddenly transformed itself" (my em phases). Thus, the rev ision elim inates the p ossibility o f H o iri's p ercep tion being m istaken. The follow ing paragraphs allude to "som eone alighting from the tail-end of the crocodile", and to a "scream ", when Hoiri sinks his axe into an invisible object, but they also make clear that the crocodile literally exists. That Hoiri is not suffering from a private delusion, and that his belief in the dual identify of the crocodile and sorcerer is shared by his clan, is made clear in the discussion between Sevese and Hoiri: Several weeks later Sevese stopped his son and spoke to him. "It looks as if you did not do a good job with that axe." "What axe, Father? The only one I had, I used during the time the crocodile was slain. " "Yes my son, some of our people have just returned from Kerema. They saw a man with a very big wound on his right shoulder. The medical orderly said that he is recovering." Hoiri let out a sigh of disappointment. So the sorcerer still lived and was in possession of his wife Mitoro. "The bastard! He must have been produced when his mother was mating with a dog!" Hoiri muttered to himself, clenching his fists very tightly.3

It is notew orthy that identification of the crocodile's injury with the in ju ry o f the sorcerer is intim ate: the cro cod ile is frequ en tly anthropom orphised, a technique which prepares the reader for the fatal blow being described as "deep behind the crocod ile's right shoulder". The man alleged to be the sorcerer carries a corresponding "very big wound on his right shoulder". The ambiguity about the fate of Mitoro continues to the end of the novel. Although there is nothing to suggest that the woman Hoiri 1 Eri, op. cit., pp.l 12-15. 2 Published in New Guinea Writing, No.l, 1970, p.10. 3 Eri, op. cit., p.l 19.

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sees at the end of the novel is in fact Mitoro, he clings to this belief and rationalises it thus: The power of the magicians had put her completely beyond his reach. They had transformed her mind and they wielded absolute power over her tongue. She was the same woman in appearance only.1

Eri holds these ambiguities in suspension for two reasons: at the level of narrative, it allows him to explore his culture's thinking about sorcery, and the continuing unresolved grief of his protagonist. However, it is also useful to him for symbolic reasons: Mitoro becomes a symbol of the radical losses sustained by black culture as a result of the depredations of the colonial power, just as it seems probable to me that Eri intends the crocodile to symbolize the predatory activities of white culture itself. In making the last claim as baldly as I have, I am venturing onto the quicksands I referred to earlier, and what I want to do in the remainder of the paper is to explore the semantic problems that arise if one does read the novel symbolically. The location of the crocodile incident within the novel is itself suggestive: it occurs im m ediately follow ing the disruption of the village by John Sm ith's patrol. The im plications of John Sm ith's culling the most able-bodied men from the village are handled in an understated and ironic way by Eri: he underemphasises the impact on a subsistence economy of such an action, and instead focuses on Hoiri's and his cousin's absurd pride in being chosen, and on their delusion that being a patrol carrier is a modern test of their manliness, having as legitimate a claim on them as the rites of their own culture (pp. 73-4). Undoubtedly the weakest characterization in the novel is the caricature figure John Smith. Eri attributes to him insensitivity on a grand scale: he has no capacity to understand nor any interest in the beliefs of his carriers; he gauges the appetites of his hard-working slaves by his own and refuses them adequate food; he foists the blame for his m isjudgm ents on his lackeys; he in fact epitom ises the arrogance and worst excesses of the colonial class. John Smith and the crocodile, oddly assorted pair that they seem , have qualities in common: both are predatory and destructive; both are adm ired and regarded with fear by the villagers. Each o f the incidents discussed in detail to date depends on a knowledge of PNG culture and thinking. It seems probable that the only incident (M itoro and H oiri's relationship, and especially their wooing) which presents real difficulty of access to me may rely on knowledge of the culture more arcane than that which anthropologists have explored, and I intend to pose a series of genuinely open-ended questions about this incident. The novel implicitly warns the reader not to im pose Western notions of romantic love on the relationship: attention is drawn to the fact that M itoro's wide hips and proven gardening ability are the chief 1 Eri, op. tit., p. 108.

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criteria which make her a good prospect in marriage. Yet this is no traditional PNG marriage: Hoiri selects his bride rather than has her chosen for him and there is no talk of bride price. It may also be significant that M itoro is wooed by Hoiri with tokens of the w hite culture — a brassiere, underpants and a floral skirt — all of which Mitoro receives enthusiastically. W hat is most difficult to establish is the nature of the feeling that exists between them. Hoiri does not speak of 'love' for her until after her disappearance (p. 107, p. 126) and then what is meant by that word, and by the notion of marriage, is probably different from the Western View. Hoiri defines marriage thus: True marriage enabled the two partners to stand upright as properly formed human beings. Through the union, each partner acquired his missing leg. For anyone who had the experience of using two legs, life wasn't worth living if one had to manage on a single one.1

H. Ian Hogbin, in his study of kinship and m arriage am ong the Busama suggests that in the absence of romantic involvem ent, it is q u ite com m on for husband and w ives to becom e sin cerely affectionately attached in the course of a marriage and describes the process as the development of a partnership.2 M itoro’s fam ily's insistence on legitim ising the m arriage by means of a Christian wedding is reported as causing great discomfort to H oiri, w ho cannot recon cile C hristian teachings on prem arital abstinence and monogamy with his own instincts. He conducts himself before marriage in terms of his own culture, and the wedding is his first painful conscious compromise and sell-out to white culture. It is ironic that the pressure comes from within the clan. Eri is honest in that he assiduously accounts for insidious pressures to em ulate the white man which arise within the black culture. M itoro's m otives in marrying Hoiri are much less clear than H oiri's m otives in m arrying her and the prose which Eri uses in his account of their first sexual encounter is highly am biguous for a W estern reader: With uncertain steps Mitoro walked towards the grove of banana trees. Hoiri dragged her by the arms and drew her into the shadows. Her skin was cold like that of a snake — a scaleless snake. The touch of her weakened the base of Hoiri's tongue like poison. His throat suddenly ran dry. He counted her fingers, then the nails, and then the joints, as if she was a different species. She moaned and her hand went limp. "What's the matter? Did I hurt you?" Hoiri whispered. "No, you just bent the finger that had a sago thorn lodged in it for the past week. I only pulled it out this afternoon." Her voice was calm and clear. She was speaking to the bananas. Hoiri reached out for her elbow and wheeled her round to face him. His arms felt their way gently down her smooth back to her loins and pulled her closer to him. The elastic of her petticoat lifted easily and

1 Eri, op. cit., p. 108. 2 Kinship and Marriage in a New Guinea Village, London: Athlone Press, 1963, pp. 115, 126-7.

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Hoiri's hands surveyed the shape of her buttocks — two smooth round pots that fitted nicely in the palms of his hands.1

As this incident im m ediately succeeds another in which Hoiri is required by his people to prove his manhood, it is probable that Hoiri's manhandling of Mitoro and his proving of her virginity is intended by Eri as a further rite de passage, an interpretation which is reinforced by the image of H oiri's feeling as if he had "sloughed off his old skin" (p.56). Several q u estion s su ggest them selves here: is M ito ro 's reluctance to co-operate a product of her shyness, or her indoctrination as a Christian? Is the detail about her skin "cold like that of a snake — a scaleless snake" merely literal description? Or, given the sym bolic ram ifications of that word in the novel, is som e other m eaning intended by Eri? Is there any special significance in the snake being referred to as "scaleless"? Why does Mitoro have an effect on Hoiri like that of poison? Is the detail about the sago thorn in her finger merely banal realistic detail? Is the effect of the bathos unintentional? H oiri's emotional state — frenetic and affectionate by turns — is presented by Eri in such a way as to endear him to the reader. However, there is much to disturb the reader in M itoro's detachment from Hoiri and from the situation in which she finds herself. In each of these central passages, the crocodile incident and M ito ro 's w ooing, E ri's prose takes on a d iffere n t q u ality . Anthropological understandings of the culture suffice to illum inate the crocodile incident, and it seems highly likely that in the seduction episode meanings are being created which are inherently Papua New Guinean, and that Eri is exploring sexual relations more subtly than W estern anthropologists have known how to. This, of course, is not the only possibility: it may be that in this passage, Eri has lost control of the distance between him self and his subject, or lost sight of a nonPapua New Guinean readership, but before I rest with that conclusion or any other it seems necessary to ask questions of the culture to which the novel belongs. If the symbolism of the novel works in as complex ways as I have tentatively suggested, then Hoiri's downfall is caused in part by his unholy alliance with a woman who values the ascendant white cultu re m ore highly than her own. Because of the fundam ental am biguities surrounding the characterisation of M itoro and the language in which the episode of her seduction is presented, it would be intellectually foolhardy to emerge with a fully-fledged thesis as to how the novel works. As long as it is possible that the difficulties the novel presents may he rooted in the subtlest understandings of an alien culture, questions must be asked.

1 Eri, op. cil., p.55.

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RUSSELL SOABA’S W A N P IS : THE ROLE OF THE WRITER IN PAPUA NEW GUINEA William McGaw Bill McGaw was for four years Chairman o f the South Pacific chapter of the Association of Commonwealth Language and Literature Studies and Editor of its journal, Span. This article combines two conference papers, one of which has appeared as ’Narrative Modes and the Problem of Identity in Russell Soaba's W anpis", in Doireann McDermott (ed.), Autobiographical and Biographical Writing in the Commonwealth. Sabadell, Barcelona: Editorial AUSA, 1984: 143.

Russell Soaba's first novel has enjoyed a curious reputation. As the second novel by a Papua New Guinean (1977), it m ight have been accorded som e of the interest and enthusiasm which m arked the publication of Vincent Eri's The Crocodile (1970). However, despite its obvious literary m erit, W anpis, has been greeted with either thinly veiled hostility or indifference. The reasons for this are, perhaps, not difficult to find. The most obvious one is that whereas The Crocodile w as published in A ustralia, thereby inviting a wide and varied audience, W anpis was published in Port Moresby. The Crocodile, set in the 1930s and '40s, records with the advantage o f hindsight the disruption and destruction of village life by colonial and w artim e adm inistrations. An uncomplicated tale of innocence and exploitation, its appeal to a contemporary Papua New Guinean audience is national and immediate. Any appeal that Wanpis might have, by com parison, m ust be narrowly based and tentative. W ritten out of a background of pre-Independence in the early 1970s, it is philosophical and prophetic in approach. Its vision of society is complex, often critical, and openended. Hence, it is not so comfortable for an em erging nation to deal with. If Wanpis has yet to make its mark, it is not because it is deficient as literature, but because it makes more demands on the reader than the anti-colonial and nationalist models which have dominated Papua N ew Guinean writing. The difference between Soaba's novel and the work o f other Papua New Guinean writers lies in his unwillingness to be narrowly didactic. He certainly deals with the shortcomings of colonialism and with the problems facing a society on the verge of nationhood, but he does not deal with these issues only at the social level. N or does he, like so many PNG writers, see them as problems of race or class. In viewing his subject, the role of the writer in an emerging society, Soaba sees problem s as essentially human, to be dealt with at a strictly personal level. If the protagonists of W anpis, a little band of would-be writers, are em bryonic existentialists, it is because Soaba believes that individual existentialism is the only viable grounding for an often chaotic emerging society. What is remarkable about Russell Soaba's novel is that though it has its origins in European m odern thought, it is anything but d e riv a tiv e in its use of e x isten tia list p h ilosop h y. T hrou gh a juxtaposition of two Pidgin terms, iu sm a n ' and 'w anpis', and the

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concepts which they come to represent, Soaba develops ideas from Camus and Sartre as fundamentally Papua New Guinean. 'W anpis' is the term for a loner, an outcaste. 'Lusman' is literally a loose or lost man, a loser wandering aimlessly through life. As with 'wanpis', to be iu sm an ' is to be apart from others, alone, abandoned. Yet whereas those who remain iusm an' are forever fragmented and tormented, the w riter who becomes 'wanpis' through the very fact of his alienation and suffering, finally achieves integration and vision. In striving to be 'w anpis', the writer may well remain as its antithesis, a 'lusman'. This is the plight of the Papua New Guinean writer as defined in the novel, and for all but one of the writer-characters, it is their doom. W anpis is divided into three parts, each exploring a stage in a w riter's development. Part One (Lusman) describes the friends' last fortnight together at All Saints' secondary boarding school, run by the Anglican mission near Popondetta. The boys separate to return to their villages for vacation or take up jobs. It also describes the first months of the follow ing year which two of them, the anonym ous half-caste narrator and Just Call me Joe, spend at university in Port Moresby. The distance betw een the two seats of education, together with their rem oteness from their friends whose villages are in yet other provinces, is significant as distancing and dislocating are major themes in this section. Part Two of the novel, which is entitled 'Spilt-Yolk N ostalgia', concentrates on the crisis of identity which is mounting in the narrator. It describes further events in his prelim inary year at university and reaches its climax midway through his final year. Part Three, which takes its heading from the novel's title, records events occurring four years later — the assault on, hospitalisation and death of the most gifted of the writers, the precocious poet, Jimmy Damebo. In all, the novel spans eight years, those immediately prior to September 1975 when Papua New Guinea became independent from Australia. In Part One of Wanpis, each of the protagonists is consciously a lusm an. The first to recognise this state is Jim m y Damebo. In a confrontation with Anonymous at All Saints', he identifies his plight: 1 am desperate to become a writer and that's what makes them stop and stare at me; desperation, that's my problem, a lusman's problem, (p.23)

The 'them' to whom he refers are the missionary teachers who point to his deficiencies in his use of English as a bar to writing. Here lies the very nature of his torment. Jimmy sees that to write is his destiny, but there is an unresolvable tension between the matter and the medium of his utterance. In the European experience, the writer's alienation, as artist, is seen to produce that genuine detachment which will allow original vision and its effective com m unication to an audience. In Paupa N ew G u inea, w here the w riter has little fu nction in a predom inantly oral cultural space, and when his expressive and com m unicative potential is limited by an imposed second language, Dam ebo's lusman desperation is a much stronger reality. The great irony of this in the novel is that both the elders in the village and the boys at All Saints' place their hopes for the future in

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western education. For the elders, it seems to promise honour for their people; for the boys it seems to promise personal freedom. Freedom is, in fact, what it does bring, but only as a dubious separation from the past. While the boys are at school, only Jimmy Damebo recognises this, and he is trapped in profound feelings of guilt, inadequacy, anxiety and engulfm ent. To be dislocated and fragmented: this is the first state which the w riter must experience, the first stage through which he must pass. T h ere is a strong em phasis throughout the novel on the development of the individual and, by extension, of his society. "I am too young and underdeveloped" is a repeated theme among the boys. By implication the innocence and naivety of childhood is equated with the uterine security of the village, the turm oil and self-doubt of a d o lescen ce w ith the d ifficu ltie s and u n ce rta in tie s o f p re ­ independence, and the maturity and confidence of adulthood with the anticipated strength and cohesion of nationhood. A ccording to the existentialist view which Soaba is constructing, the society, like the writer, can only attain selfhood if it is able to come to terms with its whole existence, both its past innocence and its present experience — to be 'one piece': an integrated autonomy. Before reaching this stage, Anonymous must first discover that he too is a 'lusm an'. Though not a w riter at All Sain ts', he is academ ically the most clever of the boys and is also a loner. If Jimmy Damebo is potentially an existentialist poet at this stage, Anonymous is potentially an existentialist philosopher. Like Damebo, he has already acknowledged in himself the danger of a loss of identity. Damebo has rechristened himself James St. Nativeson after reading som e of James Baldw in's novels. Anonym ous has erased his surnam e and given names from his birth certificate. In fact, Soaba consistently uses this double nam ing as an indication o f split identity. Anonymous is rejecting the white father he never knew, just as Damebo rejects his village identity in an effort to universalise his condition under the more modern term s of Black Consciousness. A third major character assumes a pseudonym , Just Call Me Joe, in a sim ilar attem pt at independence, but turns his expressive skills to political rhetoric. He can "quiver with the poetry of Negritude" but in the end betrays his talents by pursuing a career in the Public Service and in doing so resumes his Christian and traditional names. He ignores his village and fam ily, how ever, and when he show s a callous lack of interest in Jim m y D am ebo's death, he is sarcastically branded "M r Joseph Social Derelictus Bikman". Anonymous does not recognise the full extent of his fragmented identity at All Saints' because he has aligned himself closely with the m ission teachings. His mom ent of confrontation com es when he returns to his village and discovers he was not inform ed of his m other's death. He finds him self an outsider in his own village, speaking English instead of Anuki, and stonily rejecting his half-sister's pleas that he should remain. He becomes conscious only o f guilt and withdrawal: "W hat's the use? I'm a lusm an." (p.43). This separation

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from the village is compounded in his early days at university when he abandons religion. He becomes stranded as a profound Christian rejecting Christianity, rejecting himself. And a closer look at his self can easily reveal that he is a pretentious village nut! So in his self­ rejection he is rejecting the self that is not his. And the result after the absence of this particular self, which is Christianity, is his original self which is void, but an emptiness that is filled by fruitless nostalgia for the traditional past. (p.60)

Anonymous is left without an identity, traditional or colonial. He is truly anonymous, without a past or a future. This is the state of "spiltyolk nostalgia": the state of the lusman, lacking the mitigating element of hope. Jim m y Damebo had anticipated this rootlessness while still at school. He urges Anonym ous to hold to his C hristian faith as something to make his life coherent: "And I hope you don't end up by being like me. People like us die like frogs on the road." (p.22). Damebo dies at the age of twenty-three when he walks into a crowd of angry labourers and is beaten to death. It is as if he has died by choice, the writer's burden having become intolerable. His death is an accident along the road to independence: artistic insight squashed under the weight of human underdevelopment, deaf national harmony and political dreams of pot-bellied independence, (p.105)

He dies also because he cannot heal the inner rift betw een Jim my Damebo and James St. Nativeson. He dies having abandoned poetry and also a novel for which he has left only "random notes". In these he defines his literary inertia in the following way: Even now, while planning this novel, while treating it as a spare-time hobby, I am afraid. Afraid because I am too young to attempt an effort as ambitious as this; and since I am too young and underdeveloped I feel 1 am fooling over two and a half million people. There are no definitive enough forces to help create that self-determination in me; every book I read is simply a dream which automatically gets crushed by the next book I pick up. I am all confusion. Why should I be frightened of saying this? And my condition is as poor as the society which constitutes me; one moment I adore loneliness; the next, this loneliness is tormenting... My senses are dormant, dead. My eyes arc blurred not of ageing but of self-neglect and pride within these dead dreams of becoming a famed idealist, (p.l 18)

Jim my remains a victim of "spilt-yolk nostalgia" to the end. As readers we are able to infer this state in Damebo only because we have witnessed it developing in Anonymous. Anonymous's loss of identity manifests itself in extreme impatience with others and anxiety about himself. He becomes introspective to the point of self-torment as cultural dislocation is transformed into personal despair. However, both he and Damebo have anticipated that "spilt-yolk nostalgia" could have its own validity and worth, that "such an emptiness could enable

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(a person] to start patching up his own being." Anonymous is brought to realise this possibility through the persistent intervention of a blunt and stubborn student, Sheila Jivi La. At the close of the second section of the novel, the two embrace and kiss after leaving a university dance early. According to Anonymous, they become "stranded in unity, in a deserted room of loneliness and lusm anship". His outer and inner selves are m om entarily reconciled, but sheer off into accelerating alienation after Sheila screams for him to stop seducing her. He begins to abandon his studies, loses contact with Sheila and receives no reply when he writes to his sister. Nonetheless, in her presence, with eyes closed tight, he sees a dream: a dream o f nostalgic birthly eggs with changing seasons from a strange ricochet that spilt the yolk through weird gusts o f hot metallic blood martyring spears for nude endurance in a dying universe, (p. 102)

W hat this signifies is his progression to a new stage of development. It is the stage in which Anonymous, having endured his own and his friends' suffering, begins to explore his existence with "a foolscap pad and a b iro ". Eventually, Sheila saves him "from abandoning [his] u niversity studies and [from] the possibilities of 'su icid e' in a bureaucratic enclosu re". She also saves him from anonym ity by marrying him and taking his name (here revealed for the first time as Abel W illborough — incongruous in the PNG 'lusm an' context, but more significant as the narrator survives through an effort of will into the 'wanpis' phase as a sacrificial victim on behalf of his society). During his period of self-destruction, Anonymous, now in his final year at university, is bundled out of a bus after being unable to pay his fare. O ut of this moment of humiliation, in a desert of heat and dust that is Waigani Road, there is a vision proceeding from the sexual enticements and gibes of some girls "loose on the town": their presence etchcd a spark of hope, of the sense of belonging in me... and that spark of hope was the realisation of tha fact that we, the girls on the road and I, were mere pebbles of lusm an-tasol, custom-stripped, village idiots whose virginity has been deprived through urban nets of confusion, no longer fearing the world that surrounded us, no longer wanting, no longer yearning for ways to compensate the traditional rules we had overlooked, we had disregarded, we had frowned upon even through beer tears, just to come to be in the city; no, not even remembering to question the meaning of this alien life to which we were plunged by time, by our own youthful desires for new and exciting adventures. (p.83)

This is the moment of genuine self-negation. W hat he has been unable to accept em otionally to this point are the facts of his existence — his birth, his nam e, his education at All Saints', JCM Joe's friendship, Sh eila's love. In the existentialist scale of things to 'know ' and, knowing, to accept is to be free. This revelation therefore goes beyond the lim ited freedom glim psed when kissing Sheila. H aving it, Anonym ous becomes active instead of passive, interested instead of indifferent, secure instead of anxious, and his previously disillusioning

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rem iniscences becom e satisfying. A nonym ous is now 'w an p is'. Through the freedom of non-being, with Sheila as catalyst, the existentialist poet within the existentialist philosopher has finally em erged. To use Jim m y D am ebo's words, Anonymous has "stept outside him self", has "w eighed out his own condition" and has understood that tragedy and limitation are much of what it means to be human. To be 'wanpis' is still to be detached, even alienated, but at a m ore integrated level of relating to experience. As a w riter, Anonymous now becomes sole heir to Dam ebo's legacy. If Damebo cannot survive his own suffering and loss of identity, he at least leaves in his extant poems and the memory of his friends the gift of his existential outlook. It is a legacy which neither Just Call Me Joe nor N athaniel, the other school-m ate, inherits. Joe abandons the Black Power Movement of which he has been the leader and denies his friends, refusing the poet in St. N ativeson by calling him Jim my D am ebo still. N athaniel, like his Biblical nam esake, is m erely a follower ("he couldn't quite think for himself; he even had no idea of what exactly he had once been"). W hatever self-aw areness he does manage is entirely attritubale to Damebo to whom he is devoted; so, with Damebo's demise, A cloud of dismay passed over the sunlit virgin jungle of his soul. Black footprints stained the azure of his visions, his future dreams, (p.123)

By the definitions of the novel, both JCM Joe and Nathaniel remain 'lusm an'. The change in Anonymous, however, is clearly indicated in the sw itch from au tobiographical first-p erson narration to the biographical 'he' in Part Three of the book. As the chronicler of the little band of w riter-friends, Anonym ous can no longer be self­ obsessed. The act of writing is itself an act of participation, bringing the writer's alienated self into relation with his society to speak as prophet or seer to his contemporaries. In the final states of its protagonists, Wanpis predicts quite accurately the way that most of those who wrote in anticipation of Independence would fall silent when it came, finding fulfilm ent in government posts or losing confidence as writers, some like Jimmy Damebo dying an "alien death". It is surely intriguing that Russell Soaba is one of the very few who has continued to write, fulfilling as it were, the promise of his own alter ego. This is curiously foreshadowed in a metafictional moment in the novel. In a reference as much to Soaba him self as to Anonymous, Vera, the girlfriend of Jim my Damebo, recalls an aphoristic comment: " T o love music is to feel you have a soul". Who said that?' Vera's mind wandered back to her brief lodging at the University where she had done her first year. She read it in a short story tentatively written by an Anuki student some years ago. (p.164)

At this point, W anpis also predicts the way it would be received as a novel. V era's Chemistry lecturer rebukes her:

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Look it is not wise believing in this writer; it just isn't safe. What they, the Papuans and New Guineans, should write about...are stories that help shape and develop the nation; a writer's duty is to provide national consciousness, to stim ulate national unity; to educate the village masses; to guide those promising young writers who are lost to come back to the right path of creative writing; to go through the right kind of training and ultimately take over from their expatriate counterparts as the future literary leaders of this country; to make one plus one equal two and not five or ten, not even x... (pp.164-5)

It is this sort of simplistic, nationalistic view which has created the m ilieu in which Soaba has had to labour to express his vision. According to the existentialist view put forward in W anpis, a writer's duty is to prom ote not national consciousness/ but individual consciousness, not national unity but national awareness. He should not contribute to the nation's reverie of ''pot-bellied independence" but arouse its individuals from it.

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THE VOICE IN THE SHADOW: A SURVEY OF WRITING IN SOLOMON ISLANDS Julian Maka’a and Stephen Oxenham Maka’a is the author of The Confession and Other Stories (1985). He works with the Solomon Islands Broadcasting Corporation. Oxenham is a New Zealander who worked at the Honiara USP Centre. Their article first appeared in a Solomons issue of Pacific Quarterly (Moana). 9.1, 1985, edited by Maka'a._____________

W riting of Trinidad in 1962, V.S. N aipaul, in The M iddle Passage, observed that, "Living in a borrowed culture, the West Indian, more than most, needs writers to tell him who he is and where he stands." Parallels between the West Indies and Solomon Islands, with their vastly different histories and cultures, are obviously difficult to draw in more than a very general sense. But a sim ilar observation by a Solomon Islands writer, Francis Bugotu, is of great interest in this connection: "A country that is not able to think realistically for itself in terms of its originality and resources ... is doomed to become a flabby 'copy-cat' nation, soon to destroy its inherent goodness and drift into chaos and, possibly, bloody sham bles" (Politics in Solomon Islands, Institute of Pacific Studies, USP, Fiji, 1984, p.208). Bugotu is right in that Solomon Islands has not yet become a W est Indies, nor a strife-torn banana republic. Yet the "borrowed culture" has made serious inroads and is everyw here in Solomon Islands part of the problem s and solutions thrust upon a population subject to the twin imperatives of change and the need to preserve an image of itself with which to face a world which either ignores or exploits. Both Naipaul and Bugotu define a responsibility to be born by those who are able or keen to analyse, interpret, and comment on what is happening to themselves and those around them in a way which is accessible to the people in their society. This survey of Solomon Islands writing briefly documents what Solomon Islands writers have done towards taking up the responsibility. The body of writing covered represents the first skirmishes, led by a small group wielding weapons which are often unfam iliar, and, as we suggest later, perhaps not always appropriate in their immediate context. In this sense, as well as being in part informed by a transplanted belief that their country should have a modern literature, Solomon Islands writing has begun in experim ents with form. A case m ight be m ade that w riting represents an attempt to respond in a way seen as more relevant to, and more potent in, new circumstances. As a very loose group, writers almost without exception belong in the ranks of the elite: the educated, the travelled, the politicians and dvil servants, teachers and academics, and so on. Most of the names in this survey are those of people who have other accom plishments to their credit as well as writing. The first novelist was first a fairly widely published poet, worked as a linguist and teacher, and was a politician who held cabinet rank. Another poet is a senior civil servant who has

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also written on agriculture and land tenure, and has an interest in traditional m edicine and botany. The cornerstone of playw riting is represented by plays written some time ago by Solomon Mamaloni. In fact, there are no full-time professional writers and, for the foreseeable future, growth in the number of published works will continue to be im peded because the talented dilettantes (not m eant here in a pejorative sense) capable of writing them have many other demands on their energies. The following treats each form separately, beginning with poetry and ending with non-fiction. What would otherw ise be an artificial treatment does in fact mirror what has been a sequential development: poetry came first in the late 60s, to be followed by short and then longer fiction, then drama and plays, and latterly, in this decade, non-fiction. Poetry Poetry was more often than not the starting point for those who began to write in the late 60s and early 70s — the "first generation" of writers. Their work was frequently published while they were at university overseas. Copies of this early work are hard to find because much of it was written overseas and published there. Solomon Islanders in New Zealand in the 60s started a m agazine, W an tok, to which many contribu ted . The U niversity o f the South P acific (USP) student m agazine, UNISPAC, frequently contained work by Solomon Islands students. University was undoubtedly a terrific stimulus, and besides poetry, there was political w riting, some of which w as aimed at newspapers in Solomon Islands via letters to the editor. In the late 60s, decolonisation in Solomon Islands began to gather m om entum and Solomon Islanders studying abroad w ere intensely interested in the political changes taking place in their absence. Outlets for their views in print were few, but still perhaps without equal (and not strictly a literary publication) was the Kakamora Reporter. This was started in 1970 and edited by Henry Raraka and Ella Bugotu. The names of som e o f the first generation w riters, Saunana and Bugotu for instance, appeared in its pages. Francis Bugotu, writing in Politics in Solomon Islands, characterises it as "the 'most effective indigenous and radical publication' available in the region ... It covered such issues as colonialism , culture and social change, language and religion, identity and foreign relations" and asks "W ill there be another paper of its calibre to check progress, highlight options and alternative directions?" and "C an w e say it is som ething of the past, or som ething that is m issing now and needed for the future?" John Saunana was the first Solomon Islands poet to have editions of his work published. This was through the 'Papua Pocket Poets' series probably in the mid-seventies. Cruising Through the Reverie, Dragon T ree, and She by Saunana stood pretty much alone until the first anthology of Solomon Islands poetry was published in 1975 by the South P acific C reative Arts Society: Some M odern P oetry from the Solom on Islan ds. Dom inated by the work o f Celo K ulagoe, it was follow ed in 1977 by a second anthology, Tw enty-Four Poems o f the

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Solom on Islan ds. This was the first collection to be published in Solom on Islands. The list of contributors to T w en ty -F ou r Poem s included poets who had previously had their work published in M ana, as well as two playwrights, a future novelist, two poets who were to publish further collections of their work in the early eighties (Kulagoe and M aenu'u), and the author of the first modern history of Solomon Islands, Francis Saemala The list is also a who's-who of government and political circles of the time, containing as it did the names of the first C hief M inister and present Prim e M inister, three cabinet ministers, several senior civil servants, the country's first ambassador, and three teachers. Eight of the thirteen were trained teachers, and most were university educated. There is no coincidence that much of the early poetry is political. A good deal expresses anti-colonial sentiment and a concern with the fate of the traditional culture. The editor of the collection writes in the introduction that the poems "introduce the country and say something of its m eaning for Solom on Islanders. Today, that m eaning is inextricably bound up with the experience of modernisation and most of the later pieces are concerned with reactions to the pressures arising from rapid social and economic change. Some are overtly political". A large amount of poetry was written and published in succeeding years. Leonard P. M aenu'u published his collection, Who Am /, in 1978. Them atically, the poems in this collection are consonant with those of Twenty-Four Poems. But as a writer strongly concerned with the conservation of land and the traditional h eritage, M aenu'u explores nature themes in his poetry, as well as things like the impact of developm ent and the cataclysm ic impact of the colonial West on M elanesia. The collection was popular and a second edition was planned. Nostalgia for a vanished, idealised past and the search for identity in the present are themes with which Solomon Islands poets are still concerned. This hints at an am bivalence which infuses alm ost all published writing to date — the dilemma of an elite uncom fortable with its place in the vanguard of change. Celo K ulagoe's collection, Where Leaves Had Fallen, published in early 1981, represented a new sophistication in poetry. Published during his final year of study at USP, his work reveals wider influences than any poetry previously published, and clear evidence that he is thoroughly comfortable with form. Kulagoe rem ains the most widely published poet and one who has attempted to encourage younger writers. W here writers' first published work has been poetry, it is only to be expected that the first woman writer to be published, Jully Sipolo, should follow suit. Her collection, Civilised Girl, published in 1981, broke new ground not only because it was the first published work of a woman writer, but also because, in content, it was the first attempt by any w riter to comment seriously on the lot of women in Solomon Islands. Her collection, powerful, piquant, and poignant, forms the first fem inist statem ent in Solomon Islands writing. The collection is in

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many respects still unmatched. At the time of writing, Civilised Girl was the last collection of Solom on Islands poetry to have been published. Fiction The com parative stranglehold of poetry was a long tim e in the breaking. This might have happened sooner, for the first Solom on Islands novel, The A lternative, written by John Saunana, hovered unpublished in the wings for several years until IPS, the South Pacific Creative Arts Society, and the USP Solomon Islands Extension Centre provided the funds. Launched with som e fanfare in 1980, the novel attracted som e international attention and the initial small printing sold out quickly. Saunana, in an interview given at the tim e of publication of his novel, explained his movement from poetry into longer fiction: 'T h e change to prose cam e as I became interested in other styles of writing . . . I thought I should try something lengthy and descriptive so that people could read my thoughts better than in poetry." The A lternative warrants closer reading and analysis than it has perhaps received. The plot traces a boy's stormy progress from his village to boarding school, his expulsion following a student mutiny, his battle with white racist institutions of the capital, and his eventual entry into politics as a champion of the people. But the novel is a vehicle for much more and it might have had a greater impact had it been published several years before independence. In this respect, it was very much a product of the years of ferment which also produced the K akam ora R ep orter. In its way, it rem ains one of the most pow erful anti-colonial statem ents made by Solomon Islands writers and in its scope represents a challenge no other writer has taken up. If it is not the great Solomon Islands novel, it is so far the only Solomon Islands novel. Longer fiction has only one other exponent: Rexford T. Orotaloa, w hose first novel awaits publication. He has had work published in PQM , and Mana and several of his first short stories were published in the collection Houra'a. In general, the best short story writers are not poets. But they do represent the vanguard of the 'second generation' of writers who have been w riting since the end of the seventies. Much of these w riters' work appeared in the Solomon Islands issue of M ana in 1979, and in the April 1980 issue of PQM. Of these writers, Johnson Villia and John M offat Fugi w ere the m ajor contributors to H o u ra 'a w hich was published in 1981 as the first collection of Solom on Islands short stories. The collection was notable in a special way — a group of secondary teachers worked under the aegis of the USP Extension Centre to produce a com panion booklet of English activities so that the collection could be used in schools. This represented one of the first conscious efforts to make the new literature part of the education of students in secondary schools. (Ironically, work on the com panion booklet threatened to be held up by expatriate objections as to the 'suitability' of the stories for school students.)

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A highlight of H ou r a'a was O rotaloa's work, w hich surely embodies a glim pse of what might come to be seen as writing with a truly Solomon Islands mark. His stories, which follow rural themes in contrast to the more urban concerns of many other writers, are couched in a unique idiom which the following extract from his story "M arket and Other Things" illustrates: After I had untied the rope and dried the inside of the canoe, my grandfather sat in the centre of the canoe and asked for a paddle. I tried to paddle, but he snatched the paddle from my hands and said, "You stupid boy. Next time I come to the market 1 will not bring you with me. How dare you go and stand by a magician. I wish you were dead. Perhaps you were bom into the world too soon? Going to a village or meeting or attending a feast, you must always stay by the man who is responsible for your security. I am the son of a chief. You know I told you about my grandfather, Erclifoia? He was the great chief of the Suraina people. He was a man whose fame and reputation engendered fear in the hearts of the many tribes. Never trust a man, even your best friends. You know what kind of rules a young boy of your age should follow. And Erelifoia was a great man. No one killed him with a tameo or subi or alafolo. All these weapons were too familiar to him. If you tried to cut him with a knife, he would dodge and you would find yourself in trouble. Ask me why he was feared and reputed to be brave? First, he trusted no one. Said he, friends would lull you to sleep before they attack you. Only trust your brother who came with you through the same hole.

Of other short-story writers, Villia and Fugui also stand out — V illia for h is m augham esque treatm ent of relationships betw een characters largely adrift from the constraints of custom, and Fugui for his rabelaisian accounts of the naive bushman who comes to town for the first time. The most recent and prolific light in short fiction is Julian Maka'a who has had work published in M ana. Although his real forte lies in drama, he has a collection of short stories ready for publication which when published will mark the first such collection to be written by a single writer. His stories reflect his leaning toward theatre and some of them, with their close attention to dialogue and com plexity of plot, represent a break from hitherto more straightforward narrative styles of other writers. Drama The greatest literary successes to date have been in drama. The screen­ play for the film , This Man, a stirring treatment of the 'culture clash' theme, was written by Francis Bugotu in 1969. If it is still the first film of its kind m ade in Solomon Islands, it is alm ost a prerequisite to reading Solom on Islands writing produced since. In a sense, a great deal of the poetry and fiction has roots which tap the same thematic reservoir. But the gem of all writing must be A edo, a radio dram a series written by Solom on Mamaloni. About the trials and tribulations of a petty bureaucrat from whom the series takes its title, the plays are in Pijin. H ilariously funny and immensely popular, after a few episodes had been broadcast on national radio, the play was (some allege for political reasons) suddenly taken off the air. Nevertheless, the ribald

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treatm ent of life in the capital among impecunious civil servants and their rural relatives struck chords among an audience from all walks of life. M amaloni's skills as a dramatist are, regrettably, only available in the form of his only published play, 'T h e Census D ay" which was published in Marta in 1979. The humour and ambivalent treatment of Christianity, as well as his shrewd treatment of the dichotomy between life in town and the rural area, are present in this play too. It seems that only in drama is the obverse of fundamentalist Christianity revealed and the delight in the scurrilous, bawdy and vital facets o f life in the country given free reign. In 1981, a significant development that still threatens to eclipse all other literary and artistic endeavour occurred. This was the formation o f the highly successful 'Lukluk W antok' dram a group. The first sh o w s, w hich includ ed im prom ptu skits and d an cin g , w ere phenom enally successful. At the end of three years, the group has developed to the stage where performances consist of three elements in different combinations: custom dancing; modern dance; and drama. The last six months of 1983 saw the group performing three public sh ow s ev ery m onth. In d ram a, the group had m oved from improvisation to some written plays, and held writers workshops and performed the plays that resulted. At the end of 1983 the group had been able to attract funding from the South Pacific Cultures fund and was making some money from its performances. Clearly, Lukluk Wantok has touched a vibrant vein of creativity in the performing arts and uncovered an audience which poetry, short stories, and novels have failed to enliven to the sam e extent. The group is clearly very much in touch with the tastes and predilections of th e population at large as characterised by Sam A lasia in his introduction to this collection. A strength of drama is that it can be broadcast; radio is still the most popular and widest reaching medium in a country of islands separated by vast distances of sea. Conceivably, drama of all varieties will dom inate writing and succeed where other forms have had only limited success. If this is righ t, and if drama and dance attract funding and participation, literature may be poised on the brink of another hiatus. It could be a w hile before more poetry and fiction are published but perhaps the energy generated by theatre will flow into them again. N on-fiction Only in the last five or so years have Solomon Islands writers begun to redress the past dominance of expatriate writers, anthropologists, and researchers in various fields. To a large extent this has been a result of deliberate efforts to counter the overparticipation of outsiders and stim ulate more nationals to write about the country and its people. Leading these efforts has been the Institute of Pacific Studies of USP. IPS has in the Pacific generally forged ahead with a policy of facilitating the w riting and publishing o f works by Pacific Islands writers and academics. The institute now has a large list of publications written by w riters in the region. Funds and expertise in publishing have been

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channelled into books which would otherw ise never have been written or published. The Pacific in general, and societies like Solomon Islands in particular, would have remained more written about than written for. Many of the IPS publications are collections of papers and essays — multi-author books — where groups of writers with certain expertise have contributed their work. Two of the first non-fiction works about Solomon Islands and written by Solomon Islands writers were produced in this way. Land in Solomon Islands, a book on land tenure and land problems, contained the work of 15 Solom on Islands writers. The list of contributors includes several who had had poetry published, and two authors who had published longer works. Not long after Land in Solomon Islands came a book about rural development, The Road Out. This latter book drew together papers delivered at a seminar on rural development as well as papers written in hindsight. In between the two books above, Leonard P. Maenu'u published a shorter work specifically addressing land problem s in one part of Solom on Island s. B ib -k a m i-n a -a n o is a frankly polem ical work. M aen u'u 's purpose was to write "from the point of view o f the Kw ara'ae people ... to set out clearly what the Kw ara'ae land tenure system was, and the state it is in now". Maenu'u deals with the impact of colonialism and Christianity on his Kwara'ae society, and outlines in his final chapter what he feels ought to be done to resolve the land crisis in the Kwara'ae district of Malaita. Pride of place in non-fiction for some time was held by Francis Saem ala's book. Our Independent Solomon Islands — a history of the years and events immediately preceding the country's independence in 1978. The book was published to coincide with the first anniversary of independence in 1979. The scope of the book meant that it could only be a very brief survey of an important part of the country's history. Anything like a com prehensive history of Solomon Islands will have to wait until a book currently being written by a team of university graduates, civil servants, and church people is published shortly. This project, again facilitated by IPS, will seek to redress what is commonly seen to be the eurocentrism of foreign writers. There is a feeling among the w riters that Solom on Islanders w ill better understand and appreciate a history written by Solomon Islanders. But generally, the publication of n on-fiction w orks which document past and present culture has been sporadic. The Solomon Islands M useum and C ultural A ssociation m anaged, during the seventies, to publish a num ber of issues of the J o u r n a l o f the association. This contained work of ethnographic interest and articles by researchers and other academics who had done work in the country. At the time of writing, the association was defunct. An attempt was made by the USP Extension Centre in Solomon Islands to launch an academ ic journal — O'O: A journal o f Solomon Islands Studies. After a first issue in 1981, further issues were beyond the C entre's resources. To date, serious scholarly publications have never surmounted the handicaps of too few local contributors, a very

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small market within the country, and scarce editorial expertise. The initial drive for them has always come from expatriates who, rightly or wrongly, and frequently in tune with their own professional interests, seem more seized of such things as the impending loss to be suffered as the old people, the repositories of tradition, pass away. Fundamentalist Christianity has left a residue of deep-seated shame and deprecation of traditional culture as something which has to do with a dark and sinful heathen past. This, perhaps allied with a reluctance to divulge too m uch to ou tsid ers, and am ong younger people, d ifficu lties in appreciating its relevance, has conspired to so far dissuade Solomon Islanders from writing about things which outsiders so easily assume they should be concerning themselves with. At the time of writing, two more non-fiction works had been recently published. One was Robert E. Pule's Binabina, published in late 1983, which documents the building of a traditional Gela war canoe. The book was part of a USP-backed cultural preservation project. The second book was Politics in Solomon Islands. Another m ulti-author IPS book, it is essentially about the politics and people involved in the lead up to the country's independence and the six or so years since. Written largely by Solomon Islanders who were themselves involved in events as politicians or civil servants, it also contains chapters by academ ics who in many instances were also involved. It is both an arch iv e and a testam ent and contains m uch of the essen tial background to a reading of Solom on Islands writing. The events documented in the book reveal a drama of which the outside world is totally unaware and of which, through other writing, only the merest suggestion is made. The Future W riters and writing in Solomon Islands languish in the shadow of the in stitu tion alised social and econom ic dislocations called under­ development. State patronage, commercial publishing houses and an affluent book-buying public are well-nigh undreamt of. Beyond the capital, Honiara, there are no bookshops to speak of. W hile there is a tantalising oversu pply of printers, pu blishers have in the past published books as a service against the odds of very small print runs, a very sm all m arket, and horrendous distribution d ifficulties. The existence of numerous vernacular languages (in which there is often a high rate of literacy) and Pijin, spoken more widely than probably any other single language, means that English, in which all writers write, is at best a second language for most people (if not a third). This further restricts the audience and cripples writers. Where English is a second language, a writer, or would-be writer, quite properly feels that he or she cannot express ideas as well as might be done in vernacular. W ith exceptions in the field of broadcasting (and new spapers, which have very small distributions), Solomon Islands finds itself in the almost classic Third World situation of being a community in the broadest sense which is a receptacle for, and consumer of, media rather than a producer in its own right.

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The beginning that has been made, however, has in large part been due to the conscious drive to foster and facilitate the growth of new literatures in the Pacific generally. Institutions like the South Pacific Creative Arts Society (founded in 1972), the Institute of Pacific Studies, and USP extension centres have, since the early seventies, fulfilled the roles of patron, mentor, publisher, and distributor for writers throughout the region as well as Solomon Islands. Workshops have been run to encourage w riters, and the first and second generation of Solom on Islands w riters in particular have been nurtured by these program mes. W ithout them, enthusiasm s would have withered. Successive generations will have both models and inspiration. The writers' workshop has definitely become part of the Solomon Islands literary scene and, along with the work of USP and SPCAS, in circum stances where a modern literature is arguably as necessary as clinics, clean water, roads, and schools. In February of 1984, the Solomon Islands W riters' and Artists' Association was re-formed. It was practically still-born in 1978; while a number of Solomon Islands writers showed an initial interest, it was dominated by expatriates. But over the intervening five years, with the grow th this survey docum ents, a small group of writers felt for them selves the need for an indigenous body that would help the different arts in Solomon Islands. The office bearers of the association include not only writers, but artists, carvers, broadcasters, dancers, and dram atists. Among the aims of the association are the promotion of creative aw areness and writing, assistance and encouragem ent to budding w riters and artists, the forging of links with sim ilar associations of other parts of the Pacific, and the establishm ent of publications, workshops, and sem inars. The association intends to extend the thrust begun in the late seventies. But probably of greater importance is the growing awareness among writers and artists that the association's existence suggests.

Select Bibliography FU G I, John M offat. "Fear of the U n k n ow n ", in P acific M oana Q uarterly, published by Outrigger Publishers, Hamilton, New Zealand, vol. 5, no. 2, April 1980, pp. 232-6. Kakamora Reporter. (Copies held in the library of the University of the South Pacific Solomon Islands Centre, Honiara). KINIKA, B. et al. The road out: rural development in Solomon Islands, Suva: Institute of Pacific Studies and the Rural Development Centre, N uku'alofa, in association with the University of the South Pacific Solomon Islands Centre, 1981. K U L A G O E , C e lo . Where leaves had fallen , Suva: South P a cific Creative Arts Society, 1981. LARM OUR, Peter (ed.). Land in Solomon Islands, Suva: Institute of P acific Stu d ies, U SP, in association w ith the M inistry of Agriculture and Lands, Solomon Islands Government, 1979.

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LARMOUR, Peter (ed.). Politics in Solomon Islands, Suva: Institute of Pacific Studies, USP, 1983. M A EN U 'U , Leonard P. Bib-kami no ano: land and land problem s in Kwara'ae, Honiara: University of the South Pacific Solomon Islands Centre, 1981. M AENU'U, Leonard P. Who am I? Honiara: University o f the South Pacific Solomon Islands Centre, 1978. MAMALONI, Solomon. "The Census Day" in M ana, the South Pacific Creative Arts Society, vol. 4, no. 1, September 1979, pp. 20-35. OROTALOA, Rexford T. "W ords", "A Canoe Sails up to Suraina", and "W ho Are You", three poems in Pacific Quarterly M oana, vol. 5, no. 2, April 1980, pp. 237-8. PULE, Robert E. Binabina: the making o f a Gela war canoe, Suva: the Extension Services of the University of the South Pacific and the U niversity of the South Pacific Solomon Islands C entre in association with the Institute of Pacific Studies, 1983. SA EM ALA, Francis. Our independent Solomon Islands, H oniara: the U niversity of the South Pacific Solomon Islands Centre in association with the Institute of Pacific Studies, 1979. SAUN AN A, John S. The alternative, Honiara: the University of the South Pacific Solomon Islands Centre in association with the South Pacific Creative Arts Society and the Institute of Pacific Studies, 1980. SA U N A N A , John S. C ruising through the reverie, Port M oresby: Papua Pocket Poets series, 1972. SAUN AN A, John S. Dragon tree: Arosi, incantations and songs. Port Moresby: Papua Pocket Poets series, 1972. SAUNANA, John S. She. Port Moresby: Papua Pocket Poets, 1973. SIPOLO, Jully. Civilized Girl, Honiara and Suva: the South Pacific Creative Arts Society, 1981. Twenty-four poems o f the Solomon Islands, Honiara: the University of the South Pacific Solomon Islands Centre, 1977. VILLIA, Johnson M. "The Boy", Pacific Moana Quarterly, vol. 5, no. 2, April 1980, pp. 223-7. V ILLIA , Johnson et al. H oura'a: Solom on Islands short stories. Honiara: the University of the South Pacific Solom on Islands Centre, 1981. W ENDT, Albert, (ed.). Some modern poetry from the Solomon Islands, Suva: the South Pacific Creative Arts Society, 1975.

Note: This survey has necessarily overlooked the considerable body of papers and journal contributions written by Solom on Islands writers and academics and which will reward reading. Many of these are to be found in past issues of Pacific Perspective, Pacific Social Sciences Association, P.O. Box 5083, Suva, Fiji. See also the extensive bibliography in Larmour (ed.) Politics in Solomon Islands, Suva: Institute of Pacific Studies, USP, 1983.

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INDO-FIJIAN FICTION AND THE GIRMIT IDEOLOGY Vijay Mishra Born in Fiji, Associate Professor Mishra teaches in Comparative Literature at Murdoch University. He has edited Rama's Banishment: A Centenary Tribute to the Fiji Indians, 1879-1979 (Heinemann, 1979). The article below is taken from Chris Tiffin (ed.), South Pacific Images, Brisbane: SPACLALS, 1978._____ New dreams, new dreams, there is no truth Saving in thine own heart. . . Dream, dream, for this is also sooth. W. B . Yeats The dreams of apocalypse, if they usurp waking thought, may be the worst dreams. Frank Kermode1

The thesis developed here looks at the relationship between the Indian Indenture consciousness, moulded from the experience of some forty years of servitude, and the fictions which are now coming out of Fiji.2 The argument, naturally, makes certain assumptions and is based upon the theory that there is a singular, readily identifiable 'consciousness' which is specifically Fiji-Indian and that that consciousness is expressed in the creative work of Indo-Fijian writers, or if this is not overtly evident, it forms the ideological Tjase' against which Indo-Fijian fiction m ust be evaluated. I am aware of a number of over-simplifications: there was not a total condition of servitude, as free labourers often worked alongside indentured ones; most indentured labourers were, at any rate, freed after their indenture period o f five or ten years, depending upon whether they had their contracts renewed; a specific Hindu view of the world did not prevail as there were considerable numbers of Muslims and unorthodox Hindus who came to Fiji and so o n .3 But these are matters of detail which belong to the area of social history and not to literary theory. As a fictional directive I believe that the historical experience has taken root in the minds of the Indians in Fiji (as a result no doubt of that experience) as something broadly akin to a failed millennial quest. It is a failed quest because upon arriving in Fiji the Indians were confronted with a world which was anything but a fulfilment of their dream s of the promised land — 'prom ised' in the sense that the recru iters in India im pressed upon all p rosp ective indentured labourers the possibilities of escape from the degrading realities of Indian life. The responses which these labourers began to make to qu estions about self and identity, about 'p u rp ose', about their 1 Frank Kermode, Partisan Review, 33.3, pp.339-61. Quoted by Michael Hamburger, The Truth o f Poetry: Tensions in Modern Poetry from Baudelaire to the 1960s, Harmondswonh: Penguin, 1972, p.97. 2 ‘Fiction’ is here used in the sense of ‘Creative writing’ and hence is not limited to prose. 3 The First indentured labourers came in the Leonidas in 1879. The last indentured labourer was freed on 1 January 1920. Sec K.L. Gillion, Fiji's Indian Migrants: A History to the End o f Indenture in 1920, Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1962.

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psychological and social commitment to the 'new' land, indicate not only a corrosive a n g st but also a corresponding fragm entation of psyche. C onsiderable distortion in perspective and analysis w ere inevitable as is demonstrated by a remarkably sympathetic historian like K.L. Gillion who, in his account of Fiji's indentured m igrants, points out that Indians in Fiji used images rich in 'end-orientated' possibilities whenever they were asked to recall the reasons for their quite pointless em igration.1 One gets very little of the prevailing social conditions of the times; little indeed of those factors which force people out of their societies into the search for newer ones. The fact that the lab ou rers' vision o f the past was distorted by their sen se of disillusionm ent is vividly captured by Gillion who states that the Indians called "their life on the plantations in Fiji narak, which means 'h e ll'" .2 Herein I believe lies the clue to an understanding of Indian psychology in Fiji — no matter what positive virtues the system may have had (standards of living were better, there were fewer caste divisions etc.) the bitterness of displacem ent and its consequent dehum anisation in coolie lines which Totaram Sanadhya called 'bhut leri (haunted lines)3 must have had a deep psychological effect upon a race perhaps by culture more sensitive than most towards the evils of crossing the kala pani, the dark seas. The typical indentured labourer4 was, however, ill-equipped to come to terms with an unfulfilled dream. Estranged from the village society, he had no one to tell him that this was not the hoped-for m oksh a. W hen the tenth incarnation did not eventuate his village always had a learned Brahmin to make meaning of god's peculiar ways. Of m en's deception in an alien land there was no consoling rationale or an omnipresent line from the Gita. But there were other 'memories' which had a stark impact on that consciousness. The cholera, sickness and deaths on the first ship Leonidas (1879) were quickly transformed into all the evils of kaliyu ga; the wreck of the Syria on the evening of 11 May 1884 about which a contemporary wrote, "the scene was simply indescribable, and pictures of it haunt me still like a horrid dream that one is glad to escape from by waking. People falling, fainting, drowning all round o n e "5 becam e a haunting m emory of a journey w hose validity is still to be established. The ghost in Satendra Nandan's verse, for instance, tells the listener:

1 Sec Gillion, op. cit. 2 Gillion, p. 129. 3 Toiaram Sanadhya, “Bhui Lcn Ki Kaiha” (‘The Siory of the Haunted Line’) in Maryada, special overseas number. Quoted by Gillion, Chapter IV. Toiaram Sanadhya also wrote Fiji Dwip Men Mere tkkis Varsh (‘My Twenty One Years in the Fiji Islands’), 2nd. ed., Kanpur, 1919. Both these worics were written in Hindi and arc referred to by Gillion. 4 Gillion, p.58: “The ‘typical’ Indian emigrant to Fiji was, then, a physically fit young man of a middle agricultural caste, who, having left his village in a densely populated district...was recruited in or near a town by a ‘sharpy’ who held out to him prospect of easy work for a few years at high wages in a place not loo far distant; or a desperate young girl or widow who had left home or losi her way.” 5 Quoted by Gillion, pp.64-5.

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O my father's fathers what forgiveness is there in me? O my children's children listen to the voice of the Syria drowning the silence of the sea! 1

Satendra Nandan, the Indo-Fijian poet and short story writer, is, of course, troubled by that experience and attempts to make meaning of it. He returns again and again to this theme as we shall see later. G iven the extrem ely pow erful, even poetic, nature of the experience, the sad thing is that fiction has taken so long to establish itself in Fiji. Of course there were Indian writers such as Totaram Sanadhya, Pandit Amichand (both Indian expatriates) and Pandit Pratap Chand Sharm a and Kamla Prasad (both local Indo-Fijian writers) who have tried to capture something of the intensity of the indenture experience in their Hindi w ritings. Pandit Am ichand Sharm a's poem "Keni Peni" is especially important in that though it deals with the lives of two Fijian boys during and after the 'badi b e e m a r i’, the Great Plague of 1917-18, it is presented very much through an Indian sensitivity as a microcosmic rendering in fact of the dream s and expectations of the indentured labourers generally. In m any ways Sharm a's verse predates the more conscious search for m eaning which one finds in the fiction of contemporary Indo-Fijian w riters, particularly in the works of Nandan and Subram ani. Their fictions m ake no real attem pt to capture reality in any social or historical sense of the word. What they are concerned with is to show the nature of the 'spirit' of g irm it m an,2 to portray that 'dynam ic reality' which made Indians in Fiji think and work in the way in which they did and do even now. Lucien G oldm ann's contention that literatu re captures only typifications o f tendencies in the total consciousness, that it never has a purely homologous relationship to social reality and that it must reflect an "advanced coherence" seems to enact itself quite forcefully in Indo-Fijian fiction.3 We have seen that som ething of the experiential abstractions in the collective consciousness was evident even in G illion's account of the indentured labourers who recalled only certain tendencies rather than economic necessities when asked to account for their emigration. M ore recently M a n a has published a translation of the dying recollections of another indentured labourer recorded by Parmesh Chand which again m akes one aware of a sort of disjecta membra in the narrative.4 What is remembered is the failed promise which would have saved the narrator from the curse of karm a. The memory of the 'w hite m an' who spoke o f riches in the Bay of Bengal once again 1 All of Satendra Nandan’s verse has been taken from his Faces in a Village, New Delhi: Deepak Seth, 1976. 2 The word girmit is used by Indians to describe the indenture period. A girmiiiya is one who served in the girmit. 3 Lucien Goldmann, Towards a Sociology o f the Novel, trans. from the French by Alan Sheridan, London: Tavistock, 1975. 4 Parmesh Chand, 'The Promise”, Mana Annual o f Creative Writing, 1974, Suva: South Pacific Creative Arts Society, 1974, pp.77-8.

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emerges with the force of a m oksha-come-true, and the narrator's own action in being taken in by the rosy promises is emblematic of a race which confused the mediating value with the mediated value, which confused the desire to escape from karm a as in fact a fulfilment of the wish itself. It was indeed the beginning of the great lie, the fake which in m ore fictional terms Kermode sees as essential to the creative act.1 The prophecy, of course, continued to go through the usual series of 'm illen n ial' fakes, the dreams of the indentured labourers w ere continually disproved and yet som ehow , like the tenth incarnation, people clung on to the redeeming nature of that belief. From the initial voyage on ships with names such as the Ganges and the Sangola where certain basic codes of d h a rm a were inevitably broken, to the first impressions of the primordial forests of the Pacific, the question which haunted them was 'Where are we going?'. Indo-Fijian fiction is once again asking the very same question. It is within such a context, within a context that is of the Fijilndian past as a dynamic and valid creative background, that I propose to consider Fiji's best contemporary Indian writers. They are Satendra N andan, Subram ani and Raymond Pillai, all connected with the University of the South Pacific in Suva. For Satendra Nandan, a writer to whom reference has already been made, it is the pastness of the g irm it past and its relationship to the creative consciousness of the poet which gives rise to the dialectic in his poetry. History naturally has falsified that experience and the ruling English class had somehow m ade it into a 'coolie' existence w here N ietzschean c h a n d a la s2 were pitted against the much m ore glorious (for so they believed) achievements of western civilization. It was an unworthy past, they reminded the Indians: their best escape would be to become Christians, as many in fact did. Nowhere is this sense of history more obvious than in N andan's poem "The Old Man and the Scholar" where the indentured labourer when pressed by the scholar "about the m an's wife, his jo u rn ey / his women, children, if any ..." replies: B haiya, row at-gaw at h e e la t - d o la t a d a t'p a d a t hum sab ain (brother, crying, singing shifting and swaying eating and farting we all came)

That in its sim plistic oppositions, and not unlike Frank K erm ode's observations about highly-holily, fa ir-fo u l, good-ill in M a c b eth , is the answ er to the scholar's questions and it suggests the same sort of

1 Frank Kermode, The Sense o f an Ending, Oxford: OUP, 1966 and “Mr E.M. Forster as a Symbolist”, The Listener\ 2 January 1958. ^ Friedrich Nictzschc, Twilight o f the Idols.

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ordering of chaos which Kermode discovered in M acbeth's language.1 And indeed, the use of the recurring end-stopped plosives in the dental / t / ' s is indicative of this as well. But it is an im portant feature o f N andan's use of irony that the labourer does not infuse the homiletic utterance with any fatalistic tone, with echoes perhaps, as one would suspect, of Sankara's m aya or the transience of sam sa ra ; rather the rhythm of the see-saw verse captures an almost mock defiance of the human condition, its humour tends to break the high seriousness of the scholar's own attempts at a very positivistic analysis of the Indian past and by implication its future. And Satendra Nandan is very much conscious of the superiority of the people who were actually part of the dram a of the journey. Only the sensitive individual like him, the creative artist or the 'problematic individual' in society, is visited by the ghosts of one's past as, indeed, he writes in a poem, "the ghost". youth i lost here, and grace i gave to this island place, what more than a man's age can one give to history's outrage? i have lived this exile more gloriously than rama and built kingdoms, you may find, nobler than ajodhya in my ancient, eternal mind!

As in the other poem, the whole experience is spoken of in terms of "history's outrage", a treacherous deception played upon people whose myths like their incarnations never deceived people; karm a, as history, was always an accountable fact. No wonder Nandan had written in 'T h e Old Man and the Scholar": "authentic history cannot be w ritten/ with words from living m ouths". But the situation of the writer is complicated precisely by this; if living mouths cannot be the basis of history, where do we go in search of the history of one's race, that history which cannot be discovered from documentary sources? To this vexing question Nandan posits the answer that the girm it people 'wrote' their own 'histories' as, of course, it is demonstrated by the labourer in his reply to the scholar. This, however, must remain only a version of history; the other version is the 'history' which has permeated the consciousness of a 'new7 race of people in Fiji, who must establish that the 'millennial' experience itself was somehow valid, was somehow vital enough to sustain the life of a race forever in search of its roots.2 Already in his collection of verse, Faces in a Village, Satendra Nandan is troubled by "a race without a place" who must "forever die" 1 Kermode, The Sense o f an Ending, pp.83 ff. 2 Albert Wendl, ihc Samoan novelist, poet, historian, dramatist and mythographer who is perhaps the single most influential personality in ‘Pacific arts’, has this to say about history: “The most revealing and meaningful ‘histories’ about people are the stories, poems, myths, plays, novels and so on written by themselves.” Sec the Mana Annual o f Creative Writing 1973, pp.45-7 where he is interviewed by Marjorie Crocombe.

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and in their 'dying' leave behind yet another attempt to make meaning of a meaningless deception, a deception which destroyed the paradisal dream , w hich, for once, m anifestly showed that utopias are by definition myths of the mind. And having accepted that, they must forever attempt, in Cassirer's words, "a mythical transformation of this re a lity ".1 Yet as I have already suggested with reference to Goldmann, that transform ation is not, and cannot be, sim ply a punctilious portrayal of history, of the stories which the scholar so self-righteously wished to capture for all eternity in Nandan's verse; rather, that reality exists only as an abstraction of the initial search and in fiction it tries to capture the overall 'bent' of a mind for whom Lukács' "th e way is begun, the journey is ended"2 must remain the supreme Heideggerian fallacy because, for the girm it Indian mind, the authenticity of neither the beginning nor the end has been really established. W e must go to Subram ani to find a much m ore ironic and detached 'transform ation' of the reality about which I have spoken. (Satendra N andan's poetry is, after all, strongly autobiographical.) "Sautu", the title of Subramani's best short story to date, is the name o f a village "badly chosen" with "occasional guava bushes" and "stunted raintrees and reed s".3 But sautu is also Fijian for 'peace' and 'plenty' and Subramani exploits the ambiguities present here to the full. The peace that Dhanpat, the indentured labourer, finds is sim ilar in kind to that discovered by Theodora Goodman in The Aunt's Story, Patrick W h ite's first m ajor novel, w here the gradual fragm entation of Theodora's mind is as much a result of the tensions within Australian society and its values generally as it is, under the circum stances, the only way in which she can respond to the truth about which Holstius, her a lte r ego, had said: "B u t true p erm anence is a state o f m u ltiplication and d iv ision ".4 Instead of the bounty which 'sautu' prom ises, Subram ani gives the correlative of the unfulfilled dream: images of the tilling of the obstinate land which eventually returns to the Fijian chief from whom it had been 'leased' in the first instance. For Dhanpat, as for the writer himself, there is always the basic pastness of the indentured labourer as a dynamic reality which must be given a felt presence in art. The character in fiction, like Dhanpat, of course, finds it in an inexplicable condition of being, one of m adness; the writer him self (as he also belongs to the same tradition) is troubled by the fragility of the situation, indeed by an awareness that the irony must not be allowed to lapse into parody. Hence (and unlike Nandan) Subramani uses language very carefully and exercises alm ost a stoic control over it, lest any exuberance mar the total effect. This is how the hint of the gradual disintegration of Dhanpat's mind is given:

1 Ernst Cassirer. The Philosophy o f Symbolic Forms, vol.2: Mythical Thought, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1955, rpt. 1974, p.l. 2 Quoted by Goldmann, p.5. 3 Subramani, “Sautu”, The Mana Journal o f Creative Writing. 1974, Suva: South Pacific Creative Arts Society, 1974, pp.10-12. 4 Patrick White, The Aunt's Story, |1948| Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1969, p.295.

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Dhanpat had always considered himself inviolate. That was why he moved through life with such splendid reassurance. Now sitting in front of the temple, he saw how the protective armour had gradually disintegrated. The tenuous bond which existed among disparate items of his life was breaking. More than ever he felt the pointlessness of daily rituals of toil and rest, prayer and persistence. Once they were the only affirmation of his existence, (p. 12)

In spite of such control, Subramani is aware of the ironic stroke with which the affirmation is broken, for Dhanpat had begun to hold with conviction the line from the G ita which he had once rather aw kw ardly m isquoted, "d esire nothing so that you will have everything". Yet what strikes us is that the consciousness of Dhanpat has been filtered through the imagination of the writer in such a way that we are given less of the homologous social context, less of the actualities of life itself and more of its typifications, more of the 'standard' images by which that past is captured by the displaced Indian writer. Furthermore, in Dhanpat him self are the uncertainties of the failed quest made obvious. There is indeed something cruel, let alone sentim ental, in a man who takes a large "jagged m irror" out of a suitcase only to recognise the marks of change on his face, of the immense alienation which was the only legacy of history. For a writer such as Garría Márquez, such history becomes the basis of an allegorical rendering of the life of a doomed race — and in substance at any rate, D hanpat's madness is not unlike the experience of an entire race in One H undred Years o f Solitude.' For the Indian w riter in Fiji such history exists not so much as an external set of indices which can be located by the scholar in Nandan's verse as an internalised fact of life itself. But once the fiction about people is not totally different from the fiction that each one of the writers believes is part of his own existence, then we have a rather alarming situation where the writing will not simply be a search for 'authentic values' in the mind of Dhanpat or of the living and the dead in N andan's poetry but will also be an expression of a peculiar sensibility which does not make distinctions between the objective reality and the subjective interpretation of that reality. The Indo-Fijian writer, like his Caribbean counterpart, V. S. Naipaul, is so much part of that myth that ultimately his writing will be as much a self-assessm ent as an ironic portrayal of something beyond him. Against such a background a place must be found for Fiji's most prolific writer of short stories, Raymond Pillai. He has also written a couple of poems ('T h e Fugitive", "Labourer's Lam ent") but these were, in the main, mere apprentice stuff, exercises in rhythm and style rather than ideational content. Pillai, however, writes with the relish of a born story teller, often as the tongue-in-cheek narrator who delights in the art of narration itself. C onsequently, there is a much m ore sublim inal connection betw een his fiction and the indentured consciousness which I have outlined. Pillai's writings presuppose that som e form of psychic fragm entation did take place but they 1 Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years o f Solitude, trans. from the Spanish by Gregory Rabassa, London: Jonathan Cape, 1970.

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dem onstrate a concern more for the ways out of this disillusionm ent than a simple expression of it. It could be said that there is a selfconscious polemical departure from the ideological structure upon which the works of Nandan and Subramani are based. This apparent d ep artu re in Pillai — a departure w hich show s a degree o f transcendence over the 'guilt' of the past, over the need to mythologise experience — is reinforced, one suspects, by a belief in the dynamism o f the Indian present. Not overtly concerned with the past as such, not particularly haunted by those who, in the words of T.S. Eliot, only 'liv e and partly live", Pillai attempts to transmute the initial uprooting into contexts in which old contradictions must come to terms with the new order. The titles of P illai's short stories, how ever, belie the other infiuence upon Terranglian writers generally about which Yasm ine Gooneratne has recently w ritten.1 That is the influence of the English trad ition which cam e with Senior C am bridge, that "u b iqu ito u s exam ination that follow ed the Bible and the English language everyw here", as Satendra Nandan has rather charm ingly put it in an o th er c o n te x t.2 Q uite possibly it also explains the som ew hat traditional search for moral values in Pillai's work. This, together with a style unconsciously borrowed from the writers of the Panchatantra, som etimes leads to strongly moralistic endings. Where a Nandan or a Subramani would, if it became necessary, have perhaps found a phrase straight out of the Indian girm it experience (as in "The Old Man and the Scholar", for instance) Pillai does not find any contradiction in an ending which, for example, makes reference to Plato. So Pillai's "An Ass in Lion's Skin ..." ends with, "Plato's counsel was that a ruler may be permitted to lie for the good of the state. So, if a man might lie for the good of the state, might he not lie for the good of his sou l?"3 In other short stories of his the same tendencies are evident. There is always a strong didactic note, there is a much more human defiance found in situations where questions of racial survival and escape from a much more 'social' condition of servitude become important. He sees no contradiction in the relatively 'm odern' linguistic utterance of the village girl Meena in 'T o Market, to M arket" in which she screams filth at her Muslim lover: "You're a pig! A filthy, lying pig! Go and eat p ig 's droppings, you M uslim d o g !"4 In a way, this is part of the assertiveness necessary for the new dialectic which must be established between an 'old' yet very real ideology and a new pragmatism shown by Pillai's characters, a cry that the unity of the indentured experience is no longer relevant. Kandasw am i, M eena's father, therefore utters w ords which do not show any longing for things which did not 1 Yasmine Goonerainc, “‘Traditional’ Elements in the Fiction of Kamala Markandaya, R.K. Narayan and Ruth Prawcr Jhabvala”, World Literature Written in English, 15.1, 1976. pp.121-34. 2 Satendra Nandan, “A Pair of Black Shoes”, Hemisphere, 20.7, July 1976, p.28. 3 Raymond Pillai, “An Ass in Lion’s Skin ...”, The Mana Annual o f Creative Writing 1973, pp.63-4. 4 Raymond Pillai, “To Market, to Market ”, The Mana Annual o f Creative Writing 1973, pp.99101.

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happen; rather he simply wonders what would happen to his other daughters. It is left to Meena's mother to reconcile the irreconcilable, to affirm the respect of womankind: "W hat else can I think of? It isn't easy to arrange a decent marriage nowadays. You can't treat your daughters like cattle to be sold in the market. We women have our pride too, you know" (p. 101). As I have indicated before, Pillai's narrative style is, however, firmly grounded in the tradition of the Fable and its religious offshoot, the Parable. It could be said that in this way Pillai imposes an order upon the g ir m it experience in the sense that given the strong allegorical potentiality of the fable, these stories, in their overall structural organisation, tend to suggest that such a narrative technique is itself an attem pt on the part of the Indo-Fijian writer to impose m eaning over chaos. The generic antecedents of the Parable lie in worlds unfractured by a confrontation between art and ideology and the Parable writer is capable of an ennobling humanism (the form itself is 'redem ptive-conscious') which is lacking, in a way, in the much more self-conscious realism of the other Indo-Fijian writers. The insistence on this feeling of a totality is equally evident in the names of Pillai's characters; Gopal, Savitri, Meena and so on belong to the mainstream of South Indian Vishnaivism. Furthermore, a belief in acceptance and the achievement of a greater degree of harmony on the part of the descendents of the indentured labourers lead to a short story such as "P relim in ary In sp e c tio n "’ w here the possibilities of an underlying fragility are presented with charm and empathy. Such an em pathy is evident not only in the interplay of Savitri's parents' know ledge of Gopal's intentions towards their daughter and his total ignorance of theirs but also in the much more affirmative descriptions of the 'symbols' of a race. It was not difficult to find Savitri's house. The condition of the road was very poor but it was only a short distance from Lajonia Road junction so my second hand Volkswagen survived all the indignities without protest. 1 could see the hulking form of Savitri's house perched on a slight rise. It was a rambling affair, an accretion of cubes of various sizes added at different times to accommodate a growing family. A typical cane farmer's house, it was built with utility and permanence in mind rather than any feeling of beauty, (p. 23)

W ords such as "typical", "u tility", and "perm anence" are outside the im aginative range of Subramani and N andan's fictive visions. If they do use them, they are given a context with strong ironic possibilities. Against Pillai's own affirmative description can be placed Subram ani's description of Sautu, the village of the indentured labourer, Dhanpat. Or we can contrast it with Nandan's description of a 'typical' house. i push open the broken creaking door on the world so old, but why so poor?

1 Raymond Pillai, “Preliminary Inspection**, The Mana Annual o f Creative Writing 1974, pp.234. Two other stories included in this sclcciion to which I have not made reference in this paper are “Waiting for the Bus** and “The Celebration**.

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the table is bare save the burning grinning lamp casting dancing shadows on walls dung-damp

And instead of the solidity (not unlike the fondness for objects in Sartre and in Patrick W hite's use of "tables and ch airs") and by im plication the phenomenological reality of the house's existence in Pillai (it was after all built to withstand violence and time), Nandan in a poem in fact entitled "The H ou se" uses the sam e sym bol to dem onstrate the essential isolation of the Indian in an alien land. The barbed wires suggest not only all that can be cruel in a progressively capitalistic and acquisitive world but also the uneasy distance which has been travelled since "Sautu" when Ratu Inoke was simply content, in the manner of Dakuwaqa, an ambivalent Fijian god, with taking the land back. In Nandan's verse the metaphors become those of death and change: framed by tautened barbed-wire fence the house stoops afraid; it makes no sense this act of desecration without defence; a strangling noose round the neck is kinder than tin shack but let the dead past bury its dead, if it must many have fled leaving no footprints in the dust ....

Pillai, however, is much more concerned with permanence, with what has in fact been accomplished and is content to use the g irm it consciousness very much as an oblique presence in his art. Yet what even P illai's stories dem onstrate is the 'sociological' truism that ideological structures need not be just repeated in works of literature. Pillai, indeed, shows the necessity of this background, the background that is of the indentured Indian consciousness, but at the same time he is aw are that a 'demystification' of that past is also in order. Without that, both Kundasw am i and Sav itri's father would have found them selves in the position of a lunatic Dhanpat or the 'father' in N andan's "M y Father's Son". So, in a way, Pillai does not, at least outwardly, search for meaning and order, or look for the essence of the Indian experience in his works as Satendra Nandan and Subramani have done. Typologically, of course, his characters do belong to this almost mythic past but that past does not seem to haunt him with, say, the im m ediacy with which Dhanpat's past always haunts Subramani. Q uite possibly, and as is evident from Pillai's generic affinities, Pillai wishes to find a more positive, even Christian, affirm ation of values am ong Indians in Fiji and he attempts to discover these in situations where the old and new can more easily come into conflict. It is I think clear that like fellow Indian writers Dhurup Chand and Shashikant Nair, like the Fijian writers Seri and Jo Nacola, Pillai works within a so far indefinable but definitely palpable Fijian tradition as such where a degree of polem ical departure (from 'colonialism ', from 'indenture slavery' etc.) is often evident. It is thus not surprising that it is a hint of the m ore fundamental political, social and racial problems within Fiji

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which rem ains in the forefront of his imagination, as is clear from the last two stanzas of his poem "Labourer's Lam ent": But wait, perhaps, I speak too soon. From ill will no one gains. What infant nation is immune To slips and growing pains? Given time, it's love that wins. And reason humbles pride. Scratch the surface of our skins: We are all the same inside.1

When we compare this with Nandan's vision we become aware of a much more sensitive consciousness in the latter, possibly even a much m ore tortured outlook to life generally as well, but not without its redeem ing qualities of love and humanity. Where Pillai works with a degree of self-effacement — we have erred as you know but that is gone and forgotten — Nandan's verse is charged with urgency, filled with a demand that the country is as much the Indians' by 'right of vision' as it is theirs by right of birth. this little village is my second womb this little island will be my only tomb; that formed-deformed my father's breath his is the country of my life and death!

Indo-Fijian fiction remains very much in its infancy but there is strong evidence that this condition will change by the end of this decade. I have argued that the visions of a failed 'millennial' quest and the im ages of a distinctive indenture eschatology are ideological structures against which the fictions of Indo-Fijian writers to date must be evaluated. To Satendra Nandan and Subramani art obviously forms the medium by which the 'advanced coherence' of a fundam entally irreconcilable experience may be discovered to be meaningful. Their themes deal with the agonies of displacement and the consequences of the inability on the part of a race (because of its high m illennial expectations) to come to terms with changing historical circumstances. As a result, their fictions becom e retrospective, ironic, bitter and som etim es intensely personal. Against this (it is not really a case of e ith e r/o r) we have a w riter such as Pillai whose works indicate a conscious departure from such 'reflective' treatm ent of ideology to a much m ore 'transform ed ' treatm ent o f indenture consciousness. Between the two poles — art as 'reflection' and art as 'transmutation' — lie the creative possibilities for the growth of Indo-Fijian fiction to maturity. The answers will, no doubt, be forthcoming, but until they do arrive "w ords like waves (will always lie) between u s".2

1 Raymond Pillai, “Labourer’s Lament”, The Mana Annual o f Creative Writing 1974, p.50. 2 Satendra Nandan, Faces in a Village.

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HONE TUWHARE IN HIS POETRY Bernard Gadd Bernard Gadd has been a tong-time advocate of using Maori and Islander materials in New Zealand schools and has written fiction and plays to help the cause. He has also been a dedicated reviewer of Pacific writing and edited Pacific Voices: An Anthology of Maori and Pacific Writing (Auckland: Macmillan, 1989). The piece below comes from Landfall 149, 38.1, 1984.______________________________

Hone Tuw hare may well be New Zealand's most popular poet. His work is consistently anthologised. It has had its early publication in the m ore notable literary periodicals such as M ate, Cave, New Z ealand Poetry Year Book (though not in Landfall, Islands, Parallax nor P a cific M oana Q u arterly), as well as in the m ore fugitive ones like C o o k , Spleen, M otive, N orthland. It has appeared in new spapers, T h e L isten er, Te Ao H ou, M onthly R eview , People's V oice and the W hakatane H istorical Review. Robin H ealey wrote, 'T h e re are few other poets currently writing in this country whose work has prompted such affection and respect".1 Yet the New Zealand critical response over the years, even m ore than is custom arily the case, reads like school reports on a student whose promise is never quite fulfilled as the pedagogue has guided and anticipated. Tuw hare's virtues and faults readily align themselves in his review ers' mind in opposing ranks. On one side his work shows "striking im ages ... sure handling of satire and social com m ent ... charm ing m edlies [sic] ... calling a spade a spade ... great sense of hu m ou r"2; "natural imagery somehow instinct with traditions ... irony, exactitude and co lo u r"5; "lyricism ... an active participating voice"4; "fleshy vigour and a raw informal dignity ... dignified diction and colloquial to n e"s; landscapes "alive in the Maori way ... vividly in touch with non-human life".6 There is no doubt that the lad has shown progress over the years, shows "som e solid su ccess",7 and indeed is "highly com petent".8But his writing's strength "lies in the warmth and undoubted felicity of the poet's underlying personality7'.9 On the other side, there is "m uch that appears forced or artificial".10 There is som e "g ra tu ito u s fa k e r y " ,11 "incon sisten cy of m ixture ... an au reate preciousness ... fau lts, im preciseness and rem iniscent son orities". Tuwhare is sometimes "self conscious ... not so sure about what should

1 Landfall, 139, 1981, p.329. 2 John Davidson, Islands, 15,1976, pp.107-8. 3 Ron Tamplin, Cave, 4, 1976, pp.5 & 7. 4 Bill Manhire, Islands, 4, 1973, p.210. ^ Peter Crisp, Multi-Cultural School, 4, 1976, pp.32-33. 6 Healey, op. cit., p.327. 7 Tamplin, op.cit., p.7. 8 Davidson, op.cit., p. 107. 9 Alistair Paterson, Landfall, 146, 1983, p.232. 10 Davidson, op. cit., p. 107. 11 Manhire, op. cit., p.210.

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make him w rite". There are "too many im agistic bits and p ieces"'; Tuwhare "has taken no advantage of recent overseas developments: he certainly has the capacity for it".J In brief, "som e of his poetry lacks the finer disciplines of the art".3 The im portance to his poetry of his M aoriness is agreed by virtually all. Indeed it has been asserted by the writer him self in his poetry. Yet what is this Maoriness? Is it a m atter merely, as Davidson w rote, o f em ploying "h is Maori backgrou n d "? Or is it, as H one Taum aunu wrote, that "his voice is the voice of his culture"?4 And if that is so, what are the peculiar distinctions that Maori culture could speak in Tuw hare's voice? Certainly Tuwhare celebrates the close-knit, nature-close, rural family life. And a simple poem like "The Old place"s gathers strength from its being a lament for the loss of what the old house and farm contained — a kind of life destroyed by the exacting domination of the city. There is anger at the dissolution of this life and at the assaults upon the countryside and nature it was founded within and upon. There are addresses to the dead at the wake and the funeral. T here is sensuous — frequently onom atopoeic — im agery of a p an th eistic-lik e anim ation of the natural w orld. T here are the occasions and the oratory of the gatherings of the people. There is the sense of membership of a minority ("W here have all th e/ Maori gone for chrissake"6). There are the ceremonies, the customs, the folk-ways, the m ythology, the public causes of the ethnic group and events and individuals associated with them. (The proportion of works overtly expressive of a Maori identity has doubled over the years from the first volume to M aking a Fist o f It yet still comprises fewer than half of the total.) There is empathy with oppressed or minority peoples or nonEuropean lives elsewhere in the world. There is the sense of an ancient past which is dead beyond reviving or even rediscovery, the sense of how the courage, the self-respect, the soul of a people have been afflicted, and the hidden, inward connections of its life ripped asunder ("Fragm ented, my soul lies here, there in / the waste-wood, around"7). There are the poems inspired by traditional Maori poetry, and a single poem in Maori. But the fact that these all can be mentioned in such everyday lexis suggests that none of these things alone can be what is uniquely Maori in the poetry. Nor does the use of Maori language any longer m ark out anything necessarily distinctively M aori in New Zealand poetry. In "A Fall of Rain at M iti-M iti"8 however, all of these (except the overseas reference) can be found working together to provide not a view of a Maori event but an experiencing o f a Maori event in a Maori way. There is no narrative in the poem; it is drama. A w om an's, a 1 Tamplin, op. cil., pp.4-12. 2 Paterson, op. cit., p.232.

3 Crisp, op. cil., p.34. 4 Multi-Cultural School, 10. 1978, p .19. 5 No Ordinary Sun. 6 “Bus Journey, South” in Sapwood and Milk. 7 From a “Theme by Hone Taiapa” in Something Nothing. 8 Something Nothing.

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mother's, body lies in the church or in the House of a Northland marae tucked between ocean and m ountain. The extended fam ily cluster about the body. Each stanza simultaneously involves the reader in the unfolding drama of the remembered funeral service; em braces the reader in the em otion of the focal consciousness of the poem, in its rising, its climatic intensity of feeling, its catharsis in tears, all implied in the sympathy of the movement of the storm outside, together with the rise and fall of the grieving. The whole is constructed upon the framework of traditional Maori oratory with its greeting o f the dead, of nature, of the living; the speaking to the deceased; the acknowledging of the unity of man and nature; the committal of the deceased to Te Po, the place of the dead, of darkness. The poem at the same time is exact to the recording of the senses of emotion-laden details, such as the puff of the candle-flam e to illumine the stained faces of the whanau, details that also work symbolically in a traditional sense as with the wind signifying the life force, the mountains representing not just nature but a specific tribal landmark, the waves recalling the spirit's leaping from Reinga. In no other English language poem does Tuwhare use so much Maori. And the use of it is to communicate a rapport with nature, with the intim ate memory of the dead woman, a mother or a madonna figure to her people. The church serves as the node where the eternal, m ythic, M aori cosmos and this tim e/p lace universe intersect and interw eave, until nothing is meaningful if perceived from one only of these realms of being. And a tiny detail — a broken window — suggests the decay threatening both, a decay beginning in the drift of people from this area and the consequent changes within the people and their ways of life. It is a poem central to understanding T u w h are's work. It dem onstrates that no listing of poetic attributes or qualities can come anywhere near the Maoriness — and that is the depth of the poem. The M aoriness and the poem itself consist in a totality of tone, topic, structure, language, handling, focus, the implicit and the explicit; a totality that catches as in quintessence the entire com plex of the Maoritanga that breathes within Tuwhare's poetry even when it is not ostensibly Maori at all. Tuw hare is not only Maori, he is also insistent upon him self as being perceived as of the working-class. This seems to provoke som e uneasiness among critics. To use the same sampling as before we find references to things like "socialistic cam araderie",’ "social concern",2 "social com m ent",3 "ideology and protest".4 On the whole, however, this aspect of Tuwhare and his work is ignored. W here it cannot be overlooked in poems, it is discussed in other terms. Yet for most Maoris to be working-class is inseparable from being Maori. It was and is for T uw hare. "Sp eak to Me B ro th e r"5 is a poem central to 1 Davidson, op. cit., p. 108. 2 Tamplin, op. cit., p.6. 3 Lois Cox in Ten Modern New Zealand Poets, Longman Paul, 1974, p.25. 4 Crisp, op. cit., p.35. 5 Sapwood and Milk.

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comprehending this in his work. The "I" tries to engage his "brother" in korero — not just talk but heart-deep talk. The rural, m igrant brother's newly sworn allegiance (he has enlisted to go and fight in Viet Nam) is to all that splits solidarity of him with kin, kind with kind, human with human, humankind with nature, past with future; to all that mocks hope. The diction and the rhythm are colloquial, suggesting the social intimacy of kin, ethnic and class solidarity. But the reiteration of "brother" with (in this linguistic context) its intensely, even hortatory, inclusiveness of feeling, and the concluding "you speak brother", the appeal to the proverbial encapsulation of shared belief and past, powerfully urge the reader to consider w hether the sp eaker and the silent h earer are not actu ally com plem entary awarenesses within a single consciousness. The consciousness of the poem is one that knows its roots and shaping, its place in our society and world. And it equally knows the temptation to lose the sense of a w ounded or confined self in taking on an identity fashioned and conferred approvingly by those whose power com m ands guns and governm ents, to occupy the sm oother, higher ground o f New Zealand's majority. Grandiloquence is not far beneath the surface ("That's a big word brother, you lie it against a big hill ... Let it be to the mountain, like the proverb tells us."). The diction of the poem acts as does that of a poem like "C u m m ings",’ which moves line by line from a rhetoric that turns the woman into an object, a shopping list or art gallery catalogue of Georgian sexuality, to the colloquial intimacy that conveys, in spite of love-m aking's déjà-dit, its nowness in the everlasting oppositeness of m an and woman. And the man and the woman are set within a constellation of similarly unifiable contraries that the rhetoric posits: tragi-com ic, stasis/m o tio n , d eco ru m /ecstasy, fam in e/feastin g . This poem and "Speak to Me Brother" indicate that the two dictions are not registers of different personae nor disparate voices, so much as words of a speaking that seeks to hold within its utterance an awareness of the fundamental character of conflict. The roots of both dictions are in the experience of growing up Maori. The same childhood, Tuw hare tells his audiences, which taught him the speech of social and class unity and that lit the conviction that things can be, must be better for ordinary people and for the earth itself, also included listening to the cadences and the sonorities of traditional Maori chants and o f the Bible. The mixture of dictions, the rapid switches in tone that disturb critics, fit together with what is the deepest M aoriness of Tuw hare's body of work. It all is there in the very first poem of the first published volum e, "Tim e and the C hild". Earth and sky, child and old man, perceiving mind and concrete externals, man and nature, renewal and dying, recalled past and future, informal voice and eloquent voice all "reel" together. Each element rem ains itself, each is explicitly linked w ith its opposite, each defines, makes distinct, helps interpret its opposite. And each opposing pair "converge" as a unity, one of a pair of co n tra rie s sim ilarly co u n ter-p o ised at a h igh er lev el o f 1 Something Nothing.

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com prehensiveness — and so successively towards the ultim ates of being and non-being. The whole is expressive of the life and the change and the growth of the universe, of the mediating and the creating and the redem ptive and hopeful forces — anything but of the static, ideal O neness of the Rom antics. "It is alm ost as if H one Tuw hare has captured the m auri", as Hone Taumaunu wrote of another poem .1 The final English poem in the latest volume, "The River is an Islan d ", derives its force from its grounding in this decisively Maori conception of existence You arc river. This way and that and all the way to sea two escorts shove and pull you. Two escorts in contention. Left bank or right bank, how can you be river without either? . . . You're a harbour; a lake; an island only when your banks lock lathered arms in battle to confine you: slowrelease you. Go, river, go. To ocean seek your certain end. Rise again to cloud; to a mountain . . . you are ocean; you are island.

Tuw hare's poetry, of course, has developed, has tried new things over the years, less (or at any rate not only) because of his own development but because of the growing willingness of some of the readers to try to hear him. But his work has never moved far from what it was at its beginning: the expression of a working-class originating Maori, of a uniquely New Zealand self.

Tuwhare's Publications No Ordinary Sun, Longman Paul, 1964 (enlarged, M clndoe, 1977) Come Rain Hail, Cavem an, 1970 Sapwood and Milk, Cavem an, 1972 Som ething Nothing, Cavem an, 1974 M aking a Fist o f It, Jackstraw, 1978 Year o f the Dog: poems new & selected, M clndoe, 1982

1 op. cit . (mauri = fundamental life force or life principle). See also Joan Metge, The Maoris o f New Zealand Rauiahi, Rouilcdgc Kegan Paul, 1976, pp.320-321.

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WITI IHIMAERA: LITERARY DIPLOMACY Richard Corballis This article first appeared in Landfall 129 , 33.1, 1979. Richard Corballis has published (with Simon Garrett) Introducing Witi Ihimaera (Auckland: Longman Paul, 1984) and is an established commentator on New Zealand writing, now based at Massey University. 'Any concern is for the roots of our culture, the culture we carry within ourselves and which makes us truly Maori. It is a culture essentially rurally based, with toes firmly gripping the soil, and so I write about the rural Maori rather than about the Maori in urban areas where—so I’ve been informed—all the action is. But only when I have completed writing about the rural Maori to my satisfaction will I uncurl my toes and write about how hard the city pavements are to our feet.'1

So w rote W iti Ihim aera in 1975, by which tim e he had in fact completed the three volumes of his rural trilogy, Pounamu, Pounamu, Tangi and Whanau. In 1977 the publication of The New Net Goes Fishing heralded the first flexing of the toes, and now Mr Ihimaera has gone off in his capacity as a diplomat to try the hardness o f some foreign pavements before delivering a further two novels about "the Maori in urban areas". Clearly this is an opportune moment at which to assess his past achievement and to speculate about what is to come. A thorough-going assessment of the rural trilogy has, of course, already been adventured by Dr Norman Simms of W aikato U niversity.2 His conclusions, som e of which I shall exam ine in m ore detail in this article, can be roughly reduced to the contention that Mr Ihimaera works too much from w ithout and not enough from within. The novels and stories appear organized rather than organic, so that in T a n g i, for exam ple, "the novelist seeks to evoke sentim ents in the reader to make him accept the reality of the change [in Tama from childhood to manhood], and in doing so does not disclose the process of that change so that it can be seen as v a lid "3 and in P o u n a m u , Pounamu (save in a few exceptional stories like "The W hale") we get "the rousing of sentiments in the reader at the expense of a nuanced and diverse appreciation of characters and events".4 There is a good deal of truth in this criticism, I think. But we must not allow what isn't there to blind us to what is. In fact Mr Ihimaera has strengths which are the very obverse of the weaknesses diagnosed by Dr Simms. I refer to his very considerable powers of organization. These powers can be seen to best advantage in the two collections of stories. Many short story writers obviously give little thought to the relationship of the different stories within a published volume; others (Dan Davin among New Zealanders, Rudyard Kipling among the rest) 1 Witi Ihimaera, “Why I Write”, World Literature Written in English, 1 4 ,1 9 7 4 , pp.l 17-18. 2 “ Maori Literature in English. Prose Writers. Part Two: Witi Ihimaera” , Pacifc Quarterly Moana, 3, 1978, pp.336-48. 3 ibid. p.345. 4 ibid. p.339.

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appear to give as much thought to the collection as to the individual stories within it. Mr Ihimaera clearly belongs to the latter category. P ou n am u , Pounam u exp lores a w ide range of th em es, som e sp ecifically M aori, others of m ore general im port. Ray G rover acknowledged this breadth of reference in his review of the volume in Islan ds 4 . 1 But neither he nor any subsequent critic that I have encountered has noted the strict over-riding logic which governs the articulation of these themes. The collection begins and ends with a story about death. The opening story ("A Game of Cards") is a fine exam ple of Mr Ihimaera's celebrated ability to mix humour and pathos — to find "life on the verge of (and even after) d eath ", in David N orton's phrase.2 But 'T an g i" at the other end of the book is a very different proposition. W hereas the young narrator of "A Game o f Cards" reacted with equanimity to the deaths ("And I bet you they're still squabbling up there . . ."), Tama, the central character of 'T a n g i", reverts to the panic of childhood in his despair following his father's death: Daddy, don't leave me in the dark. Hold my hand . . .

T his m ovem ent from hope and laughter to despair and tears is reflected in the volume as a whole. At the front are the happier stories in which rural Maori values are affirmed positively ("Beginning of the Tournam ent", "The Makutu on Mrs Jones"); at the back are the darker ones, in which these values are expressed in a negative way, through disillusionm ent, deprivation and death ('T h e C hild", "T h e W hale" and even to some extent "O ne Summer M orning"). In between lies a set of rather ambivalent stories: "Fire on G reenstone", in which a disastrous fire interrupts a loving affirm ation of the spirit of the W hanau; 'T h e Other Side of the Fence", which depicts an uneasy truce between Maori and Pakeha values; and "In Search of the Emerald City" in which the child-narrator (Matiu) is left poised between town and country. This summary is much over-simplified, of course, but I hope it will be conceded that anyone who reads the book from cover to cover w ill sense a movement from light to darkness, from innocence to experience. This dark world of experience is the world in which The New Net Coes Fishing is set. W e are introduced to it in "Yellow Brick R o ad ", a continuation of "In Search of the Em erald C ity " from Pounam u, Pounamu. Matiu and his family arrive in W ellington, and technically I suppose Mr Ihim aera remains am bivalent about their prospects: I begin to sing to myself. Not bccause I’m happy, but because 1 think I want to feel sure myself everything will turn out all right. It will won't it?

1 pp.212-5.

2 “Life on the Verge o f Death”, paper read at the New Zealand Short Story seminar in Wellington, 27 August 1978.

109 iw'diK

egon soir.i

Follow the yellow brick road. Follow, follow, follow, follow. Follow .

¡rove

mu havi ISdie j^j fjjf avjij very e of y're

¡5

B ,f ,r & , i

But the series of m ishaps experienced on the w ay, the gloom y prognostications uttered by M atiu's Uncle Sam in H astings, the rain which greets them in Wellington and the silence of all but Matiu when the city comes into view all seem ominous. Sure enough, "Big Brother, Little Sister" (which some will remember as a television play) at once confirms that we have left the world of youth and innocence for one of adulthood (not to mention adultery) and experience. This shift is confirmed not only by the title of this second collection (drawn from a Maori proverb which says, T h e old net is cast aside, the new net goes fishing; a new generation takes the place of the old') but also by the recu rrence throughout the book of the word 'em erald ', w hose connotations are harsh and gaudy, in place of the word 'pounamu' (g reen sto n e), w hich in both P ou n am u , P oun am u and T a n g i symbolized the softness and innocence of youth. There is tension (whether between Maori and Pakeha or between rural M aoris and city Maoris) in all the stories that follow, with the exception of "G athering of the W hakapapa" (which is one of two sequels to "Fire on G reenstone" from Pounam u, Pounam u, and is a straightforward return to the positive vision of the first stories in the earlier volum e). The tension varies in degree. O ccasionally it is resolved ('T h e Escalator", "A Sense of Belonging"), but more often it is not. I am unable to categorize the bulk of the stories in The New Net any more precisely than this. It looks as though Mr Ihimaera is giving us the various perm utations of M aori-Pakeha (and M aori-M aori) relations in no particular order. (One of the later stories, "Tent on the Home Ground", looks back in anger at one of the early ones, "Clenched F ist", but this developm ent is not reflected in the collection as a whole.) There can be no doubt however, that the last story is once again a direct counterpart to the first, and that from this relationship is supposed to em anate a motto or theme for the volum e as a whole. Matiu and his family are again the centre of attention, but a generation has gone by. (The proverb from which the title of the collection is drawn can be interpreted literally in this case.) Matiu has married a Pakeha and their child, Christopher, acts as the narrator. M atiu's mother is dead and his father is about to return to Waituhi (where she has been buried) to live out the rest of his days. M atiu's sister, Roha, who is also married, is supposed to travel north with the rest of the family, but she fails to turn up. She has evidently lost her respect for her Maori past. But M atiu's father, who brought the family down into the pakeha world in the first place, retains — and preaches — a balanced view of race relations, a view which is also embodied in M atiu's mixed marriage and in Christopher's determination to journey back to W aituhi as often as possible to see his Nanny. In a heavily m oralistic speech immediately prior to the departure from Wellington the old man stresses that his family needs "to be given the best of both

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worlds". He is not simply rejecting the city for the pure Maori values of W aituhi, but trying to keep both alive side by side. This point is reinforced near the end of the story by means of a device which links the story even more closely with "Yellow Brick Road". Matiu stops the car to let his father look back on W ellington just before it disappears from view. The incident recalls, of course, the moment twenty years before when the old man himself stopped his car on the way into Wellington. At this moment, made pregnant by the parallel, Matiu and his father pass judgement on the years spent in town: —Twenty years, he murmurs. Twenty years. —They were good years. Dad assures him . . . —But were they worth it, son? Were they? Were they? —Yes, Dad answers. I think so.

And when they resume their journey a rainbow appears (in place of the rain which greeted them on their arrival in W ellington) as if to confirm G od's (or the god Kahukura's) blessing on the compromise which has been achieved between Maori and Pakeha, country and town. If Dr Sim m s had turned his attention to The New Net Goes F ishin g I'm sure he would have complained about the contrived and superficial way in which this moral is pointed. And I agree: it could all have been done more subtly, m ore inw ardly. But if, as W inston Rhodes has recently argued a propos of Noel Hilliard, "there is a place in our literature for 'thesis' or 'problem ' fictio n ",1 then it is nice to have it written by authors as clearheaded and incisive as Mr Ihimaera. The New Net Goes Fishing dem onstrates its author's pow ers of organization in other ways too. It succeeds in developing most of the threads begun in P ou n am u , P ou n am u , w hile at the sam e tim e readjusting their relative im portance so as to prepare the way, one suspects, for the two promised novels on the plight of the M aoris in town. Sp ecifically, it looks as though Tam a M ahana, the central character of Tangi, is being phased out— he gets only two of the eighteen stories in The New Net as against four out of ten in Pounamu, Pounamu — and Matiu may be on the way in. The twentyyear gap between "Yellow Brick Road" and "Return from Oz" seems an obviou s vacuum for a novel to fill. On the other hand, "T h e Greenstone Patu" (a curious story which probably smacks rather too strongly of Star Wars for most Pakeha tastes) reveals that Tama has not returned to Waituhi as he promised his family he would do at the end of Tangi. So there is presumably material for a further novel about him — in his adopted city context. Mr Ihim aera's powers of organization are as apparent in the extant novels as in the collections of stories. The design of Tangi h as been pretty well appreciated, at least since W inston Rhodes reviewed the book in Landfall and drew attention to the juxtaposition of tenses 1 In his review o f Hilliard’s Maori Woman, Landfall 113, 1975, pp.76-8.

Ill

(a favourite device of Mr Ihimaera's, although it appears less frequently in The New Net than in the earlier books): Tama in successive chapters is returning home to the tangi, and travelling back to Wellington after it is over . . . The two journeys, together with the whole vivid description of the tangi, serve the double purpose of enabling Witi Ihimaera to tell the story of Tama's life in the midst of his family and of focussing attention on the underlying theme — "This is Tangi, an account of death, but also an affirmation of life .'. . . The structure of the novel is such that the present is involved with the past, and the past with the future.1

Perhaps a little more detail will not go amiss. First, one should note the appropriateness of the different mode of transport employed in the two journeys. Tama goes to the tangi by 'plane and returns to W ellington by train. There would seem to be a link here with the fact that his father is associated with the sun and the sky and his mother with the earth. This link is reinforced by the fact that in the 'plane Tama thinks almost exclusively of his father; in the train his thoughts range more widely to embrace his entire family. Secondly the two journeys do not quite alternate in 'successive chapters'; sometimes we get two 'plane (or train) chapters on end, and this enables Mr Ihimaera to depict the crucial stages of the tangi in two long successive chapters (26 and 27). In these two chapters Tama comes face to face first with his dead father and secondly with his grieving mother, the embodiments respectively of his past and future life. Here is the structural and (more obviously) the em otional heart of the book. But in Chapter 28 Mr Ihim aera interrupts the intensity by taking us back to the train. And when we return to the tangi in Chapter 29 we find that the mood is changing: Tama is drawn away from the meeting-house by his Uncle Pita and practical considerations — even comedy — begin to replace the stifling grief of Chapters 26 and 27. In Chapter 30 we are in the train again and the rest of the tangi is made a matter for hindsight (though the present tense is still employed). Finally in Chapter 32 the aftermath of the tangi is recounted in the past tense (with a short reversion to the present — presumably to suggest a resurgence of grief) by Tama in the train. The em otional crisis has been conqu ered ; Tam a is read y for the responsibilities of manhood. To confirm that he has now inherited his father's place in the family Mr Ihimaera incorporates a final telling episode into the narrative. Just before the train reaches W ellington, Tama recalls how he took his young brother and sister into Gisborne som etim e after the tangi and lost them for a while after going into a pub for a few drinks with his cousin. This takes us back to Chapter 5, where Tama rem embered an occasion from his childhood when he had lost his father in the streets of Gisborne. This parallel confirms (in a strangely negative way, it is true) that Tama has stepped into his father's shoes. These are the main outlines of the design of Tangi. I confess that I am still a little puzzled by one or two details. For example, the time-

1 Landfall , 108, 1973, p.350.

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sequence in Chapters two, four and six seems rather muddled — the telephone conversation is apparently interrupted by a flash-/oru>ard, whereas the rest of the novel works in terms of flash-backs. (The same thing happens at the end of "I, O zym andias" in The New Net, and again, I think the device is illegitimate). And I am not quite sure about the significance of either Chapter 31 or the epilogue. But basically the craftmanship is very sure. Whanau is much less ambitious in construction, and I mention it here only because I feel that Dr Simms (who writes well on the other books) has seriously misrepresented it in the article which I cited earlier. He accuses the book of trying "too hard to succeed as a Pakeha narrative". He feels that it "has no centre and nothing real happens in it. That alas is the affectation of the modern European novel which a Maori Literature must avoid if it is to be true to itself."1 The analogy with modern western negativism seem s to me wholly unfounded. Certainly there are some seedy sights in W aituhi, but even before the inhabitants come together near the end in a quest for the straying Nanny Paora there is ample evidence that the seediness is only skin-deep and that all the characters are drawn with affection. Anyone who doubts this should take a hard look at Chapters two and four, w here we get a direct statem ent from the author about the generally positive spirit which lies beneath the unprom ising facade. The book is a celebration of the spirit of the Whanau (fam ily). Tangi was an in-depth study of Maori ways; W hanau is th e corresponding in-breadth study.2 (One might have expected them to have appeared in the opposite order, but Mr Ihimaera no doubt wanted to throw his Pakeha readers in at the deep end.) Like certain regional novels in the European tradition — and indeed like Roger H all's GlideTime (which also sketches a 'regional' state of mind) — Whanau is content sim ply to depict a m osaic of d ifferent, but ultim ately interlocking attitudes. Mr Ihimaera gives us so many characters with so many attitudes that the reader (the Pakeha reader at any rate) is likely to becom e very muddled about relationships. But that is all part of the strategy; Mr Ihimaera is celebrating the whole, which is greater than the sum of the parts (though I do think we could have done without George and Alice Karepa). Ultimately, of course, some semblance of plot is necessary to draw all the threads together and round off the portrait. (Again there is a sim ilarity to G lid e - T im e ). And so we get the ep isode of Pene's abduction of Nanny Paora. I agree with Dr Simms that this seems a trifle gratuitous and that the old man does not quite w ork as the em bodiment of traditional Maori values — we see him going through strange rituals, but are not made to feel what these rituals signify. But this hardly matters. The concerted (and successful) search for Nanny 1 op. cit., p.338. 2 Note, however, that in strictly literal terms the correspondence is limited. Though many names are common to both Tangi and Whanau they do not necessarily designate the same people. For example. Rongo Mahana, aged 54 and living in Gisborne in Whanau, cannot be the Rongo Mahana of Tangi who dies at 55 after years spent in Waituhi. Clearly Mr Ihimaera does not want his books to be read as a strict series.

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Paora constitutes a perfectly adequate expression o f the traditional values. In all his novels and stories Mr Ihimaera gives the impression that he knows exactly what he wants to say, what point he wants to make, and generally he achieves his end in a highly organized and articulate manner. Many readers (and most critics) like their literature to transcend points and problems. I rather suspect, however, that they are in a m inority; most like the sense of relevance which problems impart. If I am right, Mr Ihimaera deserves to be enrolled, along with Cross, Shadbolt and others, in Roger Robinson's list of "good writers who can reach popular audiences by skilled versatility and not shoddy com p rom ise".1

1 “Based on the Book by...” (editorial). The Listener, 7 October 1978, p.10.

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DOING HER JOB: PATRICIA GRACE’S FICTION Rachel Nunns Rachel Nunns leaches in Nelson, New Zealand. Her article first appeared In Islands 7.4. 1978-9.__________________________________________________ _ _ _ _ _

While "Parade", the final story in Patricia Grace's collection Waiariki, 1 may not be seen as autobiographical, it does seem relevant to what the author sees as her function as a writer. It is an account of a young woman returning to her family, in their rural area, during a carnival. She is uncomfortably aware that for the pakehas the carnival is a way of reducing Maoris to a colourful spectacle which can be viewed with patronizing detachment. It angers her that Maoris should provide pakehas with the annual performance and then for the rest of the year be excluded from consciousness. Eventually she tells some of the elders of her resentment. They answer her slowly and enigmatically. Finally, "old Hohepa, who is bent and sometimes crabby said, 'It is your job, this. To show others who we a re.'" Accepting their idea of her responsibility, the young woman joins the performers. Patricia Grace, too, seems to be showing us who she is, what it means to be a Maori in a country where institutions o f power are largely controlled by people whose values are often alien. She has written elsewhere that she feels restricted by the expectation that her stories will be about Maori themes and has been disappointed at how little recognition she has had of her other stories.2 However, reading W aiariki again, after the four years it has been published, though I can sympathize with her dissatisfaction, I could not w ish her to have written anything that would have changed this collection. If I am right in thinking that Grace wants "to show others who we are", she has certainly succeeded. These stories inform readers at an emotional, imaginative level with the sense of what it means to be a M aori. Any formal studies of Maori culture will explain that Maoris differ from pakehas in their attitudes to land, to their ancestors, to their families, to the cycles of death and regeneration. But academic explanations cannot give us any sense of the psychic difference, of what it feels like to identify yourself as a Maori rather than as a member of any other group. It is this kind of insight that Grace gives readers in the story entitled "Valley" in which the four parts are subtitled by seasons. In "W inter", Mrs Kaa dies and the whole of the natural world appears to join with the human beings in mourning her, but even this section ends with the narrator saying how right it is "that threading through our final song we should hear the sound of children's voices". The story end s with the unfurling optim ism of growth in "Sp rin g ". Common to the stories in Waiariki is Grace's concern with Maori ways

1 Patricia Grace, Waiariki, Auckland: Longman Paul, 1975. 2 “The Maori in Literature”, by Patricia Grace and Witi lhimaera, in Tihe Mauri Ora — Aspects o f Maoritanga, (ed. Michael King) Methuen, 1978, p.80.

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of understanding the world, and it is this that links the stories into a coherent volume. This is not to underestim ate the variety and range o f G race's talent. One aspect of it is the easy skill with which she changes her narrative mode and voice from story to story. Some, like the title story "W aiariki", are very much within the tradition of English short stories. So too is the clever, angry "A Way of T alking" which opens the collection. The story is told through the troubled, almost shocked, eyes of a young Maori woman who describes a clash between her more agressive, independent sister and a young pakeha woman, Jane Frazer. The row begins when Jane Frazer speaks airily of the men who are scrub-cutting as "the M aoris". Although it is, indeed, a way of talking that im plies a contem ptuous lum ping together of a w hole race of p eople whom she cannot see as individuals, it is don e w ithout consciou s m alice; her p reju d ice is the m ore deadly fo r being u nrecognized as such. D ialogue is precise, econom ical, and the observation so sharply accurate that I found parts of it almost physically disturbing. Here, the angry Rose reassures her sister that Jane Frazer will still want to be her friend. She tells her: i t 's fashionable for a Pakeha to have a Maori for a friend.' Suddenly Rose grinned. Then I heard Jane's voicc coming out of that Rohe's mouth and felt a grin of my own coming. 'I have friends who are Maoris. They're lovely people.... They're all so friendly and so natural and their house is absolutely spotless.'

This is a savagely effective exposure of pretension and prejudice. Other stories are written almost as though they are translations from Maori. The idiom and even the word order are immediately and consistently unfamiliar. These differences contribute very much to their cumulative rhetorical power. In 'T ran sition ", for instance, an old woman, aware that she will die soon, reflects on her expectation that after her death her daughter and son-in-law will leave the land that has been their family home for generations and live in the city. The repeated phrases and the cadences of the prose seem to m irror the resignation and sadness of the old woman. This resemblance to translation is also apparent in stories which are cheerful and positive. The opening sentence in "T o k i" sets the tone: "From the north he came, Toki, in his young day". In this story an old man tells how he put down Toki, "the boaster from the north" in a fishing contest. It is as if the author has written her story from a tape-recording, or much more likely, from a sensitive recollection of the words of an elder well versed in a tradition of oral stories. How the mighty or at least the self-satisfied fall has provided material for stories in many cultures, but the distinction here comes from G race's ability to sustain the impression that it is an old man speaking of events in his youth. He speaks in English, but of a kind that owes a great deal to another tongue. Grace frequently narrates stories in a voice not her own. Often the narrator may be lim ited, but the reader is able to see beyond that

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lim itation. In "H oliday" a child describes her visits to grandparents during school holidays. The sharpness of a child's vision is an effective m eans of giving readers som ething like the resem blance betw een Aunty M ateroa's laugh and a fire-engine's siren. A m ore worldly narrator would have been unlikely to respond with such unequivocal pride and joy to the sight of the grandparents' neat little house with painted river stones edging the flowerbeds. For most readers there's a nostalgic quality to a story like this; it can remind us of our own vision as children, but we are not encouraged to see the child in a patronizing or indulgent manner. In the title story, Grace demonstrates her ability to use specific incidents to imply much wider truths. The narrator of "W aiariki" tells of taking his sons back to the place where he grew up, and in the telling re c a lls h is ow n ch ild h ood , at on ce reg rettin g ch a n g e and acknow ledging its inevitability. Early on, he recalls how when they gathered shellfish, "w e boys would mimi on our kits and sugar bags then wash them in the salt w ater" — this to ensure a good catch. At this stage in the narration it seems little more than a quaint custom, but when it is mentioned again at the end of the story the effect is quite different because our perception has been changed by the story itself. The custom has come to symbolize a vanished way of life. After describing the old way, the narrator mentions casually that he took his wife and children back there for a holiday. In this context even the word 'holiday' seems startling and a measure o f the change that has occurred. His family are almost like tourists; their experience is far rem oved from the absolute involvem ent in the lifestyle that characterized his own childhood. Vet som etimes things seem to be alm ost the same. His children are excited by an expedition for k ai m oana and he shares their excitement; it's as if he might be able to use this expedition to recreate the past. But when it comes to the point he realizes he is too inhibited by his consciousness of other standards and he cannot urge his children "to put their kits down on the sand and m imi on th em ". There is nothing sim plistic about his response. Intellectually he is aware that there are good scientific reasons why they get so few shellfish, but em otionally he is devastated. The story suggests beautifully the way emotions exist independent of any rational faculty. W hen the narrator regrets at the end the passing of that innocence which would have allowed hom to tell his children to m im i on their kits and wash them in the sea, he has made that system of belief and assumptions so real for us that we can share in his grief. In M u tu w h e n u a , her first novel,1 G race continues her interest in M aori values, especially insofar as these values are threatened or challenged by the materialistic, scientific values of pakeha society. As in W aiariki, she em phasizes the need for adaptation, the inevitability of change. M aoris must retain their heritage, but they cannot recreate the past. The story is about the marriage of Linda to Graem e, a pakeha schoolteacher. Linda's grandmother is at first opposed to the marriage, 1 Patricia Grace, Mutuwhenua: The Moon Sleeps, Auckland: Longman Paul, 1978.

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advising her : "'You do what I tell you and get a Maori boyfriend.'" In the end she relents, accepting Graeme and realising that in choosing a pakeha husband Linda is not necessarily lost to her family or turning her back on her essential nature. This grandmother is splendidly evoked. Her old, worn body and the tenderness Linda feels for it are very well suggested. Details are presented unobtrusively so that they make characters memorable; we are made aware of the grandmother's house, of her mannerisms, and the little things like her passion for soft-centred chocolates and her pleasure in advertisements for luxurious modern furniture. The old woman's fear that Linda would turn her back on her past is not wholly unjustified. Through no fault of Graeme, Linda tries to resist the influence of her past. W hen G raem e takes her back to W ellington she sets out to play at being a suburban housew ife, following a dream that has nothing to do with her own past. It doesn't work out. She gets pregnant, which pleases everyone, but immediately she begins to ail. She does not want to face the possibility that the land on which they are living is dangerous territory for her because of some spiritual power there. She does not talk to Graeme about this; she can't believe he would understand and it is anyway something she herself finds hard to accept. By failing to confide in him, by failing to tell him who she is and how she is affected by such powers, Linda aggravates her own d istress and causes G raem e considerable pain. W hen eventually she writes about her troubles to her own fam ily, they immediately insist that she should shift to a different area. As soon as she does this she recovers. The attitudes to land and to the power of the dead which underly the reactions of Linda's family — and of the author? — are likely to worry pakeha readers. Most of us would prefer to see Linda's illness attributed to her pregnancy or to loneliness rather than to the influence of the dead. Although Grace does convince us of the way such a belief can animate and control the behaviour of people, I didn't feel that I could share it. Much is made of a stone implement discovered by Linda and her friends during her childhood. It had been buried in a grave but freak flooding has washed it downstream. Despite the desire of a pakeha to retain this com m ercially valuable artifact, the M aori parents hide it from him and then return it to the hills, using a tractor to shovel dirt over it. To have kept som ething belonging to the dead would have brought disaster to the family. The stone provides a recurrent and powerful image of what is permanent and unchanging for Linda. In her mind it stands as a sign of the influence the past has on the present. One of the less successful parts of M utuw henua is the account of how the schoolgirl Linda tries to tell her pakeha 'golden twin', her best friend M argaret, about the im portance of this stone. The writing is overtly m anipulative at this point. As Linda talks of the stone, M argaret tries to tell her about a violin. They alternate rem arks, but neither hears the other until suddenly they both realize there has been no com m unication. It seems unlikely that a passionate friendship would be destroyed by one failure like this. The parallels between the

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speeches of the two girls seemed too neatly controlled in order to show the similar places the stone and the violin could hold in the minds of children of different cultures. This episode seemed to be the product of artifice, not impelled by any imaginative truth. Linda's father dies at the very moment she gives birth to her first son. She goes back with the child to spend some time with her mother. The novel ends with Linda about to return alone to Graeme. She is leaving the baby for her widowed mother to rear. She m entions a couple of times that she is sure Graem e's love will enable him to see that she had no choice but to leave the child. That his reactions could be dismissed so easily made me uneasy. If this novel is simply about what matters to Maoris, to worry about Graeme's feelings is to raise an irelevant quibble. But if Grace is concerned with relations between races, then it seems to me that she has underestimated the significance that a w anted baby would have for its father. If G raem e is as affectionate as he is said to be, then acceptance of his loss of the child would be attained with some pain. Both Linda and the author seem to push aside this possibility. In fact Graem e never seems a w ell-realized character. He is defined more by what he lacks in Maori terms than by what he is. Linda frequently tells us of the strength of their love for each other, but we are told about it and do not see it particularized in episodes. Patricia Grace has written that she does not want to write about sexual passion.1 It is possible that if she could have made the sexual bond between Linda and Graem e m ore apparent, G raem e might have seem ed a stronger individual. There is one other character who should be mentioned. Linda's cousin Toki seems at first to be introduced as Graeme's friend who will conveniently facilitate their m eeting. As the novel progresses it becom es apparent that his function is much more than this. He is at once the good natured, joke-cracking cousin whose feet are bursting out of his tennis shoes and at the sam e tim e he is the youthful guardian and preserver of Maori values. He is at once comic and dignified; it's a combination of qualities few writers would risk. G race achieves it so successfully that when at the end of the novel she attributes to him a soul that is "dark glow ing black. Stainless and shining and as pure as the night of Mutuwhenua when the moon goes underground and sle e p s", it seem s ju st and appropriate. (It is interesting, incidentally, to see how powerfully Grace links blackness rather than whiteness with purity and virtue.) If M u tu w h en u a is less assured than G race's short stories, with characters less consistently realized and her values about the world less reliably suggested to readers with a different background, it is still a good novel. My reservations about it are based on the assumption that Patricia Grace is so good a writer that she must be judged by the highest standards.

1 Tihe Mauri Ora, p.85.

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MAKING THE NET WHOLE: DESIGN IN KERI HULME’S THE B O N E P EO PLE Carmel Gaffney Carmel Gaffney teaches at the Northern Territory University. Her article first appeared in Southerly 3, 1986._________________________________________

Keri H ulm e's Booker prize winning novel for 1985, The Bone People, m eshes events, m ysticism and dreams in such a tight net that the author leads us to speculate on the importance of total experience in the search for meaning. Over four hundred pages span the events that take place within a short time, possibly little more than six months. By com m enting only briefly on those past events that continue to influence the lives of the main characters, H ulm e forces us to concentrate on the shaping present which the main characters often m isunderstand. If we untangle the plot from the psychic drives of the characters a quotidian microcosm emerges. A woman artist, Kerewin, encounters the child-m ute Simon, through whom she meets his Maori stepfather, Joe. Jo e's child-bashing causes partial deafness to Sim on and the temporary separation of the three. All unite at Christmas: Joe returns from his gaol sentence for Sim on's m utilation: Kerew in extricates herself from an exile of guilt and m ysterious illness; and Sim on, through Kerewin's fostering, escapes welfare custody. W hile the events seem com m on enough, the characters charge them with so much emotional intensity that the mystical forces generated direct their lives. In som e sections of the novel Hulme seems to distance herself from those spiritual forces and strange visitors that Joe and Kerewin allow to influence them. Som etim es, the novel's innovative artistry and patterns tempt us to search for structural developm ents in plot, when Hulm e stresses only the character's psychological reactions to events. There are also occasions when H ulm e dem onstrates that m ystical insights condition the characters' responses to im m ediate events when the meaning extends beyond their understanding. Kerew in Holmes, the dom inating figure in the novel's trinity, and main interpreter of those incidents that draw her to Sim on and Joe, often m isunderstands reality. Early in her relationship with them she muses: Webs of events that grew together to become a net in life. Life was a thing that grew wild. She supposed there was an overall pattern, design to it. She'd never found one.1

Then repudiating all her sources of knowledge (Tarot, I Ching, "bits of history, psychology, ethnology, religious theory and practices of many kinds") she adds dism issively "None of them helped m ake sense of living" (p.96). Later, in her final plans for cementing the friendship 1 The Bone People, Auckland: Spiral, 1983, p.95. All subsequent page references are to this edition.

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with Joe and Simon, we find her organizing her future from recent dream s, events, voices, and Maori lore, and listing as her fourth resolution, "tying up loose ends, making the net whole" (p.96). Not a few of Kerew in's self-validating Romantic experiences that make "the net w hole" cause us to respond sceptically, and this seem s to be H ulm e's intention. Dreams for Kerewin become sources for self-analysis and in some instances stimuli for action; for Hulme they act as devices for exploring facets of the characters' psychology, and they often foreshadow future events. For instance, in the dream of abscessed teeth Hulme exposes K erew in 's fear of physical pain and her an xiety that hum an relationships will destroy her solitary "landscape of dark lunar shadow s" (p.194). This dream sequence Kerewin makes no attempt to analyse; she retreats from "the horror of the nightm are" (p .195) to M oerangi's familiar seascapes. W hile Kerewin postpones analysis of the dream of the tower's destruction ("sh e didn't, then, think at all of her tow er" — p.278), Hulm e uses it artistically and proleptically. Through the presentation of chaos and fluidity she prepares us for the psychological disintegration of Kerewin who draws all energies to herself in disaster: And at once brightly coloured pictures appeared. Trump cards, Tarot trumps. But they weren't stable. The colours ebbed and flowed and the pictures changed as she looked at them. The pair chained to the column in the card called The Devil shifted and stretched and became the Lovers. The Fool stepped lightly forever towards the abyss, but the little dog snapping at his heels ran on to bay at the Moon. The benign placid face of the Empress became hollow-eyed, bone-cheeked, and Death rode scything through the people at his horse's feet. The more she looked, the more the archetypes danced and altered, until they ran together in a rainbow fluidity that turned white. Except one card glowed. The scene was there for a split second, but in that second she was drawn into the card. The sky split and thunderbolts rained down, and she started falling, wailing in final despair from the lightning struck tower, (p. 277)

H ulm e also uses Kerewin's paintings to extend our knowledge of her gifts and limitations. The symbolic landscape of the second painting, for instance, describes the Romantic artist waiting for a Truth that has previously been intuitively understood: A moon shining a broken road o v e rs ea ; a lone woman naked to her waist waits at the end of moonlight; a shadow person watching for meaning som ew h ere. (p.273)

The fifth painting, K erew in's histrionic self-portrait, to which Joe responds som ew hat m elodram atically, reveals a know ledge of her creative power and its self-destructive potential:

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He practically snatches the last one out of her hand. Kerewin on a board. Wildly curly hair# darkly brown, but the normal highlights have turned to streaks of gold and red and grey, wheat-colour by her temples; bushy hair so alive he startles himself looking for eyes or fingers among it. Broad pale face, fleshy cheeks; the V of flesh of her forehead heavily shadowed so it becomes a brand. Narrowed cynical intense eyes, neither blue nor grey. Lively stone eyes, hating life. Thin twisted upper lip, fat lower lip, chin wedged out, ever ready to confront the worst. A grim face, stupid, but redeemed by the harrowing eyes. (p. 274)

Simon, the aura seer, has already prepared us for this self-revelation in his deseription of his early reactions to Kerewin: Big and strong, strong as Joe, stronger than Joe it came with sure suddenness, Kerewin Holmes covered with flames like knives. And a fierce hidden flame inside it, that sometimes dimmed taking all the over-lights with it, sometimes sank so far down that he was afraid it would never emerge again, and he would be left to face a husk that babbled, (p. 77)

T his artistic interlocking of techniques dem onstrates sim ilarities between Kerewin and Simon, and helps the reader to focus on qualities that their actions and responses have often concealed. W hen H ulm e's artistry merges dream s with Maori voices and legends, it becomes demanding and at times a little confusing. In those instances, characters interpret mysticism to reinforce their actions, and their divinations seem divorced from the main themes of the novel. K erew in's resolution to build, for instance, stem s from her Maori dream and voice experiences. The latter began with her finding of a M aori pendant. The event and subsequent dreams recalled for Joe's interest after his discovery of a translucent green Maori stone, seem at the tim e disconnected from the main concerns of the novel, just an inexplicable life incident: T h ey were about Maukiekie out there. Sometimes I saw a hole in the ground. Sometimes 1 entered it, and in the heart of the island there was a marae. Tukutuku panels and poupou carved into the living rock . . . there was never anyone to welcome me, but there was always breathing. Slow huge breaths . . . it was several dreams before I realised it was breathing, and not an underearth wind. 1 thought it's the island breathing, or Papa herself. 1 don't know/ H e just sucked his breath in, Ssseee.

T he dreams were trying to tell me something but I couldn't understand them. I still don't. In the last one, the breathing stopped, and the marae suddenly lightened like something lifting the covering rock off, and a great voice, not human, cried, "Keria! Keria!" Bloody strange way to end a dream, eh?' (pp. 266-7)

Later, when Kerewin recovers miraculously from her strange illness, Maori voices and dreams become urgent: S h e sat ou tsid e the door, and thought the d ream over.

The land is unknown. Bare and deserted, no trees, no obvious rocks, just low brown rolling hills.

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'Haere mai!' Welcome! But also, Come here... She had been aware enough to ask, Kei whea? 'Haere mai/ now a deep insistent pulse. A light came up, and the sccnc began to turn, as though a camera was panning slowly round 180 degrees. Bare waiting hills, and the aged night sky . . . but down in the gullies, she can see bush starting to grow and straggle up the bare slopes. The landscape keeps turning, and the next sign of life is a wrecked rusting building, squat on a tableland. She walks to it, 'Haere mai!' chanted by many voices now, filling the land like the thunderous pulse of a mighty sea. She touched the threshold, and the building sprang straight and rebuilt, and other buildings flowed out of it in a bewildering colonisation. They fit onto the land as sweet and natural as though they'd grown there. The karangatia grows wilder, stronger. The light bursts into bright blue daylight, and the people mill round, strangely clad people, with golden eyes, brown skin, all welcoming her. They touch and caress with excited yet gentle hands and she feels herself dissolving piece by piece with each touch. She diminishes to bones, and the bones sink into the earth which cries 'Haere mai!' and the movement ceases. The land is clothed in beauty and the people sing ... She reached into her pocket and took out a smoke for the first time in a month, and lit up. The only wrecked buildings I have any connection with are my Tower . . . and the old Maori hall at Moerangi. The smoke spreads out and away. (pp. 445-6)

Through the tenuous link between the dreams, the breathing and the insistent pulse, the marae suddenly lightening, and the wrecked marae rebuilding spontaneously and m ultiplying, Hulme seem s to suggest that Kerew in's search for artistic development will be realized by her creative response to her Maori past. W hile such dream techniques extend our knowledge of character, they raise issues beyond the novel's immediate concerns. For instance, K erew in 's dissolu tion into the bones of her an cestors and the consequent burgeoning of the land and the joy of the people ('T h e land is clothed in beauty and the people sing" — p.446) finds only partial realization in the rebuilding of the Maori hall: I was left to me own devices for the week — it was only a matter of relining walls and putting down new floor boards. Light carpentry, and it all fitted together so easy and slick, it might have been building itself. (p. 450— my italics)

This kind of superficial Hulme cleverness ("it m ight have been building itself") fails to convince the reader that K erew in's instant integration with her Maori past has an im portant function in the novel's structure. Som etim es, in events involving the su p ern atu ral, such as Kerew in's miraculous cure, Hulme seems deliberately evasive, and yet she indicates possible rational explanations. Some will, of course, argue

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that Hulme suggests that miraculous cures occur, and any amount of comment will not clarify the event. Nevertheless, there are suggestions that Kerewin's growth may be guilt engendered. Kerewin asks one of her doctors, "Could similar symptoms be initiated by stress and mental discontent?" (p. 431). Some time later she muses: Swollen empurpled, leaking pus from every crack. In this disease part spiritual my hands are betrayed gross, flaccid decayed to illuse and all the silent tender strength they hold is in abeyance (p.435) out of their rcach.

The source of her cure, Kerewin believes, can be attributed to an anonymous grotesque visitor: Of indeterminate sex. Of indeterminate race. Browned and lined, and swathed in layers of old blanket weathered and sundyed. Silver hair. Silver eyebrows. A massive burnscar for half a face, with mouth and eyebrows wrecked and twisted by pink keltoid tissue.

Given the amount of whisky and opium-based tablets consumed by Kerew in, we could assum e that the visitor has sprung from her im agination. Certainly, the clich6d grotesquerie and the allusions to psychosom atic illness show that H ulm e w ishes to set K erew in's exp erien ces against a fam iliar reality. W hat rem ains puzzling, how ever, is the au th or's apparent b elief in m ysticism and her reluctance to commit herself unequivocally to those experiences which she seems to endorse as fundamental to the heroine's development. But even m ore en ig m atic than H u lm e’s p resen tatio n of Kerewin's mystical experiences are her descriptions of Joe's encounters with his Maori roots. At the end of the long section, 'T h e Kaumatua and the Broken M an", we cannot help asking if the earthquake which buried the Maori canoe at the bottom of the sinkhole under thousands of tons of rubble was meant to free Joe from the promise of guarding it, or did the old kaum atua's legend of the stranger, digger and broken man, have no substance? If the former, then the Gods' capriciousness caused the elder to waste his life looking for the broken man to guard an inheritance they intended to take into their own keeping. A gain, we find Hulm e directing us through Jo e 's sceptical reactions beyond the kaumatua's strange sortilege to the possibility that extraordinary events may be misinterpreted by those who believe they understand the Gods: Told what? he asks himself. Told me nothing. A tale of a lonely old man, warped and defeated by a domineering old woman . . . but he says, 'Yes, very strange,' quietly, (p.370)

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Perhaps, in the loss of the stone where the mauriora dwells, which Joe was charged to guard, we are meant to see the departure of the Life principle from the land. Yet, some time later in K erew in's building of the marae, a Maori renaissance seems foreshadowed. Thus, it seems at times that Hulme loses sight of her Maori theme, and we have to work too hard to discern the way in w hich in cid en ts su p p ort the psychological needs of the main characters, and the m anner in which they are meant to function in the novel's design. W ithin the same episode, simple events such as Jo e's rescue by the kaum atua and the latter's story and picture of Tim on Padraic M acDonnagh, becom e more significant for the reader than the Maori legends. Ironically, Joe, who accepts the automatic writing of the dead, dismisses the significance of the photo and allows his intuition to be misled by the fallible memory of a local policeman: 'Yeah, I can understand/ says Joe. 'And his wife and child were both dead, eh?* 'Yeah. Auckland, as I said. I've got a good memory for things like that, though 1 say . . / Though you say it yourself/ says the sergeant grinning. Joe grins too. (p. 389)

The irony leads us to make those connections betw een Sim on and Timon that Joe misses. We only see the final pattern when Kerewin salvages the wreck. Even then H ulm e expects us to m ake the net whole: no marks for the inattentive reader. Hulm e reveals her firmest control of narrative techniques in the events that encompass Simon and which most directly lead to the bone people's formation. These episodes provide the main support for the novel's structure and reveal the author's belief in "webs of events" that finally reveal their pattern. Sim on's story gives the lie to Kerew in's belief that "Life was a thing that grew w ild" (p.95). His fortuitous rescue by Joe from the shipw reck, and his intrusion into Kerew in's herm itage entangle him with those people who most need to regain fam ily. Sim on's few possessions, the rosary and the ring, link him through K erew in's detective work with aristocracy, "junk from the old dead w orld" (p. 103) and Irish nationality. Simon shares with the dead Timon Padraic M acDonnagh, fair skin and hair and similar facial features. Kerewin first describes Simon as Small and thin, with an extraordinary facc, highboned and hollowcheeked, cleft and pointed chin, and a sharp sharp nose. Nothing else is visible under an obscuration of silvcrblond hair except the mouth, and it's set in an uncommonly stubborn line. (p. 15)

M em ory o f such features leads Joe to see his foster son in Tim on's photograph, but guilt and fear cause him to reject any thought of relationship: A young blond-haired man, long blond hair, ahh Jesus Ngakau, don't look at that one, but he does. The young man is gaunt and ill-looking, with deep hollows under his oblique eyes. His smile is somehow wildly merry, as though

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he has fallen into a terrifying joke. Pointed chin and high cheekbones . . . man, you're getting sick again, seeing him in rucryone. (p.357)

Through the kaum atua's story of Tim on's "m arvellous voice, that even in his pain could ring and soar" (p.372), Hulme causes us to recall Sim on's song of pain for the dead mollymawk: Then he sits back on his heels, keeping his mind dark, and sings to it. It is a thin reedy sound at first, nasal and highpitched. It is the only sound he can make voluntarily, because even his laughter and screaming are not under his full control, and it is as secret as his name. The singing rises and builds atonically. To Kerewin, walking catfooted on the silent sand, it has the strange heady purity of a counter-tenor, (p.247)

A fter K erew in's entrepreneurial venture into salvaging, we have sufficient information "to close the file" on the "G illayley child" (p. 455). The heroin discovered in the wreck links Timon, the Irish heroin addict, with Simon. The former, we know from the kaumatua, grieved for a dead wife and child and lived with an older woman. From Joe's account of the wreck we learnt that at least one and possibly two could have escaped the disaster: The coppers and the mate saw three people go overboard, a man holding a child, and a woman. But Tass swears to this day that he saw another man slip over the bow, and he thought there might have been someone else as well. He was in the wheelhouse and had the best view, so he's probably right, (p.89)

From the same account we discovered that the dead older woman, probably named O 'Connor and in "h er late th irties" (p.91), was, "according to blood groups" (p.92), not Simon's mother. Hulm e sim ply gives us all the inform ation we need to link Sim on with his Irish heroin-addict father: she deliberately evades stressing what should be obvious to us. By making us read attentively Hulm e suggests that patterns do exist in life if we have the wit to discern them. In Sim on's story where events follow a carefully conceived design, dreams and mysticism function integrally and reveal H ulm e's power to demonstrate the importance of the spiritual in life. For instance, Hulme joins Simon and Kerewin through their artistic and spiritual gifts. Both see the core of people: Simon intuitively; and Kerewin rationally, somewhat intuitively and frequently destructively. Often Hulme uses irony to stress the similarities and differences between them. Kerewin, the artist, recluse and mystic sees only slowly that Simon possesses extraordinary gifts. She almost destroys him in her effort to know his depth. Every aspect that detracts from his artistic sensitivity she discerns somewhat m aliciously. She calls him among other things: "one of the maimed, the contam inating"(p.l5); "a small evil buddha" (p.21); "the vandal, the vagabond, the wayward urchin; the scarecrow child" (p.37); "crazy kid" (p.64); "guttersnipe" (p.68); "n u tty ", "en tra n ce d " (p .72); "d istu rbed and zan y " (p.74); and

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"sp id erch ild " (p.216). Her verbal destructiveness decreases as her knowledge grows of Simon's gifts. Through Sim on's visions, dreams and music Hulme presents the central m eaning of The Bone People. It is the interior artist, Sim on, who builds his world constructively: The only defence he could raise against the dark and the horror and the laughing terrible voice were his golden singers, the sounds and patterns of words from the past that he fitted to his own web of music. They often broke apart, but he could always make them new. So he lay prone on the floor, and listened to them, and made Kcrewin part of them, part of his heart, (p.78)

Hulme also uses Simon's dreams and his past experiences of suffering to prepare us for the disaster that overtakes the lives o f all three characters. In a brilliantly evocative dream sequence, in which Simon s tr u g g le s against prem onitions of d isaster, H ulm e begin s the m ovem ent of destruction: He feels the air stir, Joe slip after the kick. Crush. And the dead weight doubles his pain. The world tilts more, and helplessly he begins to slide, downwards, underground into the box. Turning pinioned. Sound. A scream. Suffocating. Deep dark . . . It is almost night. (p.314)

By the powerful image of the fusion of pain with memories of flies and the putrefaction of Binny D aniel's body in Sim on's consciousness, H ulm e stresses that Simon alone understands the darkness that encom passes them: The lights and fires are going out. He weeps for them. The blood pours from everywhere. He can feel it spilling from his mouth, his ears, his eyes, and his nose. The drone of flies gets louder. The world goes away The night has come. (p. 320)

By also giving the reader psychological reasons for Sim on's powerful insights (Kerewin claims his nightmares are the shadows to Sim on's light — p.234), Hulme carefully lays the foundation for our acceptance of Sim on 's vision as the central m eaning of the book. From his suffering he comes to an understanding o f the new bone people: And if he can't go home, he might as well not be. They might as well not be because they only make sense together. He knew that in the beginning with an elation beyond anything he had ever felt. He has worked at keeping them together whatever the cost, He doesn't know the words for what they are. Not family, not whanau...maybe there aren't any words for us yet? (E nga iwi o nga iwi, whispers Joe; o my serendipitous elf, serendiptious elf, whispers Kerewin, we are the waves of future chance) he shakes the voices out of his head. But we have to be together. If we are not. We are broken. We are nothing, (p.406)

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From Sim on's belief that the "beginning people" (E nga iwi o nga iwi), "the people who make another people" (p.469), emerge from suffering and the heart's intuitions, we see that the ending TE MUTUNGA — RANEI TE TAKE, 'the end — or the beginning' is indeed just that. H ulme's final words force us to return to the first page where we find 'T h e End at the Beginning". When we do, we understand that the buoyant, confident, lighthearted trio, "H e", "H e", "Sh e", have survived their experiences of "darkness and fear" (p.3), "desolation and the deep o f despair" (p.6) and the imprisonment of self defeat. Sim on's vision of the beginning people is completed within the novel's structure. H ulm e has dem anded a great deal from the reader. The profundity of her message and the intricacy of the design make those demands a small price to pay for the joy of watching an artist create a vision from m an's physical and metaphysical experiences.

TELLING TALES ON TIKO: HAU O FA S SATIRIC ART Paul Sharrad Sometime Secretary of the South Pacific Association for Commonwealth Language and Literature Studies, Paul Sharrad teaches post-colonial literatures including a course on Pacific writing at the University of Wollongong. His essay was written especially for this collection.________________________________ __

If Albert Wendt declares that he writes to undo myths about the Pacific retailed by M elville, Maugham and M ichener, then Epeli Hau'ofa works to expose a more modern Pacific myth — that of 'Development' in all its guises, from local pork-barrelling to introduced commercial ventures. He does so with broadsides of hilarious and biting satire that also attack local complacency and hypocritical constructions of national identity. As such, he is a writer well worth studying, but he has not received much critical attention.1 Although there have been a few solid articles after the appearance of his second work, the rabelaisian novel Kisses in the N ederends (1987), his first book, Tales o f the Tikongs (1983) remains relatively unnoticed and undeservedly out of print.2 The distinction between Wendt and Hau'ofa, of course, is a matter o f rhetorical convenience more than critical accuracy, save in the obviously greater literary productivity of the former. W endt's poetry in particular deals with the "vampire's lie" of post-independence poverty and disillusionm ent. Equally, W endt's more solemn fictional output can be set against stories such as "Captain Full — the Strongest Man Alive who got All thing Strong Men got" or "I Will be Our Saviour from the Bad Sm ell" full of farcical tall hum our that deflates pretensiousness wherever it is found.3 Hau'ofa, in fact, seems almost to have taken to heart Tagata's humour in "Flying-Fox in a Freedom Tree": "sm all plants growing in the cracks, like funny stories breaking through your stony m ind."; "Life.... is good because it is ridiculous.... Laugh...because there is nothing else to do ... One laugh will turn everything to lava and joy and forgiveness."4 W endt’s fiction generally adopts a more biting and grim approach to the wilful idiocies and inequalities of his world, but he is capable of dry self-accusation (as in the poem "N o Islands in the Sun, just M isters") and wry affection for his rogues (especially in the personal

1 Vilsoni Hereniko has completed a thesis on clowning in Polynesia that provides a useful context for consideration of Hau'ofa's work. He notes that clowning played a traditional ritual function but decayed to mere entertainment in modem times. Polynesian Clowns and Satirical Comedies, Ph.D., University of the South Pacific, Suva, 1990. 2 Epeli Hau'ofa, Tales of the Tikongs, Auckland: Longman Paul, 1983; Kisses in the Nederends, Auckland: Penguin, 1987. The author is currently distributing his own copies of Tales, but there are plans for a 'Pacific reprint' series at the Center for Pacific Islands Studies, University of Hawaii, which will include it. 3 Respectively, Flying-Fox in a Freedom Tree, Auckland: Longman Paul, 1974, p. 21 and The Birth and Death of the Miracle Man, |1986| Auckland: Penguin 1987, p. 96. * Wendt, Flying-Fox in a Freedom Tree, pp. 132, 141.

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poem, "Inside us the D ead").1 Hau’ofa is far less solemn in his prose satire; he is also less respectfully realistic, relying on exaggeration, fanciful conceits and burlesque for his literary effects. His poetry, however, can be serious and sensitive to the appeal and authority of traditional culture (even if he can't resist a throwaway flippancy in the closing lines of the otherw ise formal "Blood in the Kava Bow l").2 It should be no surprise that the two are com parable w riters, since Hau’ofa produced his short stories through the 'seventies (originally in the Tongan journal F aikava and the Suva-based M a n a ) at the same time that Wendt was establishing his literary reputation and, for some years, on the same campus at U.S.P. Furtherm ore, W endt's sem iautobiographical Sons for the Return Home (1975), depicting a young Samoan sent to New Zealand for education becoming disaffected with both the pakeha world and the fa'a samoa (traditional way of life).3 Hau'ofa is also suspended between opposing worlds, belonging to both and neither at the same time. Hau'ofa as former Private Secretary to the King of Tonga, but a Tongan born in Papua New Guinea, is an 'inside outsider' who can play off familiarity with and affection for local mores against objective recognition of their lim itations and exasperation at customs being treated as unquestionable.4 The author also has privileged access to the 'modern tradition' of much of the Pacific in that he is the child of missionary parents, but again, he has an extensive secular education in the social sciences that gives him the ability to see and question abuses o f Church power and contradictions in its incorporation into state apparatus and everyday life. In opening up the gaps in society for general inspection, Hau'ofa runs the danger o f causing triple offense. As a member of the community addressing a local audience, he is breaking the code of not speaking out what may be generally known. In this mode, he assumes the persona of Manu, a gadfly ("w ho knows how to drive a man up a tree", p .19). The separate stories are loosely linked by the sporadic appearance of this character, whose shirts and conversation amount to a walking billboard of social commentary, but he is tolerated as a solitary eccentric and containable within the Biblical role o f 'prophet without honour' in his own country. As someone on the margins of island society addressing an outside audience, the writer can be rejected as a 1^051116 witness' betraying a privilege by representing his hosts in an unfavourable light to a decadent neo-colonial west. As one trained in the outside w orld seen generally to stand for progress, his uncom prom ising denunciation of foreign developm ent programmes 1 Respectively, in Richard Hamasaki & Wayne Westlake (eds.) A Pacific Collection, Seaweeds and Constructions, number 7, Honolulu: Elepaio Press, 1983, p.70; Albert Wendt (ed.) Lali: A Pacific Anthology, Auckland: Longman Paul, 1980, p. 284. 2 In Lali, p.239. 3 Albert Wendt, Sons for the Return Home, Auckland: Heinemann, 1973. 4 A brief biography and bibliographic history is contained in J.S. Ryan's "Epeli H au'ofa's Polynesian Human Com edy", New literatures review, 20, 1990, p. 32. Hau'ofa expands on his marginal position in the world in a 1984 conference paper, "The Writer as Outsider", New literatures review, 20, 1990, pp. 42-3.

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might be seen by readers from that world as rank ingratitude. (Manu's slogans are often self-contradictory, but he pulls no punches in calling across the street to the Secretary of a Great Development Project, "TIKO HATES YO U !", p.19.) The author's position is uncomfortably complicit and ambivalent. As the 'resident expert', the prodigal satirist returns to tacitly reject the self-serving religiose respectability of his father, only to be spurned by his more worldly cab-driver drinking partner ("Paths to G lory"). M aterialism reigns triumphant and, as his castigators point out, the new age 'wise man' in attacking it attacks the very system on w hich his em inence is founded. His marginal position is the only one from which informed satire is possible, but it is also no position from w hich to pontificate against pontification. Ultim ately, author-expert (on the book's cover brandishing a pipe in front of a bushy beard) must turn his critique upon himself: And Manu shouted at the Doctor of Philosophy recently relumed from Australia. The good Doctor works on Research for Development. He is a portly man going to pot a mite too soon for his age; and he looks an oddity with an ever-present pipe protruding from his bushy, beefy face. The Doctor is an Expert, although he has never discovered what he is an expert of. It doesn't matter; in the balmy isles of Tiko, as long as one is Most Educated, one is Elite, an Expert, and a Wise Man to boot, (p.18) I beg your pardon, doctor, said the tipsy taxi driver standing beside Tevita Poto at the bar of the Tiko Club. You're a Wise Man and a Scholar, and I'm uneducated and ignorant. But, begging your pardon, why do you Wise Men always sit up there looking down on us? Why don't you ever come down to our lev el? Well it makes no difference that you're always here drinking beer with us. And I don't believe you saying that you don't belong up there, that you belong nowhere, and that you are just you. You belong up there with the rest of those educated bastards. You deny it because you're trying to be humble. Shit! You earn more money than most Tikongs. You work for foreigners, (p.46)

This is a double inversion, however, because his self-negation fulfils the function of ritual apology and becom es the clowning means by which unpalatable truths can be conveyed to ears accustomed to hear only flattery or platitudes (e.g., p.6). H au'ofa's balancing act is a burlesque but it also relies upon a certain finesse.1 He can be pointed about the particular self-congratulatory parochialism of Tonga because he distances his criticisms in a fictional location and diffuses its identity w ith a pan-Pacific range of term inology (nam es are taken from Sam oan, Tongan, Fijian, English, Maori and PNG pidgin) and a global reach of allusion — there are references to Pavlovian conditioning (p.78), the White Australia policy (p.27), the U.S. Peace Corps (p.16) and its doctrine of Manifest Destiny (p.48) and the Israel-Egypt war (pp.3540). H e relies on realistic detail for many of his effects (we have to appreciate the accuracy — of his depiction of strict Sabbatarianism, o f 1 1 still recall with considerable delight Hau'ofa’s off-the-cuff conference delivery in 1984 which began in self-deprecation ("I am but a humble Pacific Islander") and proceeded with polite oratorical killer-instinct to demolish the standing of a rather self-important delegation of academics from the U S. East Coast.

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village life full of chickens and pigs, tidy cemeteries and the circulatory distribution of goods, of laid-back bureaucracy and petty opportunism, of the relatively rigid class stratification of Tonga, of island fish canneries for the Japanese market — for the humour to take hold). But the full impact of the stories' messages is conveyed through a broadbased allegory in which Tiko becomes metonymic of the Pacific as a whole, and its characters symbolic of post-colonial Everyman. In making reference to The Pilgrim's Progress, (in a tale about a young m an's pursuit of amorous adventure through several of the religious sects proliferating in the Pacific and one that plays wittily on the faithful 'flock' and the transformation from lambs to rams to old sheep, p.29) he employs a general quest device and the time-honoured convention of ju xtaposing worldly and other-w orldly interests to point, as a corrective, to the corruption of ideals, but also picks up on the specific connection that it was this book that was the first work of western fiction translated into a Pacific language. This book also serves as a 'hook' into the m issionary tradition and issues of colonialism as well as the contemporary indigenous alliance between Pacific churches, cultural tradition and worldly interests. It leads the reader gently from direct Biblical allusion to a critique of religious practice according to C h ristian principles, to a m ore secular exposé of som e of the contrad ictions in relig iosity itself. And if the dedicated P acific nationalist points out that 'Little Bo Peep' and Candide and Swift are the products of a decadent m aterialist west, then Pilgrim 's Progress stands as a reminder that the mission enterprise incorporated into local identity is also part of that outside tradition and that satire flows from prophecy and allegory, both of which are to be found in the Bible itself. In any case, much of the satiric allegory is founded upon 'in' Pacific jokes. Often names reveal a truth as clearly as actions — the constant use of capitalised honorifics underlines the tendency to let nam es and titles serve as gestural substitutes for the realities they supposedly represent. Som etim es names confirm events; frequently they operate in ironic contrast to them. Tulisi, capital city of Tiko, means either 'tourist' or 'toilet' — either a dam ning deflation of the official im age of nationaly dignity. Ti Pilo Sim ini sm okes 'like a chim ney'; Lea Fakahekeheke is, as her Tongan nam e suggests, a flatterer; likew ise Tevita Alanoa is a thief; Potopoto college, the prem ier educational institution on Tiko, means 'm oderately b rig h t/ m ediocre'; Ana Taipe is a typist who never types but is employed to play cards; Emi Bagarap, the 'Mr Fixit' of grantsmanship, rejoices in a PNG pidgin name meaning 'it's had it/it's broken'; Vakarau Dro, who is never in his office and travels to overseas conferences a lot, has a Fijian name meaning something like 'let's run away'). In "Blessed are the M eek", Puku Leka's name translates roughly as 'short-arse', an appropriate designation of his lowly social status, but an ironic inversion of his physical stature. His story is the most Swiftian upsidedown satire of the collection (as opposed to those like "Bo Peep's Bells" w h ich w ork by cu m u la tiv e ex a g g e ra tio n and in co n g ru o u s com binations of circum stance). The "im proving regim en" to which

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Puku is suò]ected as a child points :o the disparity between moral ideal and everyday practice, just as his hum ility, touted as a C hristian virtue, am ounts to u njustly im posed subservience. T he real-life ‘facts' of the story reflect back on the abstract principle of its title, to produce the cou n term an d in g irony that in a feudal society in which church, state and adm inistration are intertw ined, the meek are by no means blessed and their only hope is in an afterlife already exploited as motivational propaganda by a hypocritical elite to shore up its own privilege. Good chuch-gomg folk are not always known for their sense of hum our or ability to detect irony, so it is im portant to defend the author against charges of disrespect towards religion. It is the Biblical values of patience, self-sacrifice, dedicated service etc. that are the fo u n d a tio n of the story's social critique; it is the trav esty of them by those most eager to invoke them that is being criticised- Should a reluctant reader protect him or herself with the claim that the writer is an unbeliever with no respect tor the W ord, the satirist can reply that, for him, the word is everything. In that sense, he is as conservative as the people he sends up, making a counter-claim that it is they who have abandoned the real truth and settled for convenient half or quarter truths of twisted meanings ("The Winding Road to H eaven"). The clown merely twists words in order to return to their fundamental m ean in g. In doing so, h e draw s attention to the sin o f the fund am entalist: im prisoning the spirit of the word in a narrow literalism . Frequently w e find a joke grow ing out o f the literal interpretation of a cliché ("h e counted his blessings and found them short", p.61), highlighting the tragi-comic struggling co-existence of the m aterial and spiritual, real and ideal (as in the physical, literal consequence of the allegorical, moral "bum ping into T em p tation", p.10). A phrase can be bum ped incongruously from one fam iliar context into another incongruous one that reflects back ironically on the first ("bearing their Christian crosses with Buddhist calm ", p.53). D ouble entendre is a stock in trade: In developing the realm into a Nation with a fish Cannery it was necessary to develop not only the Top but also the Bottom in order to get a proper balance. 'A well-rouded Bottom below a well-rounded Top is beauty well worth having,' Manu declared, not thinking of tinned fish. (p. 21).

There is always the danger that a comic writer in a conventional society will seem merely to be an inconsequential or even offensive m averick, as suggested above. But although Hau'ofa's second book is banned in Tonga, and his first publication appears to have been studiously disregarded by critics (despite, according to him, having been se t on co u rses in so cio lo g y , h isto ry , d ev elo p m en t stu d ie s, adm inistration and literature '), he is in an important tradition of post­ colonial w riting (there's even a fleeting reference to Franz Fanon's "w retched of the earth" that puts the collection into this context, p.81). M uch of the popular Onitsha market literature from W est Africa and 1 "The Writer as Outsider", p. 51.

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plays like N gugi's Devil on the Cross from East Africa employ political and social satire, lampooning fakery and corruption.1 In Papua New Guinea, the same kind of ridicule by contrast and exaggeration can be found in poem s like Kumalau Taw ali's 'T h e Bush Kanaka Speaks" and plays like Nora Vagi's "W hich Way Big M an?".2 The com ic writer G.V. Desani exploits the bizarre gaps in perception and language use in multiracial, polyglot India, using a mixed-race clowning picaro as his Candide-like protagonist. He too (as in H au’ofa's "The W ages of Sin") explores the paradox of religious law and the possibilities of fulfilling the spirit of the law by subversive adherence to its letter.3 A nother writer from a small island, V.S. Naipaul, also began with affectionate satires of local characters,4 pointing out that in m arginal societies operating under conditions of colonial dependency, a person has only eccentricity with which to gain fleeting fam e.5 In a Pacific context, Alistair Cam pbell's recent comic trilogy, The Frigate Bird, Sidew inder, and Tia, uses Biblical figures to stage a farcical but serious battle, set mostly in the Cook Islands, for the soul of a fallible agnostic who is another prodigal returning home to cast a loving but critical eye over island life.6 Much of Pacific writing rehearses the induction of the individual into modernity as a tragic separation from communal tradition. In so doing it performs a useful anti-colonialist function, but it also lends itself to new nationalist closure around a fixed idealised identity that serves to perpetuate certain internal class distinctions. Indeed, such a view also keeps in circulation many of the myths of idyllic island life that underpin ou tsid e condescension. A com ic attack on n eo­ colonialist aid program mes which also exposes local failings not only adds a necessary tartness to the cloying taste of lotus-land sanctimony, but offers some hope of opening up gaps between inside and outside, tradition and m odernity, through which new possibilities m ight be envisaged. One aspect of Pacific tradition has been keeping things 'in house' — m aintaining decorum, keeping the peace by not publicly exposing wrongs or criticising shortcomings.7 This social virtue behind the 'laidback' image of Pacific placidity can turn into complacent dissembling. It can also lead to violent outbursts of repressed hostility in societies once 1 See, for example, Ogali Ogali, Veronica my Daughter and Other Onitsha Plays and Stories, (cd. Reinhard Sander), Washington DC: Three Continents Press, 1980; Ngugi wa Thiong'o, Devil on the Cross, London: Heinemann, 1980. 2 In Canga Powell (ed.) Through Melanesian Eyes, Melbourne: M acm illan, 1987, respectively, pp.67, 170. 3 G.V. Desani, All About H. Hatterr, 119481 Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1972. 4 Notably in Miguel Street, 11959] Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1971, and The Mystic Masseur, [1957] London: Heinemann, 1971, but carried over into his more sustained and complex magnum opus, A House for Mr Biswas. (19611 Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1969. Hau'ofa mentions Desani and Naipaul as influences in "The Writer as Outsider", p. 43. 5 "London" in Robert D. Hamner (cd.) Critics on V.S. Naipaul, London: Heinemann, 1979, p. 6. 6 All Auckland: Heinemann Reed; respectively, 1989,1991,1993. 7 Hau'ofa mentions this in interview with Subramani, Landfall, 169, 43.1, 1989, p. 39.

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founded on warrior values. Albert Wendt shows som ething of this in Leaves o f the Banyan Tree. But there is another side to tradition that Hau'ofa draws upon, and that is the popular, informal underside of culture — gossip, tall stories, clow ning satire and coarse humour centred on bodily functions.1 Again in Leaves o f the Banyan Tree, the narrating character Pepe describes a classroom scene in which students 'take the mickey' out of a teacher by exploiting available opportunities (the 'm orning talk') without flouting public convention or causing anger: "I realise they are playing a game.... You take a sm all joke and build it up till you get a deadly joke."2 A critique of Tiko that starts as a small joke and expands to reveal the bullshit under every sacred cow may leave now here to tread an unsullied path, no apparent ideal to inspire the reform that is always the satirist's aim. In an even-handed attack, no one escapes but no one wins eith er. A lthough in "The G lorious P acific W ay" it is the pettifogging procedure of international bureaucracy and its inability to think sm all enough to make appropriate intervention in a place like Tiko that results in the destruction of the research it supposedly exists to support, it is also the ignorant pragmatism of a village elder that sells off notebooks full of the tradition she might otherw ise represent. Maybe we are expected to see that no one needs the notebooks anyway in an oral-based close-knit community, that they are perhaps fixing culture as a museum artefact, but no one appears to care about the traditions apart from one natural scholar and the nett result, whoever is to blam e, is the disappearance of a unique cultural record and a useless, expensive round of international conference-going in which the west talks to itself on its own terms and pays off token islanders to enable it to do so with the appearance of caring about the rest of the world. (The acronym for one aid agency is MERCY, but its operations are merciless.) Stories that individually cause delighted and rueful recognition (the originals appeared over a three-year period, 1976-78), when concentrated between the covers of one book may induce m ental indigestion. The cartoonist’s pointedness, through repetition, may come to seem an insincere flippancy or a depressing blanket cynicism. Self-m ockery takes away some of this impression, as it also prevents the writier from seeming arrogantly didactic, though it also defuses the moral anger behind the critique. There is also a genuine affection for his world that keeps the reader from despair at the pervasiveness of deception and self-deception in Tiko as well as a deep commitment to his world on the author's part revealed in the references to very real social problem s: the brain drain to New Zealand, over-population, econom ic dependency, inefficien t adm inistration , n eo -co lon ialist exploitation and so on. The book certainly ends on a serious and depressing note: the Pacific future, as represented by Tiko, is pronounced to be that of a 1 See his interview with Subramani, Landfall, 169, 43.1, 1989, pp. 46-47. 2 Albert Wendt, Leaves of the Banyan Tree, |19791 Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1981, p. 170.

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"first-rate expert beggar" (p.93). Hau’ofa's second book, while more outrageously irreverent, looks towards a m ore positive vision of collective healing. In a recent speech, he addressed the problem of negativity for the satirist and social critic by reconceptualising the Pacific world in terms of traditional navigation and exchange systems. Instead of isolated, tiny dependencies, the islands are envisaged as clusters of communities inter dependent with each other and the world b ey o n d .1 This comforting re-vision of the w estern / colonialist view, however — just as trenchant satire must be balanced with light farce, anger with affection — has to be accompanied by realistic self-appraisal, or the old outside myths of the Pacific will m erely be replaced by equally delusory and dam aging inside ones. That is the im portant balancing act of Tales o f the Tikongs, an equivocal art of telling tales in which "everything is simultaneously possible and im possible" (p.68).

1 Epeli Hau'ofa, "A Sea of Islands: A New Paradigm for the Pacific", East-West Center Views, 3.3, May-June 1993, pp. 1, 4.

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SAMOAN WRITING: SEARCHING FOR THE WRITTEN FAGOGO Peggy Fairbalrn-Dunlop This article first appeared in the Pacific Islands Communication Journal, 14.1, 1985. It is reprinted with the permission of the Institute of Pacific Studies and not to be further duplicated without permission of the Institute of Pacific Studies, P.O. Box 1168, Suva, Fiji. The author currently works at the University of the South Pacific, in Apia. 'W h en the d ark n ess cam e... w e w ould craw l u n d er o u r m o sq u ito n ets. Then w ould co m e th e cry Ole a fai la tatou fagogo. W e w ould lie b a ck , an d o u r gran dm other would tell us the w onderful fagogo sto rie s.'1

The speakers were different, the story tellers different. But the stories, the way in which they were told, coupled with the closeness of the evening as family members lay together cocooned in the fale security, help ed create the Sam oan's love of story, adm iration for the storyteller's art, and fascination with the power of words: or "telling it the fagogo way "2 T he strength and richness of the Samoan oral tradition has been well documented. Oratory has been called the greatest art form of the Sam oans, and oratorical skills "the most admired by Samoan people"3 with social occasions often becoming endless debates and verbal battles. The listeners' appreciation of appropriateness of format to occasion is seasoned by the speakers' allusions to past historical events, and the use o f traditional sayings to add support, authenticity and, m ore im portant, beauty to the arguments. After such meetings it is not what was said, but how it was said that is the topic of discussion on the way hom e. Sam oans relish the spoken word. The development of Samoan writing must be set against this tradition of language to be understood. The love of words, building up into logical argument and woven into intricate plots, allusion and innuendo, are all here. The development of an indigenous written literature has been slow, following a pattern eviden t in other developing countries m oving from an oral to a written literacy. Early experience with the written word helped form in the Samoan mind the impression that writing was solely functional in 1

In interviews, many writers constantly referred to the fagogo. It was almost a standard, or expectation in story excellence. Moyle gives a good definition of the fagogo: “In Samoan folklore, a fagogo is a story told mostly at night, privately inside individual homes. It transports the audience into the folklore world of heroes and heroines, of supernatural forces acting for good and for evil, but is set against a background of a typical local society, making it immediately comprehensible to Samoans of all ages.” (See Moyle, R., compiler and translator, F agogo: F ables from Samoa in Samoan and English, Auckland: Auckland University, 1981.) The artist's skill is in the telling of the story. He incorporates traditional allusion and oratory, tagi (songs) and solo (poetry). The audience is encouraged to join in the sections they know — almost like the old English Music Hall. 2 Crocombe, M„ “Samoa’s Albert Wendt: Poet and Author”, interview in Mana Annual o f Creative Writing, Suva: South Pacific Creative Arts Socicty, 1973, p.45. 3 Meleisea, M., “We want the forest yet fear the spirits: Culture and change in Western Samoa”, Pacific Perspective, vol.9,1980.

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p u rp ose, for conveying inform ation. It is only in the p o st­ independence years that a realisation of the intrinsic worth of literature has becom e more widespread. With the opportunity to read more widely other different styles of writing came the urge to write one's own literature and it appears that the search by Samoan writers has been to capture on paper the elusive essence of the fa g o g o art they rem em bered from their youth. H ence the developm ent o f an indigenous literature in Samoa becam e 'the search for a written fagogo'. Creative writing does not hold a high status in Samoa. Most parents do not encourage their children to read and write 'unless it is for school' purposes, while in many schools, the em phasis is still on 'getting it right'. This attitude has been formed by many factors. Among these are historical factors: the strong oral tradition, the fact that literacy was the art of the palagi, and that the early literature Samoans saw was m ainly functional in purpose, full of authority and sacredness. A second group of factors relate to the physical size and geographic location of Samoa and the traditional com m unity/fam ily-based way of living. Lastly, there are factors that can only be labelled 'personal' — the writer's receptiveness and evaluation of influences both from outside and within Samoa, and his ability to stand outside the factors created by historical and geographical circum stances and decide 'w hat shall I write, how shall I write it, and in what language shall I write?' This paper explores some of the factors that have shaped and continue to influence Samoan writing and writers. Secondly, there will be an overview of the main trends in post-1960s w riting in W estern Samoa, and lastly a brief look at writing in American Samoa. 'Samoan writing' is here defined as anything that is written whether in English or Samoan by someone who considers himself to be a Samoan. The em phasis will be on creative literature; however, brief reference will be made to academic writing — creative in its own way — as it presents an interpretation of data from a Pacific perspective. FACTORS AFFECTING SAMOAN WRITING

Historical factors To the early Samoan, books were a palagi thing, introduced and owned by foreigners. Books represented pow er, authority and total correctness. Although the Samoan people were eager to learn the new skills so they could share in the power and prestige these brought, status rem ained with the traditional art o f the spoken word. It is possible that anti-palagi feelings may have motivated the people to value the faa Samoa arts even m ore highly: alm ost an attitude of 'w ritin g is palagi, speaking is Sam o an '. Thus there w as the contradiction that Robert Louis Stevenson was revered as Tusitala, the teller o f tales, but local story w riting w as never encouraged or respected. The type of written materials Sam oans were first introduced to w ere alm ost entirely fu nctional in pu rpose — 'you need this

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inform ation in order to do that' — and so the belief grew that writing had only one use, and that only certain subjects should be written about. For example, the two main thrusts towards literacy came from the churches and the colonial governments, and the formal schools set up by these two institutions. Fifteen years after the arrival o f the London M issionary Society (LMS) in 1830, the whole of the New Testam ent had been translated into Samoan and was eagerly read by the converts. Ten years later, there was a Samoan Bible. The LMS set up local printing presses at Malua, which prepared textbooks in the vernacular for use in the church schools, and other denom inations quickly followed su it.1 A huge quantity of religious literature, such as hym n books, bibles, tracts, new spapers and study m aterials were produced by the churches in the following years: the main purpose, conversion and retention.2 T he Germ an A dm inistration set up a form al school for the German families but allowed afakasis (part Sam oan/part Europeans) to attend because of the Administration's need for clerical staff.3 Literacy and absorption of subject matter were the main goals in these classes. The Germans, and later the New Zealand colonial powers, used their own books to instruct, both because they believed this literature to be w orthw hile, and because of the relative ease and cheapness of im porting it from the homeland. Thus Samoan students learnt to read using novels, plays and poetry deeply rooted in the European tradition, but alien to their own. In the efforts required to decipher these foreign concepts, little time could be spent appreciating the writers' art, if this were considered necessary at all. Functional reasons also prompted the G erm an Government to set up the first public newspaper, to inform the people of Lands and Titles court cases, new m atai (family head or chiefly) titles and government news.4 Much of the early writing about Samoa can also be labelled functional in purpose and style. A vast quantity of material was written by 'outsiders looking in' and filled the pages of English and German publications. Sam oa's soil, clim ate, geography, social custom s and behaviou rs w ere scientifically stu died , m yths and legends w ere recorded, and family genealogies turned into history. Among the most fam ous of these are Kramer's study, Die Samoa-lnseln (1903), Stuebel’s Sam oanische Texts under Beihulfe von Eingeborenen gesam m elt and ubersetzt (1896), later translated by Brother Herman as Tala o le vavau (1955), and George Brown's writings (1910).5 The material was collected for the purpose of recording and preserving the activities of a society untouched by westernisation, industry or urban living. Even much of 1 Maiai, F„ “A Study of the developing paucm of education and the factors influencing that development in New Zealand Pacific dependencies”, unpublished MA thesis, Victoria University of Wellington, 1957, pp.168-174. 2 See Pereira, J.A., General Bibliography: a checklist o f selected material on Samoa, vol.l, Apia: USP Extension Services. 1983. 3 Maiai, op. cit. 4 Personal communication, Apclu Aiavao. Under the New Zealand Government, this paper became O le Savali (The Messenger) and is still the official government paper. 5 See Pereira, op. cit.

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the creative literature written at that time is touched by elem ents of sociological com parison and com m ent. W endt is scath in g in his criticisms of much of this material: the hilariously romantic through the pseudo-scholarly to infuriatingly racist; from the 'noble savage' literary school through Margaret Mead and all her comings of age, Somerset Maugham's missionaries, drunks and saintly whores and James Michener's rascals and golden people, to the stereotyped childlike pagan who needs to be steered to the Light.*

These works are nevertheless valuable historical and social accounts of Samoa as she was seen to be. Perhaps they tell us more about the authors and the societies they came from than about Samoa. Much of the content and interpretation, in the humanist studies in particular, must be treated with caution because of the outsider's perspective, and because much of it was heavily edited. There is a small but very im portant source of w riting by Samoans during these early days, and that is in individual aiga papers recording fam ily, com m unity and national events.2 Many of these papers exist today, some only for family reading. Teo Tuvale, an interpreter with the German government, wrote a manuscript "History of modern Samoa: an account of Samoan history up to 1918", which is still held in the Nelson M em orial Library.3 In these aiga w ritin g s , Samoans were using the written language in the ways they had learnt it should be used. H istorically then, the written word came to represent power and authority, and for those who unlocked the writing secret, the chance for a position in government, church or trading organisation. Literacy was associated with economic gains, gains for the soul, and gains in power. W riting consisted of straight facts; the em otions, imagination and feeling for words belonged to the oral word. These attitudes were slow to change, but change did begin in the 1960s, and leadership in this change process was taken by students who had studied overseas. Scholars had been going overseas for education since the early 1920s, and since its settlem ent by p a la g i, Samoa had been wide open to overseas ideas and influence.4 What were the factors which combined in the 1960s to alter these long-held attitudes? It could be said that the 'timing was right'. The challenges of the 1960s fuelled a people looking towards nationhood. The com bined effect of: the ideas and social milieu of the countries where the students w ere studying, the people they met and the subjects they Tead, the w orld-w ide political ferm ent concerning cultural su periority and in feriority , cultu ral assim ilation, 'm elting pot' theories and the pow erful m ilitant Black Power m ovem ent, led a politically aware group of students to stop accepting unquestioningly all the ideas they 1 Wendt, A. (ed.), Lali, Auckland: Longman Paul, 1980, p.xiv. 2 Personal communication. Many families have kept these records for generations. 3 Tuvale, T ., “History of modem Samoa: An account o f Samoan history up to 1918” (translated from Samoan by E. Riddell), Apia: unpublished manuscript, 1918, Nelson Memorial Library. 4 Maiai, op. cit.

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were learning, to ask their own questions, search for their own answers and decide their own direction. In the creative writing field, Samoan w riters began to explore more p ositively the p o ssib ilities and boundaries of writing, in both English and Samoan. There was now a desire to write in the Samoan language. For exam ple, Fanaafi Maiai had previously published "Stories of Old Sam oa" in New Zealand readers.' She and her brother Semisi began translating materials into the Samoan language.2 Fanaafi speaks of her childhood steeped in the faa Samoa, and her love of the literary tradition as embodied in the language and fagogo, as strengthening her belief in the necessity of bilingualism, particularly when she saw the effects of P akeh a dom ination on the New Zealand M aori. M aiai's u niversity stu dies, and in particular a UN ESCO report o f 1952 concerning the values of mother tongue maintenance, helped firm up this conviction. Translating first began as a hobby, but there was also a deeper belief: "I believed in our Samoan language. But how could we study a language when there was no written material?" She chose the English classics to translate into Samoan first: "I knew that all Samoans love a good story. I liked T he Black Tulip. It had politics, religion, rom ance, blood and intrigue... I knew Samoans would enjoy it." So The Black Tulip became "O le Tulipe Uliuli". She tried to capture the tone and style of storytelling of the rem em bered fa g o g o in her translations: "I read the story through till I knew it... then I tried to re­ tell it the way a Sam oan would tell it... not a word for word translation". There was some criticism of her efforts, principally for telling the stories in the natural m ixture of colloquial and formal language she tried so hard to achieve, 'she should', they said, 'have used the formal language'. The question of 'which Samoan should be used in the w riting of Sam oan literature' is still a contentious issue. However, Fanaafi found that there was an audience eager to read stories written in Samoan, formal or not: "I went into church in Savaii... there was this old woman looking down at her knees all the time... I looked over, and on her knees she had a copy of 'O le Tulipe U liu li'." She re-told King Solomon's M ines because "the w riter said he wrote this as the African Treasure Island so it had links with Sam oa", and The Boy who was A fraid, while Epi Enari contributed Around the World in Eighty Days. At the same time, and possibly influenced by Fanaafi's work, a new paper, The South Seas Star, began printing stories for its readers — the first 'magazine section' in a Samoan paper. This paper gave half of its twelve pages to translations of classics such as "The Bottle Im p", Treasure Island and Robinson Crusoe and found that people lined up to buy the paper, not to read the news, but to follow the latest

1 Maiai, F„ Stories o f Old Samoa, Christchurch: Whitcombc and Tombs, 1960. 2 Maiai, S. (translator), Samoa o Anamua, Wellington: Department of Education, 1962; translation of Turner, G. (translator), Samoa: a hundred years ago, London: Macmillan & Company, 1884.

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instalment of the story. Like Fanaafi, the editor had been an overseas stu d ent.1 As Principal of the Teachers College, and then as Director of Education, Fanaafi became one of the leaders in Government moves to 'Sam oanize' the school curriculum.2 She produced booklets on how to w rite Sam oan, and her drive to m aintain and develop Sam oan literature has reached into the 1980s, when as Vice Chancellor of the U nivesite o Sam oa, she introduced program m es steered tow ards studying the Samoan language, its composition and development, and its use for all purposes of modern Sam oan life. Students at the university were encouraged to w rite their theses in Sam oan, "and some of these are finding this very d ifficu lt.. . but they want to do it". Apelu Aiavao was another writer em erging in the 1960s whose influence on Sam oan w riting continues today. He w ent to N ew Zealand in 1963 to "learn how to write stories so Samoa could produce our own school journals". School journals had been produced locally earlier, but the articles had been written mainly by expatriate teachers, and then translated into Sam oan by Sam oan teach ers.3 In New Zealand, Apelu worked with writers who took their writing seriously, Jam es Baxter, John M elser, and A listair C am pbell, and Baxter in particular helped Aiavao develop his "feeling for the idea to develop". On his return to Sam oa, Aiavao as Senior O fficer with School Publications and Broadcasting, established contacts with a group of writers — mainly teachers — and set to work to produce materials. Am ongst these writers, were Agafili and later Koke Aiono, but "the stories were not interesting, not creative, not original... I began to think why is this so? Are we without imagination? And I asked myself, what is the art of the fagogo? Anyone can get up and talk, but it takes a good orator to s w a y .. . the technique". Thus the search began in earnest from a second direction; the search for the elusive art of the storyteller, an expressed wish to "tell our stories the fagogo w ay", and in Samoan. The 1960s was a time of exploration by Samoans writing in the English language also, in both creative and academ ic literature. Sam oa's foremost writer, Albert W endt, began to "be published in the so-called literary magazines and journals. . . [he] got really serious about the w riting gam e".4 W endt's contribution to Samoan writing, Pacific literature and literature in general is im possible to assess. Firstly, he w as a Sam oan, and w riting about topics, em otions, and feelings Sam oans could identify with, using im agery which had an instant appeal. Furthermore, the fact that he was writing so well that he was being published, brought reactions of 'could a Samoan have written this p oem /novel?' and 'Are Samoan subjects and feelings eligible for 'literatu re'?', followed by a shared pride that a Samoan had broken through in a highly com petitive and disciplined field. Second, the themes of W endt's works were tied up with identity and the emerging 1 Personal communication. Apelu Aiavao. 2 See Annual Reports o f ihe Western Samoa Education Department for this period. 3 Personal communication. 4 Crocombc interview, op.cit.

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nationalism of the Independence era in Samoa, asking the 'who are we, where have we been, and where do we think we should go' questions. H is w ritings w ere the equivalent of 'Independence in literature' challenging others to question, seek answers and write. They became an example, or baseline of what could be done, and he became a role model for young Samoan artists to follow. Thirdly, the unquestioned literary merit of the writings brought appreciation. They showed the artist's eye for detail, an uncanny ability to evaluate the realities behind the appearances, som etim es too harshly, and an incisive use of language — a skill for combining words into im agery of quite rare beauty, and the daring and creative flare to experiment with form to achieve the impact he sought. Critics have described W endt's writing style in words which could equally apply to the fagogo story teller. He has the art of holding an audience with his voice... a thrust... the art of the tribal word hypnotist, and myth making Sham an.. . in muscles, nerve and psyche; and whole creative drive, he is of Samoa. 1

W hether this was unconscious, or was a deliberate effort at capturing the fa g og o teller's skills on paper, is difficult to assess, and is probably im m aterial. But like the fa g o g o tellers of old, W endt in the ensuing years kept trying new ways and moods to capture the reader: the best writers are those who invent new tricks, and who, like the gifted taulaailu or spirit mediums, weave new incantations or bring their worlds (shaped in their images) into being....2

Lastly, Wendt was, and has continued to be, generous in sharing his skills and his time. Throughout the next 25 years, he was to work untiringly to prom ote the creative talents of other aspiring artists through w orkshops, publications, m eetings, editorial and personal support. It is doubtful that Samoan writing would have achieved the standard it has today without the continual stirring, drive and example of Albert Wendt. On the academ ic front Samoan scholars w ere beginning to publish also. Amongst the writings to appear in the 1960s are those of Te'o Fairbaim in economics and Fanaafi Maiai in education.3 Geographical factors It was probably not until the 1960s, when Sam oans began to w rite in earnest, that the effects of the physical sm allness of the population and the country and its geographical isolation came to be felt. The im m ediate effect was that there were fewer people to write, and those people who were writing were very much a 'town' group: an 1 Crisp, P., “Albert Wendt: Pathways into Darkness”, Inlands, vol. 17, no.4, August 1979. 2 Wendt, A., “The Writer as Fiction”, Mana, vol.8, no.l, 1983, p.41. 3 Fairbaim, I.J., The national income o f Western Samoa, ¡941-58, Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1983; Maiai, F., “Bilingualism in Western Samoa: Its problems and implications for Education”, unpublished Ph.D. thesis. University of London, 1960.

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elite group who had been to university and teachers' college, pastors and pastors' wives. Most held good jobs allowing enough leisure time and m oney to pursue their art, and had access to books and information to be able to develop their skills. A second effect was the lim ited am ount of social support available for writers, both emotionally and economically. There were fewer people to read, appreciate, offer constructive criticism or support publication. With the low per capita income, who could afford to buy books, who would be prepared to invest m oney in publications of limited circulation? A quick survey o f the main bookshops in Apia revealed that their customers were mainly expatriates. Peace Corps and other volunteers eager to learn m ore about Sam oa, tourists, local professional fam ilies, mainly a fakasis, and Sam oans from overseas who could not buy these materials in their own countries.1 W eekly newspapers however were eagerly bought and read, and the radio was the other important source of information and entertainment. The problem of isolation from the mainstreams of writing and econom ic support for publication has been of concern for all Pacific Island writers. It made motivation very much a personal challenge, setting one's own standards with few rewards. College magazines were the main outlet for writing in the 1960s and 70s and teachers the main m otivators, with the Samoa College magazine Tautua setting a particularly high standard. The South Pacific Creative Arts Society (SPCAS), founded after the first South Pacific Arts Festival, was to play a major role in reducing the isolation of writers, and in seeking and prom oting publishing opportunities for Pacific writers (in the 'M ana' pages of the Pacific Islands M onthly, in the M ana R eview , M an a, and in other M an a-backed pu blications).2 As well, the Society chased funding for W riters' W orkshops, where Samoan and other Pacific writers gained a feeling of shared history and experience, strength, unity, and the motivation and energy to continue writing — so difficult to maintain in their small island countries.3 In Samoa, a backbone of support was developing. A W riter's A ssociation was begun in the 1970s and the annual short story com petition run by the U.S.P. Extension Centre, with the M o a n a publication of the best articles subm itted, gave further support and direction to writers. The sm allness of the country and the traditional nature of the community had other less noticeable but important effects on writers: "In the States I get inspiration ... I must write.... But in Samoa, there is never any time, I can't read without being disturbed"; "W hen the plane takes off from Faleolo, I look down at the waves... I have to w rite." These speakers couldn't explain these feelings. 'T h a t’s just the way it is". Perhaps it was the lethargic climate, or communal living and its

1 Personal study. 2 For an outline of the development of the South Pacific Creative Arts Society, its aims and achievements, see Crocombc, M„ “Mana and Creative Regional Cooperation”, Third Mana Annual o f Creative Writing, Suva: SPCAS, 1977. 3 See “Mana Forum”, Mana, vol.3, no.l, 1978, for discussion of the value of regional workshops.

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comfortable predictability which ceased to challenge and inspire, or the air, heavy with unspoken but felt public censure, people watching and evaluating each action. What were the effects on the w riter's freedom of speech and expression, of living in a community which prided itself on its ability to maintain its traditional community way of life, steeped in sanctions encouraging communal action but stifling expressions of in d iv id u ality?1 Subject matter was one aspect which cam e under close public scrutiny. W endt's novels were not widely acclaimed in Samoa, mainly because “there are some things you talk about and some things you do not talk about"; "w e all know about these things. . . you do not have to voice them publicly... keep them private". Sim ilarly, M omoe Von Reiche's poetry about male infidelity was categorised by many as 'not seem ly'. Samoans seemed to like to read the good things, even though they knew that the realities might not be so good. There was a concern with right conduct and appearances and a wish that others think well of the Samoan. This attitude may help explain why the old fagogo tales were 'set pieces' in plot, dealing with universal themes of acceptable and unacceptable behaviour, with right behaviour always conquering at the end. The suffusion of the supernatural elem ent through the tales, may also have served to distance the action/m oral from present reality. Bad things afar were not so personally threatening. The listeners could sit spellbound, in the knowledge that they were not like that — a valuable defence mechanism. It was not solely the sexual subject matter that was the subject of censure. The disclosing of any elements which might bring shame on a com m unity or cause others to laugh was sim ilarly frowned on. The family of one writer was forced to do an ifoga (forgiveness cerem ony) and was heavily fined, because in her story she "overstepped the mark ... she printed things that were not for everyone to know about". This w riter had entered her story in the short story com petition under a nom de plum e, indicating that she knew 'the rules of the gam e'. But then the story had been broadcast over 2AP and the listening villagers had im m ediately recognised the predicament described as their own. Censorship had been immediate.2 This kind of attitude is anathema to writers, many of whom were not prepared to tell only the pleasant tales: "I'm not much for compromising. To compromise with one's integrity and honesty as a writer is a betrayal of one's gift".3 It is a strong individual that can step outside this framework, disregard communal sanctions and write as he feels: 1 camc back home. I search for a new beginning and find the old spiral of rope locked in the cupboard still as it was when things started to happen. And I become sick with this home, R itchie, J. & J .. Crowing up in Polynesia , Sydney: George Allen & Uniwin, 1979, particularly chapters 3 ,6 and 7. 2 Personal communication. 3 Wendt in Crocombe interview, op c.it. 1

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and I feel nauseated with locked doors, and feel like breaking the cyst in my left breast apart and paint the window black and put the moon in a dark oven. Because in all my life, I feel so new 1 could walk into this house feeling perfect having left my life out in the sun among the nails and jasmine.1

However, other writers did not have this difficulty. The timelessness and peace of Samoa provided the balm necessary for them to write: When the bird dips the ocean and the fish drifts on the wave skins, the old man casts the line to sea: He fishes in competence. A certainty born from catch less ages and generations of wasted feathers buried in the seas deep?

How shall I write? The last factor influencing Samoan writing was the question H ow shall I write; in English or Samoan?' This was firstly a question of ease in writing, ultimately tied to feelings of personalidentity, and the w riter's preferred audience. The predicam ent for the Sam oan writer was that of writing for a palagi audience who m ight appreciate the lyrical and epigrammatic gifts, but might have a limited understanding o f the intricacies of a plot unfolding from a set of culturally different expectations and values, or writing in Samoan som ething that locals would enjoy and understand but which might be doomed to a limited circulation.3 'My parents haven't really read much of my work ... their English is not very good/ T v e thought in English for so long now, that it's easier for me to write in English... also there's more words... the Samoan language is a little clumsy. . . sometimes I translate my poems into Samoan/

A few writers who have published in English, are now writing mainly in Sam oan: 'When we left school... and all the palagi subjects and words and everything in palagi... I felt relief and release.... Now I write in Samoan . . . sometimes I translate them into palagi, but all the real care goes into my Samoan/

1 Malifa, S., “Roomful of Life”, Third Mana Annual o f Creative Writing, Suva: SPCAS, 1979, p.49. 2 Peiaia, R., “The Old Man“, unpublished, 1985. 3 Arvidson, K., “The Emcrgencc of Polynesian Literature”, in Mana Review, vol.l, no.l, 1976, p.28.

146 'It's very hard for me to write in Samoan... I am reading a lot of Samoan literature... I am working at my Samoan... 1 envy those Samoan orators who have the words, the technique of the real faa Sam oa/

Others have always written in Samoan: 'I only write in Samoan. .. I'm glad I didn’t go overseas. . . then my head would be filled with palagi ways of looking at things and palagi words and forms. I don't want to mix that up with my Samoan. I understand the way Samoans think, and the words they want to hear.... That is how I write. I'm scared that if 1 write in English, I will start to think like that too. Even itf they [overseas students) speak fluent Samoan, Imanyl think like palagis — so it comes out that way'

The trend in the late 1970s and continuing today, is that more Samoans are writing in the Samoan language: " I don't care how many people read me. I do know there will be readers"; "It began as a challenge. . . I wanted to do it." The new Samoan writers are writing at a time when life in Sam oa is changing, many ideas and rigid traditions are mellowing. There are different challenges: often more freedom is less freedom : Educate yourself enough so you may understand The ways of other people But not too much that you may lose Your understanding of your own Try things palagi Not so you may become palagi But so you may feel the essence Of being Samoan Above all be aware of what you are So you may spare yourself the agony Of those who are asking Who am I?1

It is within these constraints, historical, geographical and personal, that Samoan writing has emerged. POST 1960s WRITING W riting during this period falls into three stages: the years to 1974, years of first growth when the themes tend to be anti-authority, change, and identity and most of the writing is in English; the years 1974-1984, when writing and experimentation with form continues in English but there is also a more concerted development in Samoan writing and the themes turn more inward, to a questioning of the jaa Samoa itself; and lastly the 1984-86 period, which can be viewed as a turning-point, a tim e when Sam oan w riting is taking off into new and untried directions.

1 Simi, T.t “To be a Samoan”, in Mana, vol.6, no.2, 1981.

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T o 1974

These are the years of ferment, incubation of ideas, and first growth in the creative writing field. The major figure in these years is Albert W endt, both for the list of personal and Samoan 'firsts' he achieved in this period, and for the impetus and direction he gave to other Samoan writers. Wendt wrote to find out who I am, my beginnings, my diseases and gifts and whys and wherefores of people. In that search I've helped illuminate some areas of who those people are, and through them, what people are like everywhere. I hope I've also destroyed some of the stereotypes and fallacies, myths about Samoa, Polynesia and the South Seas. {I pray though that I haven't replaced those with other misleading ones.)1

His first published works were short stories and poem s in New Zealand publications in the early 1960s, "The dark angel" being one of the most moving of these. Then in 1973, he completed the first novel by a Samoan, Sons for the Return Home.2 This novel was an attempt to write out of my system much of my New Zealand experience.. . . It at least tries to see New Zealand and Samoan societies from the viewpoint of a Pacific Islander. 1 think it's going to upset and hurt (and even anger). . . but it had to be written.3

W endt called this a love story, an exam ination of the relationships between man and woman, Samoan and European, Samoan and Maori, and ultimately Samoan and Samoan, while it was called in one review the "First Samoan novel of classic beauty".4 Sections of this book were to becom e set reading pieces for college students, and readings for university courses, and later this was filmed. A collection of short stories, Flying Fox in a Freedom Tree was published in 1974, followed by Wendt's first collection of verse, Inside Us the Dead: Poems 1961-1974 in 1976.5 C oncern with identity was again upperm ost — identity for W endt, and identity for W estern Samoa. For both, Wendt presented the idea of the present building upon the past, the dead being preserved in us, that we grow upon them and they reach a kind of fruition in us.6 Inside us the dead, like sweet-honeyed tamarind pods that will burst in tomorrow's sun, or plankton fossils in coral alive at full moon dragging virile tides over coy reefs 1 Wendi, “The Writer as Fiction”, op. cii. 2 Wendl, A., Sons fo r the Return Home , Auckland: Longman Paul, 1973. 3 Wendl in the Crocombc interview, op.cii. 4 Ruhen, O., “First Samoan novel o f Classic Beauty”, Pacific Islands Monthly, vol.45, n o .l, January 1974, pp.68-9. 5 Wendt, A., Flying Fox in a Freedom Tree , Auckland: Longman Paul, 1974; Inside us the Dead: Poems 1961-1974 , Auckland: Longman Paul, 1976. 6 Bcston, J.B ., “Review: Inside us the Deacf\Mana Review, vol.2 , n o .l, 1976, p.75.

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into yesterday's lagoon ("Inside Us the Dead")

W endt comments: IThis). • • is not a straight historical poem, it is a fictional history of my family, at the same time it is a history of palagi penetration and cultural change in the Pacific. It was written to try to understand my own family and country and why the Pacific is as it is now.1

For many, W endt's poems are his strongest statements. The exactness of words and pictures, the hard-hitting impact and the beauty of the imagery present a more moving and caring voice than is heard in his novels and the poems are possibly more effective as a result. O f his m other: Memories of her are flamboyant blooms scattered across pitted lava field under the moon's scaffold, or fish darting among fabulous seaweed.

and: In her years of scarlet ginger flower snaring bumble-bee, I remember her lilt fingers, in scent of moon, plucking my clumsy tongue to butterfly hymn; ("Inside Us the Dead")

As well as working at his own writing "during weekends and after school and whenever I had some free tim e", Wendt as English teacher and then Principal of Sam oa C ollege, began an exp ressive arts programme in the school, which had several aims: ' . . . we want our students to discover Samoa' '. . . we hope that as artists they will use the richness of our own culture as a basis of their development. This may lead to the beginning of Samoan literature, contemporary music . . . which in turn will enrich our culture further/ ' . . . we are trying to give our students a fuller, more balanced school life based on their cultural background, what they know and can relate to. If gifted artists emerge out of our programme, all to our good as a country. But the most important thing is the enrichment of the lives of our young people. . . enrichment rooted firmly in our own culture.'2

1 Crocombe interview, op. cit.

2 ibid.

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Most of the published Samoan writers, and those who are still writing today were students at Samoa College during these years. They thrived on the encouragement given by Wendt and other teachers to question, question, and write. Comments from ex-students included: 'We had a good group at Samoa College. . . there was Tate Simi, Eti, Seti, Sano and Ruperake. Earlier there was Ata, and Tasi came a bit later. 1 don't know why, but we all loved reading, and we talked about writing whenever we could.' '1 got hooked on Shakespeare.. . his w ords.. . his skill.' '1 just read and read and read.. . everything.' 'Al introduced us to the new literature. Before I'd tried to write copying the old formal writers. . . I just ended up screwing them up and throwing them in the rubbish.' 'I guess I owe it all to Al. . . I even began to talk like him!'

Ideas-wise, "there was anger everywhere": 'Everyone was angry at something... 1 remember our school put on Albert's play "The Contract''... everyone found something to be angry at. . . Albert said “You have to be angry to write.... I agreed at the time, but I don't now. Sometimes when I'm very happy and life is peaceful, 1 want to write.'

Most of the writing then, and today, was in poetry form for which Samoans seem to have a natural feel — following as it can the natural rhythm of the spoken voice — and the college m agazine Tautua was the first outlet for the writing produced by all this anger. But in the early 1970s the first efforts from this group began to appear in the 'M ana' pages of the Pacific Island M onthly, and later in the M ana R eview s. Among these were the works of Eti Sa'aga, Ruperake Petaia, Sano M alifa, Seti Ah Young, Ata M aiai, N eal Engledow and two wom en w riters, M omoe Von Reiche and Tili Afam asaga — whose beginnings in writing were in New Zealand. The themes of these years are questioning and challenging. It could be argued that the topics are typically 'Sam oan' or reflect an anticolonial stance. This may be so, but that is only to be expected because these were the concerns of that time. But underneath the topicality of the poems can be seen the universal question of man; the effects of progress, relevance of education, nature of freedom, family relationships, and a concern and love for people. The pictures, the words, the ways of looking at things may be Samoan and the recurring im agery that of nature — seas, rivers, the elem ents, lush bushland, vibrant blues and greens. But the themes are universal. Of freedom: The people Assume this day Will last forever. But soon,

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Too soon,

The darkness will return The People to their villages. And I will join them Chanting Their evening rituals In prayers of hope For another today Tomorrow. And Freedom flies on, Way up on a pole Unreachable. ("Freedom Day": Ruperake Pctaia)

of conformity, and progress: When the phallic towers Pierce the womb Of the skies. And jets. Like mosquitoes. Hum my dreams Into nightmares Of sterile materialism; Where mountains crumble Under a synthetic green. Whose serenity Will not again chant The hymns of the ages. But vomit only a sweet fragrance Of burnt plastic waste Where seas harvest Only shadows Of dead fish, And dry fingers of coral Will be corroded Into white sand By acidic waves. ("How it will be", Eti Saaga)

of religion: 1 have sat in churches with hypocrites doing a fashion show and have worked in an office where ordinary men grow into stiff, starched and white gods, who have to wear spectacles to see their miracles. ("Hypocrites and Cods": Ruperake Petaia).

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of partings: Emptiness surrounds me at the dawn of day, capturing me, reminding me of my father's journey. He's gone, gone foreover. In his place I feel the thorns of loneliness; the erosion of a son's vision. In a new bare setting lies the original Sin: bitter and sweet. ("Lam ent": Ata Maiai)

There is poetry questioning the value of formal education and what it has done to separate children from family, children from their Sam oan heritage, and man from the honourable sw eat of labour, thoughts which were to appeal to a whole generation of people both in Samoa and other developing nations, who were experiencing these feelings of alienation. Many of these poems were to be reprinted many times in overseas publications.1 Sometimes the language of the poetry was experim ental, tongue in cheek, as in "Him Fella Saviour" and "Bruddahs". Sometimes, as in Sano M alifa's writing, the words were thrown together, the images and contrasts juxtaposed in clashing discordant metaphors which 'worked': Now that you arc dead man, the flat rock upon which you sat is mossed and weeds push the floorboards up inside the shed-house — did you have to die? What idiot star will the fractured-bodied world of the doomed-young follow up the winding gorge-edged path — upriver splintered flesh and brain, sensing no fear in the great depth below walking arm in arm to where no bone of man is buried? I had wanted to meet you in a small park surrounded by marigold sun-dried hills where it's quiet: Or in a dim-lit pub in the afternoon — you talking, belching flame — and I listening sip slowly from the glass that reflects the withered face of a man yelling to be heard. ("Belching Flame": Sano Malifa)

But m ostly the w riting was flow ing and crystal sm ooth in its unfolding. Many of these first writings were collected into a selection edited by W endt, Some Modern Poetry from Western Samoa, in 1974.

1 For a full accouni o! counuics and organisaiions which have reprinted Mana material, see Crocombc, M., “ Annual Repon of South Pacific Creative Arts Society,” Mana vol.5, no.2, 1980, p.68.

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1974 to 1984 There are three major achievements for Samoan writers in this period. First, four writers published their first collections of poetry, second, W endt published two further novels— both of which were to be internationally acclaim ed, and thirdly those who had previously written only in English began to tackle the challenging task of writing in the vernacular. The poetry collections were: Sano M alifa's Looking Down at W aves (1975), Momoe Von Reiche's Paa ¡imago on wet days (1979) and Solaua: a secret embryo (1979), Ruperake Petaia's Blue Rain (1980) and Faam ate S ae 's In touch: a collection o f poem s (1 9 7 9 ).1 Except for Faam ate's book which was published in the United States, and Momoe's first book, support for these publications was provided by the South Pacific C reative Arts Society, and its publishing arm, Mana Publications, and the University of the South Pacific Extension Centre at Malifa, of which Wendt was the Director. Again, the general themes of relationships and m an's effect on his fellow m an, are evident. The handicraft sellers outside Burns Philp's "coffin doors" are seen by one writer to be the result of progress, hence tourism, and by another to be an indictment of it: But you don't understand how they're stringing their life beads outside these doors, like corpses, the concrete mattress gathers the cold, and pumps it home. But don't consider, inspect and make a bargain. ("A Word for the Tourist": Sano Malifa)

and Before her lay her life: three pairs of earrings, and a turtle shell ring. I escaped her accusing poverty back into blue rain falling. ("Blue Rain'': Ruperake Petaia)

Poems for the sisters of Samoa: You don't give a damn. T o hell with the Aigas' disgraced name To hell with praying mothers and fathers condemning pastors and angry brothers, customary pride. 1 Malifa, S ., Looking Down at Waves, Suva: Mana Publications, 1975. Von Reiche, M .M ., Paa lima#o on Wet days , Apia: Samoa Printing and Publishing, 1979. Von Reiche, M .M ., Solaua: a secret embryo, Suva: South Pacific Creative Arts Society, 1979. Petaia, R., Blue Rain , Apia: USP Extension Centre, Mana Publications, 1980. Sae, F ., In Touch: a collection o f poem s , Mouni Pleasant, Michigan: Rivercrest House, 1979.

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Up with Prostitution/ In a row they suckcd dry your soul Just a dollar for a ride. ("A Dollar for a Ride": Ruperake Petaia) But my sister is quiet, she won't listen, she won't hear. She goes on looking at the way I eat, estimating my limits, the distance, because she is worried about my future. ("Questions and Answers": Sano Malifa). In bed at night, You'd skip in phantoms Through visions of my mind. Fresh, Young and vulnerable My jealousy against the world Would reach out To protect. To hide And to keep you A virgin From the ever-probing Unveiling knowledge Of a transient sick life ('T o Lagi": Talosaga Tolovae)

and relationships: How I used to envy The rain when I was heavy with child Sitting there in my Mother's sitting room. Thinking about you And the part-Chinese Girl in your arms. How I used to think That every little Raindrop was Part of me. And wished the earth Was you, engulfing Me into your warm Core, turning me Into a stream that would Cry into a sea. ("Poems in the Rain": Momoe Von Reiche) You flaunt pretty Dresses in my face. Your perfume spoils the Dinner I cook for my husband.

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My children look on while You bat your false lashes And smile your Thirty year old seductiveness At the master of my house. You drag your words Pointedly, and turn your Nose to the light so that Your bottle beauty catches. You spread your red fingertips On the tabic mat, And give him long looks. ("My guest": Momoe Von Reiche) I tried to reach through your tangled Hair and beard: through the coldness Of your passionless Samoa Times reporting For the sensitivity that moved you To write 'Hello, just to say hello/ ('T h e man in the poet": Tate Simi)

In the Maria issue of May 1979 which featured Samoan writing 'old hands' Tate, Ruperake, Tasi and Momoe, were joined by 'new' poets Talosaga Tolovae, and Perenise Tapu, and for the first time, Samoan w ritten stories were translated into English. Short story w riters included Apelu Aiavao, Fiapopo Taulogo, Siaosi Sum eo and Soia Atim osifia, and the last short story was a clever piece of writing by Mark K neubuhls of American Sam oa, a story show ing a different aspect of a changing faa Samoa. W endt's second novel Pouliuli, published in 1977,1 was heralded as "the first major contemporary work of fiction from the Polynesian culture... crucial to the consciousness of a place... the growth of identity of a people". In a m anner which "does not care to be wishful or sentim ental", W endt relentlessly explored the major institutions of Samoan life: the church politics and traditional status, m arriage and the aiga system, rivalry and obligations and goodness and badness in society in terms of behaviour, expectations and achievem ent.2 It was not a picture many Samoans were willing to accept, even if it was, as one critic asserted, depicting "the colonial d ilem m a".3 The Leaves o f the Banyan Tree, a m ajor saga published in 1979, won the W atties' Book Award for 1980 (New Zealand) and was to be published in G erm any and H olland, and is now being published in C hinese, Japanese and French.4 The third m ajor achievem ent of this period was that m ore writers were writing in the vernacular, in poetry and story. There was a sm all and changing group of writers, such as Koke Aiono and S. Sapolu, who continued to w rite for Education D epartm ent and 1 Wendl, A., Pouliuli , Auckland: Longman Paul, 1977. 2 Commentary from Crisp, P., op.c.ii. 3 Tiffin, H„ “You can’ i go home again: the colonial Dilemma in the work of Albert Wendt”, Meanjin, vol.37, n o .l, 1978, pp.119-26. 4 Wendt, A., The Leaves o f the Banyan Tree, Auckland: Longman Paul, 1979.

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curriculum unit publications. Ups and downs within the Department, and changing personnel slowed down output considerably, as did a concern with what language to use: "Som e were adam ant that the traditional formal language should be used, others thought that stories should be in everyday language about everyday things, not about how to divide up a chicken properly!" Through its extension service, the U niversity of the South Pacific (USP) had begun encouraging writing in the vernacular in all regional countries. The USP Centre at M alifa held a Short Story W riting Contest — later to become an annual competition — and the best m aterials from this were printed in a m agazine entitled M oana, edited and published by members of the Samoan W riters' Association.1 Follow ing this com petition, entries w ere read over 2AP in the programme "Palolo Mua" (First rising) and this was an important step in popularising and developing interest in m odern stories. This program m e took the stories right into fa les all around the country, where a captive, waiting audience was eager to hear what in many households was to become 'the fag og o of the air'. In many homes the fagogo art was dying. Life styles were changing. Children preferred to listen to the radio, and many didn't want to hear the old repetitious traditional plots with supernatural intervention and blurring of real and unreal elements. These listeners lapped up the new short stories, many of which were highly topical and some very critical of everyday life and events. The story writers' response was shown in broader plot developm ent and character reactions, instead of the mere chronicling of events which had been a failure in earlier writings: "Pisinisi Gau" drew attention to the exploitation ... the plight of the young bottle sellers in Apia ... in another story 1 looked at the relationships between parents and children ... they are stagnant. My later story explored the relationship between husbands and wives and the old story of infidelity.

Reactions to these stories were instant: 'After the last story, some women said this was just how they felt. Some cried over it. . . said it was them /

Realising the appeal of the story, Apelu Aiavao, now working in the Publicity section of the Prime Minister's Department and charged with producing the news w eekly in the program "O oe ma lou m alo", decided to experiment and present this in story form: 'I just took the news... and I made a little story around it... using subjects the people knew, their planting, fishing, the sea... and 1 found the people really liked it... they started to listen just for the stories, and they remembered them/

and at a Radio Drama W orkshop sponsored by the USP C entre, W end t's Flying Fox in a Freedom Tree was translated into Sam oan, and presented as a radio drama. 1 Moana , USP Centre, Apia: Samoan Writers* Association.

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Short story serials began to appear in newspapers also. Following the success of his story "W alls have ears" in the USP com petition, Agafili developed this idea of gossip and listening and began serialising short stories in the Sam oana newspaper. Opinions varied concerning the literary merit of these stories and some of the content was 'slightly salacious'. However, the topics of love and interference, of which he wrote, appealed to a wide section of readers, and although the quality of the story writing was uneven, the circulation of the Samoana increased dram atically. In all these ways a demand for stories was being created. Writers w ere capitalising on the Sam oan's love of words, and developing a new reader aw areness of the possibilities of Sam oan language use, through new mediums, new topics, new words and modem language. 1984-86 This period could be called 'new directions for the future': there have been so many fresh beginnings, and turns into new paths. First, there are more people writing, especially women. A writing workshop for wom en held in N ovem ber 1984 and funded by the W om en's Advisory Com m ittee, New Zealand aid, and USP Centre assistance, attra cted a m ix tu re of young teach ers' co lleg e stu d en ts — straightforw ard, fearless, articulate, and very honest, pastors' wives w anting "help with the w riting of plays, particularly for W hite Sunday", and "just wanting to write", and older writers who had "once w ritten". During this week-long course, this unlikely m ixture clashed ideas and wrote hard in both English and Samoan. These writings have been collected for printing pending the availability of funding. Som e of these women w riters joined a re-form ed W riters' G roup, which now m eets m onthly, and a few 'old ' w riters w ere encouraged back into open production, fanned by the freshness, direction and clarity of the new er w riters. An interesting aside concerning this group, is that the younger writers are all writing in English, while many of the established writers have a deep personal commitment towards trying to express themselves in Samoan. Sam oan literature is becom ing more easily available to more readers. The new spapers and the M oana publications continue their outreach through the regular booksellers. But when Agafili brought out his book R yhanapoinciana, he tried a new way of selling.1 Like the O bserver sellers, boys pounded the streets and sat with vendors outside Burns Philp and the Post Office, generating a quick interest in the publication. Costs were thus kept to a minimum, with sales probably higher than if they had been distributed in the usual way. The format of A gafili's books also appealed to readers still hooked on the idea of functionalism in writing but developing a taste for good literature also. Agafili presented his stories — most well written and binding in plot — and then follow ed these with com prehension exercises and discussion starters — som ething for the analysts, som ething for the artists. Publishing costs w ere met by A gafili him self although the 1 Agafili La’au Tuitolovaa, Rhyanapoinc.iana: Tusi T alafaa Samoa, Apia, 1985.

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Education Department has indicated an interest in securing school sets of this book. A growing demand for children's stories has been partly met by New Zealand publications, but M omoe Von Reiche recently published one book privately and Emma Kruse Vaai and Peggy Dunlop have now published stories in New Zealand school journals, which are widely used in Samoan classrooms. Another achievement of these two years is the publication of Gatoloaifaana Peseta Sia's collection of stories. Compass o f Sailing in Storm .' These were stories Peseta had heard as he travelled in Upolu and Savaii as school teacher and inspector 'in the early years'. There had been many earlier telling of fa g o g o by p a lag i, the m ost fam ous being Stuebel's publication, translated by Brother Herman. However, most earlier works had been heavily edited. Richard Moyle had tried to elim inate the factor of 'listener perspective'. In the 1960s he taperecorded over 200 story tellings 'just as they were told', and in his translations he tried to present as clearly as possible the authentic voice of the tellers, and the essence of the stories.2 Peseta's work is a further step in the process of securing authenticity. He re-told the stories just as he had heard and remembered and understood them. This was the first time a book like this had been written by a Samoan. In a similar but diverging direction are the short stories told by Agafili. Agafili was one of the teachers active in the school publications group of the 1960s, and has worked since then at perfecting the storytelling art. Success in the M oana short story competition and the subsequent radio broadcasts and paper-serialising of his works, has brought Agafili new recognition: "H is is quality writing... beautiful expressions and phrases of the traditional Sam oa"; "H is stories are the nearest thing to a fag og o on paper. . . not only is he weaving the plot the storytellers' way, but his know ledge of the oratory style and allusion is so good, that he is creating his own allusions, built on the accepted Samoan traditions and images." Agafili is not just repeating old sayings, or including these in his stories to give them an air of correctness. So secure is he in his knowledge of the past, faa Samoa, and oratorical traditions, that he can m anipulate and use the Samoan language and literary style in a new way: 'I was very lucky... my father was a well-known orator. Although I was the younger son, all the papers from our family were passed to me. . . they're all cockroach eaten and old. . . some go back to the 1840s. . . they are a valuable collection of aiga history, and information about the old faa Samoa. I am very lucky. I have studied all the papers and I have watched and listened.'

A gafili's subjects are topical, and his sense of clim actical build-up intuitive. He knows the audience he is writing for:

1 Gaioloialaanu, Peseta S. Sio, Compass o f Sailing in Storm, Apia: USP Extension Centre, 1984. 2 Moyle, R., op c.it.

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'1 know what Samoans want in a story. . . I know when they're getting bored.. . then 1 'juice' it up a bit.'

He stabs at the facade of faa Samoa, and causes us to laugh at ourselves as we see the truths of his statements. He shows the cunning trickster's one-upm anship of Samoan social intercourse and life in a humorous way, but nevertheless the m essage is there. Everyone instantly recognises the humour, truth and sadness of the situation where all the matais are gathered eating in the candidate's house and the election results begin to come over 2AP, booth by booth. How does this candidate, with a house full of 'promised voters', fare? A gafili's writings are a new direction in Samoan writing. He show s the fa g o g o teller's skill in word w eaving, know ledge of traditional allusion and the skill to combine these into the modern counterpart, the short story. This is an important development if the fa g o g o art is not simply to remain a quaint, rem embered cultural tradition of the past. Agafili is working to develop his short story idea into a novel, which he hopes to publish "soon". New paths in poetry include Shaman o f V isions, W en d t's second book of poetry, which was published in 1984.1 A softer, more reflective voice is heard in some of these lines, but the power of words and vision is still strong. His collection of short stories, The Birth and Death o f the M iracle Man, has recently been published. Four local writers are 'polishing' collections for publication but again, funding is a problem . On the academic writing front, a major achievement in 1985 was T e'o Fairbairn's publication Island Economics, economics from a Pacific perspective, published by the USP Institute of Pacific Studies.2 Malama M eleisea has followed his O tatna Uli (1980) with A short history o f W estern Samoa written jointly with his wife (1983).3 The Sam oan History project — UNESCO-funded and USP-directed — has now been completed and is ready for publication, and the massive Bibliography of selected material on Samoa associated with this project has gone into circulation.4 The other main outlet for Samoan writers has been, and will continue to be, in the edited collections of topical books brought out by the Institute of Pacific Studies (USP) and in journal publications.

Tutuila Writing Historically, writing in Tutuila (American Samoa) has followed very much the sam e pattern as for Upolu, 'm ore written about by others'. Post-1960s writing has not been extensive. The transient nature of the population, the fact that Tutuila looks more to the United States 1

Wendt, A., Shaman o f Visions, Auckland: Auckland University Press & Oxford University Press, 1984. 2 Fairbairn, Te’o 1J.. Island Economies: Studies from the South Seas, Suva; Institute of Pacific Studies (USP), 1985. 3 Meleisea, M. & Meleisea Schocffcl, P., (cd.), A Short History o f Western Samoa, Apia: USP Extension Centre, 1983 4 Pereira, J.A., op.cit.

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than to the Pacific and so has not been a part of the regional upsurge in w riting em anating from USP and the South Pacific Creative Arts Society, nor benefited from the active leadership which Wendt has provided in Western Samoa, have all been offered as possible reasons for the meagerness in production. T h ere isn't a reading public here' is another reason suggested; there are no specialist book shops in Pago Pago. The biggest felt need has been the desire for a consistent base: developm ent has been without a core, grow th in spurts and stops, dependent on individual interest and leadership. John Kneubuhl, a well-known script writer, more recently involved in education, has provided some semblance of direction, support and continuity in local writing efforts, but he too is a constant traveller. For all these reasons, it is difficult finding inform ation about w riters. Neal Engledow, an American then living in American Sam oa, was one of the founding members of the South Pacific Creative Arts Society and published two works in the Matin R eview (1973), "T h e Pointed B on e" and "Traditional Samoan Tattooing", written while he was a student at USP. Poetry by Clara Reid is included in M ana (1978) and she is still writing. Mark Kneubuhl's short story "Under the rising sun" appeared in the 1979 issue of Mana. Writing is flourishing at the school level, school magazines such as the Leone High School's Siuleo maintain a high standard of writing, and recently the Samoan Community College m agazine Leo o Samoa has again begun including student writing in its publication: "Before, there was little incentive to write. . . there were no publishing outlets. W e bring out Leo o Samoa about five times a year, and we are now highlighting student writing... that's been good motivation... we hope to bring the best of these out as a book." The Division of Instructional Developm ent section of the D epartm ent of Education sponsored a Sam oan writing contest up till three years ago. This section is also responsible for the annual speech festival, in which all schools take part. Nothing is published from this festival however. The problem seem s to be that, after these early school years, m ost students go overseas to complete their training and few return. The American Samoa Arts Council was formed in 1970 but its main impetus has been in the music and crafts field. A large collection of Samoan songs and legends have been translated and re-taped and, since its form ation in 1971, the Arts Council choir has set a high standard of performance and is known world-wide. 1985 was a year of reorientation for A m erican Sam oa. The Arts C ouncil turned its attention to literature, and prepared for the first week-long W riters' C onference in Septem ber, to which w riters from Upolu were also invited. This encouraged mutual support amongst writers in Tutuila, w ith the know ledge of C ouncil backing. The C ou n cil m ay be instrumental in providing the continuity or core which local writers seem to think is missing. "M y family... my kids... too comfortable... marriage knocked me out of the ring for a while." Eti Sa'aga has made a commitment to living in American Samoa, and sees this as being the

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basis for his writing, "I don't think I can look back to Western Samoa. I think I can be of more value here than Western Samoa. . . I couldn't write in Apia." He has been writing spasmodically for the past three years, has been "sharing poetry" with John Kneubuhl, Clara Reid and Trude Chun, and is beginning to think seriously about writing again. He was one of the 'angry young men' of Samoa College in the 1970s, but had not written seriously tor a long while. He has been working on a novel, "a historical perspective set in the late 1800s in Sam oa" and is aiming to have this published within a year. It appears that Tutuila is ready to go. CONCLUSION If one were to compare the number of people writing and their output on a population basis, one could say that writing is flourishing in Samoa today. This is due mainly to the publication efforts of the South Pacific Creative Arts Society and the Institute of Pacific Studies (USP), which actively seek and encourage Pacific writers, and to the direction and inspiration provided by Albert Wendt. However numerically the writers are a small group, and the small group is writing for a limited audience. A taste for literature is grow ing in the outer rural areas of Samoa. The popularisation of stories over the radio, their presentation in the vernacular, and the availability of these in written form, are all creating a demand for a good story told in an interesting way. The dem and is there, the difficulty will continue to be the lack of publication outlets. There have been local and individual efforts to meet this problem. The Observer newspaper began a "Poet's Corner" in June 1985 which is attracting interest, and some writers have raised funds to publish their works privately. However the standard of some of the material is not as high as it could be because of the commercial nature of the publication, or marketing takes authors' time and energy away from writing. W riting in English will continue to be important in the future, but there will be a more concerted effort at writing in Samoan for the local readers. Today writers have identified the style of writing they want, and it is the style of the old fagogo storytellers.

Acknowledgements Fa'afetai lava to the people who had time to 'talk': Agafili, Rita Ah Wa, Apelu Aiavao, Aiono Fanaafi, Dick Bishop, Trude Chun, John Enright, 'M ac' M cDonald, Sano M alifa, Ruperake Petaia, Sue Rasm ussen, Eti Sa'aga, Noumea and Tate Simi, Mataina Teo, and Makerita Va'ai.

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ALBERT WENDT: AN ASSESSMENT Roger Robinson From his position at Victoria University of Wellington, Roger Robinson has produced many reviews and articles on New Zealand and Pacific writing. This overview of Wendt's early output appeared in Landfall 135, 34.3, 1980._______

1 Responsibilities In 1979 Albert Wendt turned 40. The occasion was marked for him by a variety of events and achievem ents, looking approp riately both forw ard and back. His third novel, the am bitious and long-awaited Leaves o f the Banyan Tree, was published. The film of his first, S on s fo r the Return H om e, was released. An issue of the South Pacific journal M ana (vol. 3, no. 2) was devoted, under his special editorship, to the new Samoan writers whom he has done so much to encourage. His work up to 1978 was the subject of a significant review-article by Peter C risp in Is la n d s 26. He was one of the m ain guests at the P E N /V ictoria University Conference on New Zealand writing, and spoke there with authority for "all the other islands" of the Pacific. It is a big responsibility to be producing virtually single-handed the prim ary material for a modern image of the South Pacific, for which the popular and academ ic markets are equally hungry. W endt him self has said it is "u nnerving".1 It lays a heavy weight on a young writer to promote him as 'the first Samoan novelist', to turn his first novel into a feature-film testament of New Zealand race relations, and to package his third, written largely in his twenties and early thirties, as 'the G reat Polynesian N ovel'. Living in Samoa brings yet further responsibilities for its first (again) M.A. graduate. W endt has made a vital contribution to his society, as headm aster, w hile still in his twenties, of its major secondary school, as its first university teacher and administrator, as its vigorous cultural ambassador-at-large, and as inspiration, mentor, editor and publisher to new writers throughout that whole vast Pacific region. At 40, Albert W endt has achieved much. All these obligations and expectations create problem s in the placem ent and estim ation of such a w riter, as they m ust create problems for him in choosing his literary function and identity. Wendt has retained an honesty, forthrightness and even irreverence that are rem arkable considering his exposed situation. For all the conch-shell fanfares about the Great Polynesian N ovelist, there are signs that he does not quite conform. Pressure groups within the Pacific region two years ago persuaded the New Zealand U niversities Entrance Board secretariat to exclude his books, on moral and religious grounds, from the U.E. English prescription taken by their candidates. (The subject1 Albert Wendt speaks freely about his work. I have drawn on the often similar comments he has made in published interviews, conference addresses and private conversations, without specific attribution. Available sources are the published interviews in Mana Annual, 1973; World Literature Written in English, vol.16, no.l, 1977, pp.151-62, and Meanjin, vol.7, no.l, 1978, pp.109-18; and the tapes and transcripts of Wendt's contributions to the Conference New Zealand Writing 1959-79 (Department of English, Victoria University of Wellington).

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convener promptly reinstated them.) Nor does he quite satisfy those flagellists who would see him as a stereotype of anti-colonialism, for he d eclin es to be m ind lessly abusive about European values or sentim ental about Sam oan ones. Albert W erldt, in short, is a spokesman and truth-teller who is also something of a puck. He has becom e a father-figure before he has finished being an enfant terrible. W hile he serves w illingly as the chronicler of his country and the voice of a region, his artistic territory lies at the same time in the innerm ost psyche. These are some of the contradictions of Albert W endt at 40. In them, I believe, and not in any simplified selection of the m an, are to be found the springs of his im agination and his achievem ent. 2 L ea v es o f the B anyan Tree: a capitalist's tragedy W endt's publication chronology has become a little confused. His first published book, Sons for the Return Home (1973), was w ritten later than the stories in Flying-Fox in a Freedom Tree (1974); but, he says, "Longm an Paul wanted a novel published first". Leaves o f the Banyan Tree (1979) was completed, and at least twice revised, before P ouliuli (1977) was written. It was promised "within the next year" as long ago as 1975 (see Landfall 113, p.75). Its publication was eventually timed to coincide with the release of the film Sons for the Return Home. The poems indicate their considerable time-span in the title, Inside us the Dead. Poems 1961-1974. W hile Leaves o f the Banyan Tree is therefore not W endt's latest work in the usual sense, it is in some important ways a summation, for he has been working on it virtually throughout his w riting life. It originated in a story published in 1963, "Tagata the Man who Search for the Freedom T ree" which becam e the novella "Flyin g -Fo x in a Freedom Tree". This in turn has been expanded into the m iddle of the novel's three large sections. Leaves, which W endt has spoken of for years as "m y long novel", began at 1,000 pages, and had to be reduced, he has said, to 800 and then 600 for the editors. It has finally appeared as 400 pages of well-spaced type on good paper, with an im pressive binding that makes it look more like 1,000 pages. The Erewhonian world of publishing will never be comprehensible to me. But for the reader, this now stands as a book which Wendt worked on seriously for over twelve years, completely rewriting the m anuscript ten or more times by his own account; a novel which tests his capacity to achieve both scope and compression, and which aspires to bring together the broad sweep of the chronicler and the deep probe of the psychologist and philosopher. In form it is a triptych, three interlocking novellas. The first, "G od, Money, and Success", centres on Tauilopepe, who dedicates his life to com bining these three absolutes. By investing his personal am b ition , his v illag e's labour and the co lo n ialists' agricu ltu ral techniques into the plantation called Leaves of the Banyan Tree, he rises to wealth and power in the fictitious village of Sapepe and the factual town of Apia. But the seeds of his success also contain the germs

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of his destruction. His devotion to commercial enterprise loses him the love of his son, Pepe, to the imaginative old orator Toasa, and Pepe's consequent rebellion and self-destruction, narrated by himself, are the them e of the second section, "Flyin g -Fo x in a Freedom T ree". T auilopepe's loveless affair with the wife of his main rival in the village, through which he first gains the commercial initiative, returns to plague him as the im placable bastard G alupo, who usurps his position and watches him die in the final section, "Funerals and H eirs". T he core, then, is the tragedy o f a cap italist. The very unexpectedness of such a subject in the Samoan setting should alert us to W endt's courage and originality. It makes clear one of the strongest characteristics of all his work: his refusal to pander to the preconceived sym pathies of his readers. He prefers to cut all expectations and affiliations from under our feet. The main character of Sons fo r the Return Home is an impatient rebuttal of all Polynesian stereotypes, the cuddly as well as the hostile ones. He is an intellectual, and a romantic, who ends by refusing to accept any kind of commitment. The New Zealand girl is confused and decadent, but dynamic, too, taking the initiative and making the decisions at every stage in their relationship (a fact which makes it curious to see the film branded as sexist). Faleasa of P ou liu li is a seer and leader who is also a m anipulative, foolish, fond old man, a silly victim of his own vanity as well as a martyr to the tim es. Tauilopepe's true son in the last section of L eav es, Lalolagi, clearly asks to be identified with Wendt himself when he goes to New Plymouth Boys' High School. He returns however, not as Prince Hal, but as a spoiled 'palagified' prig who is no match for the cold politics of Galupo. W endt brutally denies us easy sympathy with any character anyw here in his w ork, even with the often h ostile, partial or unattractive personae of his poems. It's very discomforting.

3 Chronicles Around this central theme of the loveless Tauilopepe's rise, guilt and fall, Wendt sketches a history of the village com m unity from its preEuropean foundation to the late 1960s. He makes us feel the shift in gravity of Samoan society from the villages to the town. The action is conducted through the detailed rendering of the daily processes of Samoan living: at home, at work, at church, in the town. The dealings of the characters are placed always in their context of family and social structures and customs. He focuses principally on one family through three generations, but fills the background with minor characters, some transitory, others who become familiar and memorable. He provides clim axes of conflict, achievem ent and catastrophe — a feud, a fire, clearing the plantation, build ing the church, a flu ep idem ic, a hurricane — all of which he narrates strongly and which would film well. This time he even invents his own myths to be used as referral points to enhance the lives and aspirations of the characters. In much of this impressive quantity of matter the novel succeeds outstandingly; and that is saying a great deal of what was still a young

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m an's work. But the total effect is finally of patchwork rather than tapestry. There are losses of focus, and gaps in integration, particularly around the central panel of the triptych. The material which has been added to the original "Flying-Fox" story, often excellent in itself, rem ains incidental to the total novel. The boxer Lafoga and his bigam ous wife, her death and his revenge, provide a vivid narrative vignette; yet we can't care deeply about such transient characters, and it is asking a great deal of the reader to accept after three pages that "Fanua has become in that short time the heart of the Vaipe" (p.224). N ot for us, she hasn't. The death of the old orator Toasa is weakened by intruding into P epe's urban narrative. Even the am plifications of P epe's own story, and his relationship with the dw arf Tagata, only cause the main thematic impulse to waver. There are good new scenes o f P ep e's schooling and expulsion, and a m em orable if rather ponderously satiric scene of American tourists at Tagata's market. But the expanded narrative context dilutes the impact of Pepe's trial and Tagata's suicide, which were episodes of such Kafka-esque power in the original novella. Remarkable though it is, this material never becomes essential to Tauilopepe's rise and fall, and all the subsequent references in Part 3 to the father's guilt for betraying his son have an obligatory ring to them. His tragedy is one of hubris, not betrayal. Nor is fusion of the two stories achieved through the pattern of mythic reference around Pepe's death. It rem ains, in my view, only that — a surrounding pattern, never integral or indispensable to the novel's vision. I don't object in principal to a short story being expanded into a novel — Great Expectations and Lord Jim happened that way. But these lapses in integration mean that the central tragic 'schema' of Leaves is not carried through. Nor is the startling change in narrative mode, from the controlling authorial narrator of the first and third sections to the perfervid idiosyncracy of Pepe's inward voice in "Flying-Fox", ever absorbed. I shall explain later why I think that such a failure is, for Albert Wendt, very healthy. As a chronicler Wendt has a considerable talent, which serves a respected tradition of prose ficlion. Like Scott, the Brontes, or Mrs Gaskell, he has extended the geographical boundaries of fiction and has thus added to its imaginative resource material an unfamiliar terrain, society and idiom. He charts his territory with thoroughness and conviction. W endt's Samoa is not yet Faulkner's Yoknapataw pha, T rollope's Barchester or Thomas M ann's Lubeek, but Leaves entitles him to be called a chronicler of their kind. Through the extra characters added to the "Flying-Fox" section, the Vaipe (Apia's 'dead-water' slum) takes on a resemblance to Naipaul's Miguel Street, Steinbeck's Cannery Row , and the long fictional tradition of short 'scenes' of low life (though my point about the cost in narrative impulse still stands). As a political chronicler, Wendt brings into the novel what may be a unique national talent. Politics, he has remarked, is one of Sam oa's most developed art forms, and he is a skilled observer of it. Leaves and Pouliuli thrive on intrigue and feud, politicking and lobbying, pressure

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groups and power coups. Reading them trains the reader's nose for the intricate pressures of Samoan rank and allegiance, and the subtle processes by which these have absorbed and adapted to the increasing 'palagi' influence. And it's not just The M asters in lava-lavas. Political plotting is made part of the very thought processes of the main characters, not an external game of the author's. Similarly — and it is a major point — the chronicle material is not merely local colour or 'setting' but part of the essential texture of the book. At this level the writing is often finely integrated. The passages of historical summary are usually transmitted through the memory of one of the characters, so that they acquire significance in personal as well as documentary terms. The same is true of the descriptions of the Sapepe environment. A passage evoking the pastor's house — concrete and corrugated iron, with its varnished chairs, prize maps, Bibles and photographs — is at the same time a revelation of the self-doubt, envy and ambition of Tauilopepe as he mounts the front steps (p.54). A labourers' march through the bush establishes the terrain and the local flora and fauna — cacao trees, taro, flying-foxes, pawpaws, liana and creeper — but these function as part of the physical and psychological action (pp.59-60). The first church service, vividly evoked in local colour and detail, also serves a crucial fu nction as the m edium for the inner action o f T au ilop ep e's fluctuating confidence and fear of failure as he waits to deliver his inaugural sermon (p.82ff). It is matched structurally by the later service at which he finally collapses (p.397ff). Nothing in W endt is ever just scenery. He thinks too intelligently and honestly about Samoa for that. As in his poetry, details of the Sam oan environm ent becom e im ages correlative to the moral or mental state o f his characters, images which often acquire a startling resonance from the indignant inversion of their H olly w ood /A ir N ew Zealand connotations. So "coral" becomes an image of laceration and infinitely multiplied decay. The sun becomes a "yoke" or a prison ("m onths of it") or an infection ("a twitching eye", "a fat boil"). Waves on sand come "pancaking . . . flattened, surged and pushed the discarded rubbish". This inversion could be just a trick, and occasionally it is, but W endt is a writer of genuinely m etaphoric impulse. The imagery which he draws from the setting is made the working yeast of a prose which at its best is rich and satisfying in texture. Far more subtly than in Sons fo r the Return H om e, descriptive and narrative writing, the setting and the action, con stan tly m ove into m etaphor. Old T oasa, in a fine passage, contemplates past and present on the beach: Stench of decaying seaweed and coral and driftwood persisted as did disturbing memories of the youth Tauilopepe had been. . . The swishing of the waves washed through his thoughts. He remembered the woman who had been his children's mother: hair as soft as sand running through your fingers, body as soft as the spring water of the pool where he had first met her. . . Toasa broke the chains of memory and found the dark and the stench of decay and he compared himself to useless driftwood stranded on sand dunes beyond the reach of refreshing tides. . . He looked at the church. . . the blur of whitish darkness and its brooding backdrop of trees. So much concrete. He walked on. (pp.120-1)

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It is a skilful evocation of night-time, with its details of smells, sounds and blurred vision, but the process of the prose is also to make these the m aterial and imagery of m editation. The components of what I have called W en d t's 'resp o n sib ilities' — Sam oan local colou r, historical chronicle, natural description and personal narrative — have all here been woven together as metaphors of the mind.

4 Oral prose and the new paternalism It may be tempting to claim from a passage like that quoted above that Wendt, as a good apostle of the 'new literatures' or 'world literatures in E n g lish ', has draw n his im agery w holly from the Sam oan environm ent. It is not true, however: "Chains of m em ory" is in no way a local image (and is drawn, if anywhere, from H ardy's 'W essex H eights'). Though Wendt himself makes powerful m etaphoric use of local envirom ent, local history and local politics, he is independent and eclectic in his choice of imagery, literary model and rhetoric. Peter Crisp, who vividly caught the main thematic thrust of W endt's writing in his Islan ds 26 essay, went astray into the new orthodoxy when he claimed that W endt's “grip on the reader" is due to "the art of holding an audience with the voice. . .the art of the tusitala, the story-teller", and m ade him "th e artistic kinsman of Achebe, O kara, M unyoni, A lu k o ..." .1 Well (to use an oral device), when Achebe renders the m ental breakdown of an old leader, at the end of Arrow o f God, he does so through direct dramatic invocation to the reader. . . "Think of a man who. . .always goes to battle without a shield.... Will he say to the guns and the arrows and the matchets: H old!"; through familiar recited m etaphors. . .the felled tree, the crushed insect; a quotation from a traditional chant; and a series of proverbs through which Ezeulu tries to comprehend and control his despair: "W hen was it ever heard that a child was scalded by the piece of yam its own mother put in its palm? W ho ever sent his son up the palm to gather nuts and then took an axe and felled the tree?..."2 The whole procedure is that of a resourceful oral rhetoric. W hen W endt, on the other hand, confronts his own doomed leader with the final crisis, in P ouliuli, he intercuts action with direct psychological revelation (especially of the political im pulse) and images of feeling and seeing with purely literary metaphor. There is no direct address to the audience, who are assumed to be reading, not listening. Faleasa analyses his situation not through proverbs, but in intellectualised abstractions: Faleasa felt as if the beating of his own heart was that of his son's; he felt sure (and was happy in knowing it) that his choice of Moaulu to replace him as head of their aiga and of Malaelua had been right.... In the past no-one had dared threaten him. Now this beast, whose soul was infected beyond healing by the sickness, who didn't know what honour and integrity and courage and being a man were all about, this beast was trying to kill him.... (Pouliuli, pp.141-2) 1 Peter Crisp, “Pathways to Darkness”, Inlands 26, vol.7, no.4, p.376. 2 Chinua Achebe, Arrow o f God, London: Heincmann, 1965, pp.285-6.

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So, too, in L ea v es, with Tauilopepe on the point of his final heart attack. Into the oratorical phrases of the sermon the stricken man is delivering, Wendt cuts sentences like this: His mind, he thought, was alive with the excitement of original ideas ... ideas that were now tumbling off the tip of his tongue clearly captivatingly. He wasn't old, he wasn't sick, the future stretched out before him across the sunny limitless plains of his hopes.... (Leaves, p.397)

There are no sunny limitless plains in Samoa; the diseased beast is a European, not a Pacific archetype; "h e felt sure (and was happy in knowing it)", "honour and integrity and courage", and "the excitement of original ideas" convey abstract ideas and have no special oral quality in structure, sound or reference. In both W endt passages, the writer's essential contact is with the intellect, not the ear. There is another Polynesian writer who has indeed committed him self to the rhetorical resonance of an oral medium, Witi Ihimaera, and Tangi's incantatory emotional plangency and wholly local imagery brought a new note into the English fiction of our region. Patricia Grace and Yvonne du Fresne are more com m ittedly 'oral' than Wendt; so, often, are Sargeson and Katherine Mansfield. W endt, I believe, is too id iosyncratic and too versatile to be only oral, too intellectually dem anding in the enquiries he makes into the significance of his action. There are good oral elements, to be sure. In dialogue he is a witty mimic. The sermons, speeches and conversations, the amusingly Kiwi idiom of young Lalolagi's schoolboy letters home, all provide ample pleasure to the ear, as well as evidence of character. W endt's poems and stories in dialect have shown, most successfully in "Captain F u ll", that he is well able to work within an oral convention which goes back in English fiction to Sm ollett's Win Jenkins, and whose recent exponents include Joyce, Roth and (to be really naughty) Kipling. It is im portant to apply such analogues to w riters of the sheer intelligence of Wendt or Achebe, rather than complimenting them for oral vigour like a well-meaning cultural tourist. 5 Mythoclasm Another view of Wendt which is misleadingly sim plistic is that which sees him as essentially the great demolisher of the 'South Seas Paradise' myth. "There is the Samoa of European artists and writers. And there is Albert W endt's Sam oa", says the pu blisher's advertisem ent for Leaves. Clearly, the urge to present a first-hand and honest view of the Pacific experience is a strong elem ent in W endt's literary aspiration. Sons for the Return Home kicked about vigorously at all the sex-andsand images (as travel-brochure copywriters call them) and made its returning native suffer grotesquely from flies, diarrhoea, noise, smell and communality. "Flying-Fox" opened with the sickening image of the hospital incinerator. Leaves retains that as the induction to Book Two and reminds us from time to time of such unparadisic aspects of South Pacific life as lice, filariasis, cataracts, ringw orm and rape. It neatly inverts the mythic viewpoint and presents the palagi world as

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"fairyland" (p.8). It also dares to make fun of some of the clichés, as when one lover embracing under a warm night sky gets decapitated in m id-coition by a sheet of roofing iron off the half-finished church. It is a salutary warning that Wendt is often a comic writer. In two respects, however, it is less than sufficient to see him, as som e have done, dominantly in demythologising terms. First, it is an open question whether the myth is in fact as well established as this view presumes. In nineteenth-century English literature, the South Seas seem to be brutal and dangerous, the domain of the world's most fearsom e savages, who in adventure stories are to be bloodily repulsed and in serious and nonfictional literatu re to be con verted to C hristianity. Stevenson's Island Nights' Entertainm ents (1893) gave British and American readers of fiction a view of Samoa which is as honest and unglamourised as W endt's own — complete, for instance, with flies, rats, cockroaches, stink, heat, ignorance, gin, fever, pigs, e x p lo ita tiv e trad ers, villag e p ow er-p o litics and a vivid and psychologically purposeful church service. Wendt was unjust when he charged that Stevenson "contributed to the myth of South Seas p a ra d ise s".1 I would also want to argue that Gauguin did nothing to falsify or degrade the South Pacific. The myth, I suggest, is of recent and Am erican manufacture. Though its origins must presum ably lie with C ook's sailors, it has become a cliché only through the lush trivia of Rodgers and Hammerstein, James M ichener and Pan-Am , and may really go no further back than Rest & Recreation fantasies of the Second W orld War American forces. A more important question is whether Wendt him self treats the myth as wholly false. The greatest artists among the many mythoclasts in prose fiction are those who elicit and acknowledge the strengths of the dream which is to be denied. That is why M elville writes so attractively about the Pacific, and why he and Fitzgerald, for instance, are ultim ately so much more challenging to read than the sim pler destructors of the American Dream such as Dreiser or Dos Passos, because they give imaginative validity to its allure. That is also why, in another mythic tradition, Conrad's Lord Jim offers such a disturbingly qualified rejection of the heroic Victorian colonialist-adventurer Rajah Jam es Brooke. I would pay Wendt the compliment of saying that his treatment o f the South Pacific myth has within it elem ents of this kind o f com plexity. When the protagonist of Sons for the Return Home asserts that "one had to be honest even with paradise", it has been too readily forgotten that there is no outright denial of the respects in which it continues to be a paradise. W endt makes attractive those aspects of Sam oan life-sty le which indeed appeal to hum an fa n ta sisin g , particularly the easy life of indolence and irresponsibility. Sons ends "in a placid timeless sea" and Pouliuli with an invocation to sleep. O n e o f the most successful characters in Leaves is the escapist idler Taifau, w ho turns into an honest conformist in the course of the novel and

1 In the interview in World Literatures Written in English, 16.1, 1977, p.161.

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knows he is diminished by it. The first cry of the Samoans in the poem "Why Can't They Stop" is simply, wc want to

go

to sleep

Wendt brings a similar ambivalence to the Sam oans' fantasies of themselves. W hile he is critical of the adulation of 'manhood', he also gives full credit to its strength and appeal — in the attractive courage and energy of his male achievers and, I would suggest, in the sinewy physicality of much of his own prose. He is able to respect the traditional values em bodied in the attitudes and stories of the old 'tuua' (orators) at the same time as he shows them to be conservative anachronism s. Others, particularly K. O. Arvidson and Peter Crisp, have written sympathetically of W endt's use of Samoan myths. I will add only that he seems to me as ambivalent in his mythopoeics as his mythoclastics. In Leaves he uses an invented mythology. Yet its achetypes — the conch shell on the mountain top, which stands for trust, the story of Pepesa, "feared by the gods because of his courage and cunning and hum our", who commits a tragic revenge for the sake o f love — these are the achetypes and ideals also of the rejected myth, the so-called European vision of Samoa as the pure and trusting prelapsarian Eden of laughing men and loving women. I don't think either Wendt or his admirers have clearly perceived this, but it is a source of tension which is im aginatively very fruitful. It means that Albert W endt's Samoa is much more interesting than a routine debunking of a shallow-rooted G .I. fantasy, and more, too, than a sentim entalised rew orking of indigenous mythic platitudes. It gives his Samoa a little more of the potency of Gatsby's visionary America, a place which may briefly seem worthy of the human capacity for wonder. It acknowledges the strength o f a dream profoundly attractive to the human mind, of a bower of bliss and sunny sleep, a garden of delight, trust and physical vigour w hose loss — when harsh realism about the hum an condition intrudes — is to be all the more deeply mourned.

6 Oppositions Wendt is a versatile prose stylist who consciously adapts the manner to th e m atter of his narration. Som etim es this com es just a little predictably, as in the monosyllabic Hemingway imitation he uses for physical labour; but it enriches the text with many pleasures. Look, for instance, at the contrasting accounts of fighting among the women and the men, during the first feud in Leaves. For the women the rhythms a re m obile and the diction springy — they "h ik e d ", "ju m p ed ", "top p led ", "elbow ed", "bounced'' — and the prose skids along like a speeded-up movie. In the m en's fight it lurches, the language brutal

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and thudding: "Stones smashed and gashed heads and limbs; fists and sticks pummelled victims to the ground where they w ere viciously kicked and trodden into unconsciousness. . ." (pp. 110-114). One of the oppositions on which Albert Wendt's challenging art is built is the m ovem ent between the energetically physical and the deeply intellectual. He writes often with an enorm ously muscular vigour which evinces a powerful imaginative grasp on the physical world. There's an exciting boxing match in Leaves, and the hurricane, of course, is tremendous. More surprisingly, he invests birds, waves, shoppers, mourning, even smoke with the same thrusting Van Gogh sinews: "Sm oke was spiralling up from nearby kitchen fale: it swirled and twisted up into the heads of the palm trees, and was finally swallowed by the grey sky" (p.15). W endt's imagination seeks to grasp the abstract with the sam e firm ness. He probes the m eaning of individual life to the deeps of existentialism or nihilism . The last sentence of Sons for the Return Home alludes to Camus (The Myth o f S isy p h u s); P ouliuli, as Crisp showed well, charts a pathway into the inner darkness of the individual unconscious; and the inward-living Galupo brings Camus' existentialist oppositions overtly into the last pages of Leaves: "'The opposition here is between magnificent human anarchy and the permanence of the unchanging sea.... Albert Camus I think his name is'" (p.407). So there is also opposition in P ou liu li and Leaves between the group responsibilities of society and the individual inner void figured in Faleasa's mocking madness and Tagata's lava field. The final conflict between Tauilopepe and Galupo is both a battle of political strategies and a subconscious, reciprocal rejection at the deepest level of their inward lives. Wendt constantly struggles to bring the outward and onw ard worlds together. I have shown how he succeeds, in the intercutting of scenery and psychology, chronicle and em otion, the physical and the philosophical. Like Conrad, the first great master of existentialist colonial literature, he will never quite commit himself to the inner darkness; the political and historical worlds remain real. But even a qualified existentialist vision is yet one further responsibility for him to carry with all his worldly obligations. They are hard to reconcile. When his inw ardness touches the destructive, the nihilist, the absurd, it works counter to the aspirations of the social chronicler. Political intrigue is a narrative dynamic for W endt, and he records it affectionately — but he suddenly hates the p o litician s. As the protagonist of S o n s beats and rejects his m anipulative m other, W endt will shudder and jerk free from his M achiavel heroes. The social philosophy which is the very groundbase of chronicle may suddenly be threatened or mocked. This mocking challenge to his own responsibilities runs deep in W endt. There is a p erv erse reb ellio u sn ess w ithin him that in filtra te s the m ost fundam ental processes of his imagination, setting anti-m yth against m yth, antihero against hero, existentialist mockery against national 'alofa', rascally deformed loners against the conform ist unity of the

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extended family, and provoking him to evince the attractiveness of the myths he has to debunk. He challenges or underm ines his literary responsibilities, also. W endt the consummate craftsman has an absurdist imp of m ischief under his skin that drives him in every novel to cut his whole fictional procedure into a collage of conflicting textures, to splinter his tim e-sequence into contrasting fragm ents, to jum p narrative tracks into a new perspective at the least expected mom ents. At its most demonic, it drives him to flaw the impressive triptych structure of the Great Polynesian Novel with a queer and ill-m atched m iddle panel, half patched up from another book. That's why I think it is so healthy for him to have left it like that, a testam ent to his deep-rooted irreverence even for his own artistry. Perhaps the trickster-gods Maui and Pili are sufficient explanation for all this. But it's not unique to Polynesia. That other people given to large-scale detailed, allegorical and tragic chronicles, the Germans, live with a sim ilar inherent contrariness, a half-suppressed fondness for com ic outlaw s that has made Till Eulenspiegel a m ythic figure and provoked their greatest modern novelist into creating Felix Krull, C onfid ence Trickster, as well as the com m ercial fam ily saga of Buddenbrooks. Respect for conformity and group solidarity is undercut by a hankering to kick over the rules and run solo. Again, the wider context may help us to come to terms as readers with the artistic saboteur in W endt, and to understand that his im agination, like M ann's, thrives on such oppositions. Wendt has said that his work oscillates between affirmation and self-destruction. He may never find a formula to resolve the conflict between the opposing poles of his art. My argument is that his creative energy, flaws and all, springs from having to live with both. So to take W endt seriously we must learn not to take him too seriously. K. O. Arvidson cautioned us palagi in 1975 that we would be either infuriated or saddened by W endt's anticolonialist rejection, and com pared it with the exclam ation of another Pacific poet, "Fuck off w hite b a sta rd ry ".1 But when W endt writes of the Governor and the m usket, when he refused for to leave my house, I shot to him and he is dead ("Colonialism: Independence")

the energy is in the ironic joke, not in a crude yell of abuse. W endt's com plex mirth adds humanity to rejection and energy to loss, whether he is shooting a colonialist with his own gun, or enquiring about dogs' balls at a socialite party ("Raiw aqa, Suva"), or ending Sons by turning an existentialist quotation on death into a mischievous sexual joke. A

1 K.O. Arvidson, “Flying-Fox in a Freedom Tree”, Landfall 113, 29.1, pp.72-6. The quotation os from “Reluctant Flame” by John Kasaipwalova of Papua New Guinea.

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recent poem chuckles as a Sam oan/Japanese pun becomes a token of alienation ("Oe, Y ou ", in Islands 26). My purpose is to welcom e these often jocular oppositions in Albert W endt, and to show that they demand a much m ore agile response from his readers than is implied in simplistic views of him as anti-colonial propagandist or Third World Classic. His creed is to be honest about Samoa and his own view of life — which means he is not satisfied to simplify either of them. Although he has not yet perfectly form ulated the approp riate structure to work in, he has largely succeeded in giving im aginative expression to his ow n creative impulses, contrary though they often are. Even when he is being most patchy and provoking, he is honest, for his impulse is to take nothing for granted — including what he has just said, and including also the artistic rationale of the work he is creating. So he habitually allows the last word to his impish saboteur, and I will do the same. All three of W endt's novels so far end with a lastminute shift of focus which rebels against the whole artistic weight of the book. The last sentence of Sons is irreverent to Camus as well as the fa'a-Sam oa. In Pouliuli the final word goes to the crippled outsider Laaum atua, who not only survives, but perversely uses the last sentence to turn even terror into a dream — more like the Red Queen than L e a r's Fool. Leaves o f the Banyan Tree purports to give the existentialist Galupo the last laugh: "And he laughed for the power and the glory was his. N ow ." Yet the joke turns back on him as we recognise the hubris in the Lord's Prayer allusion, and the irony of his commitment, "N ow ", to the world he thinks he lives to reject. It is an am bivalent last laugh, in which W endt checks personal sadness and historical despair by one final tricky twist. W orks by Albert Wendt "Tagata, the Man who Search for the Freedom Tree", in New Zealand Universities Arts Festival Year-book, 1963. "Guardians and Wards: a Study of the Origins, Causes and First Two Years of the Mau in Western Samoa". M.A. thesis, Victoria University of Wellington, 1965. Sons for the Return Home. 1973. Flying-Fox in a Freedom Tree, 1974. Inside us the Dead, Poems 1961-1974, 1976. Pouliuli, 1977. Leaves o f the Banyan Tree, 1979. (All Auckland: Longman Paul). "In a Stone Castle in the South Seas", Mana Review, 12 , 1976. "Three Poems for Kenzaburo Oe", Islands 26, 7.4,1979, pp373-4.

Criticism & Reviews K. O. Arvidson, "Sons tor the Return Home" , Landfall 111, 28.3, 1974, pp. 256-260. — “Flying-Fox in a Freedom Tree " , Landfall 113, 29.1, 1975, pp. 72-76. — "Sons of the Father: Leaves of the Banyan Tree", N.2. Listener, 95.2104, May 10, 1980, pp. 68-69. Rose Marie Bcston, 'T h e Poetry of Albert Wendt", World Literature Written in English, 16.1, 1977. Peter Crisp, "Albert Wendt: Pathways to Darkness", Islands 26, 7.4,1979, pp. 374-385. Elsie Locke, "Sons for the Return Home" , Islands 8, 3.2, 1974, pp. 229-231. Helen Tiffin, "'You can't go homo again': the colonial dilemma in the work of Albert Wendt", Meanjin, 37.1,1978, pp. 119-126.

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MATES, MUM AND MAUI: THE THEME OF MATURITY IN THREE ANTIPODEAN NOVELS Chris Tiffin One of the founding executive of the South Pacific Association for Commonwealth Language and Literature Studies, Chris Tiffin edited an early collection of critical essays, South Pacific Images (Brisbane: SPACLALS.1978). This paper was presented at the Delhi triennial conference of ACLALS and appeared in the proceedings. Awakened Conscience: Studies in Commonwealth Literature (ed. C.D. Narasimhaiah, 1978). It is included here as an example of comparative work broadening the Pacific boundaries and connecting with wider fields of study._____

The necessity for the young to leave the nest and strike out on their own is a natural pattern which has long provided a metaphor for the human family. With Sam uel Butler's The Way o f All Flesh the idea that maturity consisted in this was canonised in the novel and given the added piquancy of a departing kick aimed at the parents' pants. D.H. Law rence follows the model in Sons and Lovers as does Joyce in A P ortrait o f the Artist. For the colonial writer in an emerging country the pattern is particularly attractive because it offers a way of depicting both personal and national aspirations in a m ulti-layered fiction. How ever, as not every culture will subscribe to the same ideas of maturity at a personal level as they do at a national level, the result is a tension which creates them atic richness on the one hand, but considerable technical difficulties on the other. 1 wish in this paper to dem onstrate som ething of the range of treatm ents of the theme of m aturity by choosing novels by Randolph Stow, Witi Ihimaera and Albert Wendt. Of the three, Stow 's is the most traditional and the most direct in its treatment. Both Ihimaera and W endt, who explore social and racial conflicts as well as personal ones, find their fictional forms through im porting distinctive elem ents from other cultures and incorporating them into the novel. Stow 's The M erry-go-Round in the Sea is about the inevitable loss of childhood vision and the growth into more complex ideas of time and the self. With leisurely, straight-forward narrative it follows the development of Rob Coram from age six to age fourteen, concentrating m ore upon the dispersal of his childhood fantasies than upon the replacem ent of them by anything more positive or substantial. Rob at the start is a precocious child, the solidity of whose world is guaranteed by an extensive though distanced family, by the model of his older cousin, Rick, and by his com plete sensuous identification with the environment. Rob's immediate family is strangely remote. His father appears infrequently, and when he does Rob notices him as one might an interesting stranger. On a couple of occasions when his father m anifests ingenuity, such as in the rescue of Rob from the river, there is as much surprise as admiration in his reaction. His mother is more pervasive in the book, but her role is scarcely more important than that of any of the other relatives. She and Rob are intim ate — they know each other's moods and conversational ways to the extent that Rob is prematurely bored by the relationship, being able to predict when he

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prematurely bored by the relationship, being able to predict when he can get his way, and when she is 'dangerous'. His substitute parents are drawn from the wider circle of the family, and consist of his aunt Kay who likes men and is eternally knitting or repairing socks for them, and most of all his cousin, Rick, who is fifteen years older than him. As his mother rem arks, "H e seems to be trying to turn him self into a carbon copy of Rick." (p.260). This substitution is brought out clearly in an early scene as Rick leads the horse on which the six-year-old Rob is riding. He looked down on Rick walking ahead in the road, being nudged now and then by Goldie's nose, but not turning.... The day, the summer would never end. He would walk behind Rick, he would study Rick forever. (p36)

Rob, then, is insulated from the parental problems faced by Ernest Pontifex or Stephen Daedalus, but only because he has transferred his vulnerability to his expectations of Rick. Rick becomes his primary guarantee of protection and his hope of timelessness and stability, but he also draws reassurance from his sense of the natural world. This is a very visceral novel replete with the multitudinous sights, sounds, but especially smells that surround the growing Rob. As they do with an animal, they serve to identify and demarcate his territory. His world is that of the area round Geraldton extending out to the family properties which he sometimes visits. Beyond that to the east lies Australia, a sad romantic land carpeted with the bleaching bones of its true heroes, the noble suicides. The war news has no impact on him until Broome, a town that has affinities with his world, is mentioned. But the primal elem ent of R ob's physical world is the sea, "th e first sound, the beginning and ending of all his circling days." (p.47). It, too, is a guarantee of the stability of his life and of his im m unity from upheaval and change. But circular patterns, as in Stow 's previous novels, are deceptive if not outright destructive, and the aimlessness of Rob's life, whatever the sea might prom ise, will not be allowed to continue forever. For the m om ent, though, Rob is allow ed his illusions, and Stow typifies them by the merry-go-round of the title which becom es the central symbol of the book. Rob is devoted to a merry-go-round, or rather, roundabout, in a park by the sea. He identifies with this the mast and stays of a sunken barge in the harbour and imagines it to be a timeless, self-propelling roundabout, perfect and prim al, on which he could live forever with his chosen parent substitutes. He would swim miles and miles, until at last the merry-go-round would tower above him, black, glistening, pcrfect, rooted in the sea. The merry-go-round would turn by itself, just a little above the green water. The world would revolve around him, and nothing would ever change. He would bring Rick to the merry-go-round, and Aunt Kay. and they would stay there always, spinning and diving and dangling their feet in the water, and it would be today forever. (p.25)

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This em phasis on changelessness, the suspension of the happy present, is the start of a rearguard action against the proposition of linear time that Rob has already accepted intellectually. W hile he still entertains the desire to perpetuate the moment riding behind Rick, or imagines the most perfect of all suspensions as the effortless, circular movement of the magic roundabout in the sea, he has discovered the inexorable irreplaceability of each moment. He was thinking of time and change, of how, one morning when he must have been quite small, he had discovered time, lying in the grass with his eyes closed against the sun. He was counting to himself. He counted up to sixty, and thought: That is a minute. Then he thought: It will never be that minute again. It will never be today again. Never, (p.14)

And Stow comments: "H e would not, in all his life, m ake another discovery so shattering." The bulk of the novel, then, is occupied not with Rob's discovery or this metaphysical truism, but with the im plications of it for Rob's own life. His self-containedness is almost im penetrable, but there are breaches of it, the most noticeable being caused by the second world war, which overshadows the novel. Rob is first aware of the war as the generic source of irritations and omissions. He notices it first when the tiny Japanese flowers which expand in water are no longer available. The war is the explanation given for the fam ily's maid not being replaced when she leaves to marry. More crucially it is why he cannot travel out to inspect his merry-go-round in the sea, as that part of the beach has become a barb-wire enclosed army reserve. The war causes other upsets in his way of life and in his surroundings. The tennis court is dug up for an air raid trench, and the whole family prepares for an evacuation inland which never takes place. But the most important change is the four-year absence of Rick who leaves for the war the morning after the boy's ride on Goldie, and who is captured by the Japanese with the result that for most of the four years his family do not know if he is alive or dead. Rob has difficulty in comprehending this absence. He is unused to anyone not being a free agent, and is appalled at the thought that anyone would dare to harm an Australian, much less a Maplestead. Rob's world expands as places like Thailand take on a distant meaning, but for the most part he is still confined by his physical world. He has vowed that he will not forget Rick, but Rick's face becomes harder and harder to recall until only a few jokes and smells and places will bring back the memory. In the meantime, other developments take place. There is still a circularity about his days, but his experience expands. Time manifests itself as m ore m ysterious than he had realised. The am nesia that results from a fall from a tree blots out not only the day or two afterw ards, but also the twenty minutes or so before. Tim e therefore not only moves forward inexorably but can reverse as well to efface incidents that have already happened. Equally startling is the sudden reco llectio n o f a visit to Perth w hich had passed out of his consciousness. Both the land and the sea start to yield up mysteries.

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The poison fish he catches which spikes him so painfully teaches him that "there's some funny things in the sea". Similarly, the land reveals its darkness when he is lost in the paddocks, a metaphysical darkness which precipitates him towards maturity. He learns that it is possible to die of that darkness, and that one does not cry after learning that. There are less painful surprises too, such as the sight of the deer in the early m orning mist. But for all this, and for all the unease he feels at his growing awareness of sex, and his self-consciousness about being teased by his friends, his world continues largely intact. He remains a simple sensibility responding to scents and sounds of the country, his continued simplicity guaranteeing him against any major upset. The boy then was little more than a body, a set of sense organs. To himself he had little identity, and to his friends none at all, as they had none to him. They knew each other by sight and hearing, by certain mannerisms. In absence, they ceased to exist for one another, (p.125)

The return of Rick seems to offer a continuation of the stable life. At first sight Rick appears no different despite his Aunt's warning to Rob that he might be, and Rob is ready to accept him back in the same hero-mould. Rick too, with his quote from Donne in Rob's autograph book: 'T h y firmness makes my circle ju st/ And makes me end where I begun", seems ready to accept a return to the status quo. But this does not last long. Rick is different, despite the boy's protests that he must not be, and the differences are all anti-heroic ones. He can't sleep at night, he cries, he has moods of brooding reminiscence, he faints at the sight of the pigs being castrated, and there are moments when he seems to hate Rob. Rick is so central to Rob's sense of fitness and security that these unheroic w eaknesses "disturbed him and left him w ithout bearings" (p.166). But Rick is even more profoundly changed, for not only has he developed feet of clay as far as both Rob and the family are concerned, but also he starts repudiating the other props of Rob's life: family and country. While Hughie has little trouble settling back into a comfortable existence, Rick cannot. He finds Australia "a good country to be a child in" because "it is a childish country" (p.250). But he has lost his innocence in the war, and to an adult, Australia is "an AngloCeltic vacuum in the South Seas" (p.250), characterised by "arrogant mediocrity, shoddiness and wowserism" (p.281). Nor can the claims of the past or of the family hold him any longer. When Rob complains, "If you liked us, you wouldn't mind those things you're talking about" (p.281), Rick repudiates all ties. "Look, kid, I've outgrown you. I don't w ant a fam ily, I don't want a country. Fam ilies and countries are biological accidents. I've grown up, and I'm on my own." (p.281). The defection of Rick is the most serious upset that Rob in his fourteen years has been exposed to. There have been mom ents of disturbance earlier, and moments when he wished he could turn back the clock. He w ishes the harnessing of atom ic pow er could be unlearned, he w ishes he had not seen Rick cry. But R ick's leaving brings home the im plications of Rob's discovery of linear time eight years earlier. If each minute comes once and never again, then there is

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no circularity, suspension, nor final return and the stable institutions of hero, land and family which implied that circularity, which made that circle just, are specious and illusory. Ultimately, in the growing up process there is nothing and no one on whom to depend except the self. Rick's departure implies Rob's own eventual departure, perhaps in quite a different way, if he too is to "get a soul" (p.175). A ppropriately, Stow returns to his m erry-go-round symbol to make his final comment. The boy stared at the blue blur that was Rick. Over Rick's head a rusty windmill whirled and whirled. He thought of a windmill that had become a merry-go-round in a back yard, a merry-go-round that had been a substitute for another, now ruined merry-go-round, which had itself been a crude promise of another merry-go-round most precariously rooted in the sea. (p.283)

Originally, Rob's dream had been a merry-go-round "glistening, perfect, rooted in the se a". The final version show s Rob aw are of the ambiguous nature of such a vision. Not only is he left with a reminder of a makeshift substitute for a time-ruined promise of his dream — fully four removes from reality to ideal — but he recognises it now as "p erilo u sly ro o ted ", with the twin senses of precariou sly and dangerously, for if the dream is clutched too long it retards and destroys. The family think Rick "im m atu re", but Stow intends his escape from a perfunctory marriage and then from the country to be anything but this. The lesson is intended for Rob, too. Although he has lived in the shelter of family and in identification with the sounds and sm ells of the land, although he has created his own m ythology of Australia with its carpet of bleaching bones and self-destructive heropoets, although he has forged his hero in Rick, none of these can obviate for long the demand by linear time that he repudiate such solace and security. There is no triumph in such a conclusion. Neither Rick nor Rob shows any indication that they are on the verge of forging anything particular in the sm ithies of their respective souls. R ick's departure seems to be an escape rather than an apotheosis, and Rob's final vision is tinged with the sweet sadness of the passing of intim ations of immortality. This is, I think, a romantic novel farewelling the ecstasies of youth, and for Stow farewelling a country which, like Rick, he feels he has outgrown. The novel identifies and defines maturity, confronts the dem ands of inexorable reality, but lingers over the childhood experience. The "blue blur" of Rick at the conclusion is no longer the blue of immense possibility but only the blue of Australian distance, and like Rob the novel concludes with no more and no less than the "agreeable sadness" (p.269) of knowing that one is young but that one will not be young for long. W iti Ihim aera's first novel, Tangi (w h ich m eans a funeral or wake), is told through the consciousness of a young Maori who has maturity thrust upon him at the death of his father, and there is little doubt that m aturity here m eans fu lfillin g a resp o n sib le, even

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patriarchal role in the family group. Many times the novel repeats the father's injunction, 'T h e eldest always looks after the younger ones of the fam ily," (p.21) and the son, Tama, responds with a vow to become like a giant Kauri sheltering the fam ily. But although T am a's consciousness is the chosen vehicle for the narrative it is not the centre of interest. The novel shows the form of grief rather than analysing the grief itself. For all its tearing of hair and rending of garments, it is a novel less about personal sorrow than about the way a group restores itself after the loss of one of its members. One of the characters in Ihim aera's second novel says of an old man, "Everyone's been so lucky to have him so lon g .1 The individual is shared and valued by the group, so when an individual does die the loss is felt by all and is to be dem onstrated by all. In the Maori culture the ritual of the ta n g i provides the method of demonstration. By choosing the viewpoint of the eldest son, the orthodox successor, Ihim aera has been able to internalise with remarkable success the public, traditional lore of the Maori funeral. The novel is an individual treatment of a ritual which seeks to exorcise the loss of the individual and to reconfirm the coherence and mutual support of the group. Since the sort of material Ihimaera has to organise affects the way he goes about it, it is worthwhile to sketch the process of grief exorcism. Also it should be remarked in passing that Ihimaera is explicit that the tangi is a ritual to be gone through. Early in the novel Tama speaks of his path to the Underworld, and as the novel approaches the tan gi itself, the refrain em phasises the self-consciou s confronting and purging of individual sorrow. And one step further now. No don't stop. If you stop, even for a moment, the grief will possess you completely, and you must complete this journey. You arc your father's son, the eldest, (p .145)

This is im portant because it puts in much better perspective the ex p licitn ess o f the em otion about w hich review ers have been defensive. The point is that articulating the sense of loss is a way of con cretisin g and ultim ately overcom ing it. The sociologists can probably do it with bigger words, but simply extrapolating from this novel we can see a number of different stages or elem ents in the formal process of grief. (It is interesting to note how many of them crop up in a form like the pastoral elegy.) First there is the refusal to believe in the fact of death. The shearers cannot accept what they hear. Tama is stunned: — Dad, dead ? No. Not my father. Not Dad. (p.4)

1 Wiii Ihimaera, Whanau, Auckland: Hcincmann, 1974, p.45. Page references of ihc three main novels discussed arc to ihc following editions: The Merry-go-Round in the Sea, London: Macdonald, 1964; Tangi, Auckland: Hcincmann, 1973; Sons fo r the Return Home, Auckland: Longman Paul, 1973.

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The women-folk demonstrate their refusal to believe by hysterics or by continuing to talk to the corpse as though he were still alive. The children simply cannot understand. The next element is the expression of guilt for injustices done to the deceased and for opportunities lost of honouring, helping or showing affection to him. Tam a's regret for not returning to help on the farm is much reiterated at the start of the n ovel. T h e m ost p erv asiv e elem en t in the p ro cess is the dem onstration of personal loss in the wildest and most extravagant terms. Anger or fierceness may be involved, and the demonstration is made through extreme and even cosmic comparisons. I try to smile back. My lips curl only with sorrow. There is no joy in the world now that Dad is dead, (p.62) World, surround me with a rush of silence. Let no sounds of joy or happiness come to me. There should be no world now that Dad is dead, nor any joy.... (p.70) Your father is gone now and the world is filled with darkness. He was a good man, the axis of your universe, the sun giving light to your day. Now clouds obscure the sun. All the world laments with you. And this place has become desolate with ashes and sorrow, (p.144)

Next there is a recapitulation of what has been owed to tbe deceased. Kopua's first reaction is to list what Rongo had done for him, while much of the novel is devoted to substantiating Tam a's claim that his father was "so completely the sculptor of my life." (p.47). Two features of the grief process are recognisable from the pastoral elegy, but with significant modifications: the declaration of alienation from one's fellows following the death, and the reproach against time. Tam a's alienation from others is mentioned often enough, but unlike Sh elley 's Adonais there is com panionship in mourning. Tam a is not alone in his emotional exclusion from the world as he approaches his sister, Mere. We see only each other. All these other people embracing and meeting one another are only shadows existing on the edge of our universe. I stumble through them. I walk along the barrier towards my sister. Her face is wet with tears. (p.106)

M ore significant is the treatment given to Tam a's pakeha g irl-frien d , Sandra, who belongs to the world of W ellington, the world of Tam a's tem porary defection from the family. She is sum m arily abandoned both hy Tama and by Ihimaera, being given only one or two oblique m entions until she telephones late in the book. In the crisis of death none but the family matters. All else is alien, and will continue to be for Tama since he will return to head the family. W hoever Sandra is, and whatever relationship they have had, she becomes suddenly alien and irrelevant. If group m ourning m itigates the isolation of the individual m ourner, so too it m odifies the resentm ent at time. The underlying ethic of the novel demands an acquiescence in the process of time, and

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so its swift rapacity is attributed to Tama's own thoughtlessness. "Those forever years when father was always with (him)" (p. 101) have blinded Tama to his father's aging. "H e seemed always the same as if life had just stream ed round him and left him unchanged." (p.96). There is anger in the grief process, but it is less impotent reproach than a fierce pride in what has been achieved in the time allowed. The final words of the novel encapsulate this beautifully. Farewell, Rongo ! Farewell ! Farewell ! Farewell ! It is a cry of aroha, swelling louder and gathering in strength. It is an acclamation for our father. it is the final farewell, echoed by earth and sky. It is a roar of pride, before the slow descending of the sun. (p.207)

Earth and Sky, the primal parents and progenitors of natural law, are invoked to place this death in its proper context. This is the climax of the tangi. Rongo has been buried, along with all his possessions, and the m ourners, having dem onstrated their solidarity, are about to disperse to take up their lives again. The pride comes from the sense of value and worth in the deceased, in the family, in the self; an assertion of positiveness in the face of the unavoidable fact of individual decline and death. The last three stages of the ritual are especially im portant in Ihim aera's version. Physical activity, or the promise of it, is a way both of declaring respect for the dead and of controlling personal grief. Thus K opu a's voice is "fierce" when he announces he is com ing back im m ediately for the tangi. Similarly, the usually stuffy Auntie Arihia is galvanised into energetic action, as Mere relates. She yelled out: Where's a knife, somebody give me a knife. I'll show you fullas how to peel spuds! She kept everybody going, and she really ripped into some of the boys when she saw them being lazy, (pp.128-9)

More important, perhaps, is the way Tama is made to participate in the actual burial. The custom of pall-bearing by the adult male bereaved is widespread in western culture, but this does not answer to the therapy of helping to dig the grave which Uncle Pita, the master of ceremonies, enforces on Tama. This provides the ultimate exposure to the fact of death which must be undergone before the regenerative emotions can reassert themselves. I begin to dig. Slowly at first. The clay has not been reached yet. My tears begin to fall, warm and scalding. For this is where father will lie. Here, in this cold earth. Here. And he will be gone forever, (p.174)

This reaches the ultim ate level of purgation. The remaining steps are the regenerative ones of receiving reminders of solidarity and support from the group, and the diffident assumption of the new role into which one m ust step as a result of the death — in Tam a's case to become a Kauri to his family.

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Beneath the working out of this grief exorcism lies Ihim aera's fundamental theme of the coadjunction of ends and beginnings. From the opening sentence, 'T h is is where it ends and begins", to the final one, "It is a roar of pride, before the slow descending of the su n", he reminds us that each beginning is simply a termination seen from a d ifferent view point. M oreover, with his constant stress on the communal rather than the individual, beginnings and endings lose even their partial identity and merge as simply points in the flux of existence. Human life and its termination in death bring us our most acute awareness of time, and in learning to cope with death we learn to cope with time, in fact, with existence. Hence the pertinence of the creation myth to the story. The primal father and mother, Sky and Earth, are conjoined in an ageless em brace while their children crawl about them in darkness. Eventually they are forcefully serarated by one of their sons, and light is let into the world m arking "the time of separation and the dawning of the first day." (p.26). Separation, then, from the inception of time has been associated with hope and with beginning. It is one of the fundamental rhythm s to which we must attune ourselves if we are to achieve happiness. And, says Ihimaera, the Maori respects that rhythm in his code of fam ily tutelage, "The oldest always looks after the younger ones in the family." The ritual of mourning, then, whether in the Maori or any other cooperative society, has a function which im plies pattern or shape beneath the endless repetition of traditional words and gestures. To som e extent these patterns translate into fiction, but much more is required of the novelist if he is to avoid confusing or boring the reader. The real-life tangi is a participatory ritual; a novelistic version must be a virtuoso performance. The principal device which Ihimaera uses to shape the material is the convenient one of the two journeys: the plane flight home on hearing the news of his father's death, and the train journey back to W ellington after the tangi to finalise his affairs there before returning to the farm, and to the family, for good. The one journey shows his im m ediate reaction, the other the later overview. TTiese two journeys are detailed in sections that alternate alm ost strictly (there are only three exceptions) until right at the end of the novel when they fuse. The initial homeward journey is grief-choked, terse, and suffused with a sense of disem bodim ent and unreality. (An air journey seems a particularly appropriate vehicle for this.) Tama is preoccupied with his grief, profoundly isolated from his fellow -travellers, and subject to fragm entary invasions of memory. Ironically he is seated next to a widow who is travelling to see her new lybom first grandchild. There are few sustained flashbacks in these sections, the thrust being to depict the immediate assimilation of grief through the processes I suggested earlier. Significantly the second journey is outward. Initially grief makes one turn inwards, but the morning comes again. Consequently, even though Tam a's destiny is back with the family, Ihimaera shows the journey to W ellington rather than the final one (presumably only a

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few days later) back to Waituhi. The weather on the plane flight has been som bre and rainy except for the suspension above the clouds. Now the blue sky is continually opening out as the train emerges from a valley or rounds a mountain. The pace, appropriately, is m ore leisurely; the memories more expansive and more ordered. Instead of the nightm are flashes, the whole of the fam ily's life — as itinerant workers, in town, on their own farm, in town again for the children's education — is dealt with in order and at considerable length. The irony of the plane travellers going to a birth and a death gives way to a generation parallel on the train when Tama sees in the young girl being farewelled by her Nanny, himself setting out for W ellington four years earlier, and knows that they have a common solace in the Maori family. Perhaps this girl will never see her Nanny again. She will go to the city and enjoy life, forgetting about her Nanny. Then maybe the telephone will ring or a telegram will comc.... Then she will know where her heart lies as I know where my heart will always be. At Waituhi, my whanau. (p.94)

This speculative parallel of himself with the young girl is only one of a number of parallels of character and incident with which the novel is structured. Most of these are concerned with the idea of necessary sep aration. The earlier death of his grand m other, N anny Puti, foreshadows the death of his father, but so too do the incidents of his being lost — once in the city, a second time less painfully in the country. As separation is inherent in life, not all of the examples are d evastating, or even particularly painful. The parting from the neighbour who wades across the river with the m orning's baking, the daily separation when the father goes to work or the children to school, even the removal of the sleepy children to their own bed when the father returns late from work, all create a continuum of divisions which mitigates the sense that death, the ultimate parting, is a perverse obscenity in life. Even the family's itinerant life, with its many partings and arrivals, while contrasting with Tam a's aimless four years in the city, reverberates with the overriding images of the two journeys to create a sense of solid purposiveness beneath the flux "o f pride before the slow descending of the sun". I have suggested that Ihimaera exploits traditional material. This is especially true of his images, and there seem to be only two in the whole novel which strike the reader as fresh and individualistic. Both are recurrent and functional, and the more striking because of their solitary splendour. The first of these is the image of the train window which Ihimaera uses like Alice's looking-glass. It is at once a reflective glass in which Tama sees himself, the frame through which he sees life passing by him, the passageway into memories of the past, and finally it coalesces with the photograph of his father as a young man in which he sees himself and acknowledges his succession to the headship of the family. The second is the compelling image of fingers grasping. In a book so concerned with partings and the way to accom modate them, the fingers mark the final point at which contact is relinquished. They

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are tenuous but tenacious. The motif is first used at W aithui station as the train leaves for Wellington, breaking the farewell grasp of Tama and his mother. It takes on a natural, geographical note as the train leaves a gorge. 'T h e valley widens, and with splayed fingers, takes one final grasp of the earth. The train roars past the fingertips into N uhaka." (p.68). It stands for the intimidating power of the town over young Tama, which diminishes as he grows older and more confident. When I was a small boy it seemed very large. Its long main street intersected other streets which splayed out towards the sea and hills like long thin fingers. As I grew older however, Gisborne seemed to get smaller as if the fingers were curling slowly into the palm of the city, (p.81)

Life, too, opens its fingers to Tama, but this is the false invitation of the aimless city. Finally the motif finds its appropriate place at the tangi, first with Wiki leaving scratches on the wood of the coffin, and then with the stubborn grief of Tam a's mother at the moment of burial. He speaks to Mum. She shakes her head and clutches more tightly at father. Uncle Pita speaks to her again and holds her shoulders. My sisters too, they comc to prise her away. Her fingers claw at the casket as she breaks her clasp. Her head arches back. Her hands reach up to tear at the sun. (p.186)

Ihim aera's prose style requires a study in itself which neither my com petence nor your indulgence would permit here, but it is worth making two brief points. In the first place only a superb stylist could hope to suspend disbelief and maintain interest in such necessarily excessive and repetitive material, and Ihimaera is just that. Sometimes the prose imitates a child's enthusiasm and wonder: "And afterward, Dad even took us all to the pictures, even Mum. And at night time too!" (p.83). Som etim es it is flat and fragm ented to capture the disorientation of grief: I look ahead. The road curves round the bay. The car turns onto the highway leading to the airport. Far in the distance I see the runway. The plane is about to take off. It gathers speed, then lifts into the grey sky. TTiere is a thunderous rumble as it passes overhead, (p.61)

Sometimes it is formally and richly poetic: Your mother looks old in the light. Her eyes are red-rimmed with weeping. Her body is thin and wasted away with grief. But she is still beautiful. She is the Earth. Her hair is silver with the mists of the hills. Her eyes are like shimmering waterfalls. The contours of her face are the sculpted landscapes of earth. Her moods arc the seasons. This is her winter unending, the most bitter season of all. (p.152)

The second point I would make is the skill with which Ihimaera makes his transitions from one journey to the other and from the past to the present. Two children waving at a railway crossing take Tama back to his own childhood with his sister. The nervous plane passenger tells

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him casually that one soon gets over a bereavement and reprecipitates his struggle to control his grief. The schoolboy on the train taking off his cap reminds him of his own schooldays. His final return home will find his sister, Mere, waiting for him just as she was at Rongopai airport, and just as she was when he returned home from school each day. The transitions are carefully prepared and consumately executed. Tangi is a pre-emptive novel. The material could be treated in this way only once, so it is especially gratifying that it has been done so well. W hile the translation into poetic English prose is Ihim aera's own, one never loses sight of the fact that this is a public ritual and that the novel im itates the patterns and functions of a real-life ta n g i. In its alm ost exclusive use of stock im ages, its constant, even daring repetitions, its incorporation of traditional song and its exploitation of m ythology, it contradicts many of our expectations of the modern novel and forces us to rethink our definitions. Its sense of maturity is based upon a cooperative culture, but is conveyed through an individual consciousness. The result is extravagant but compelling. Both Stow and Ihimaera have written what one might call nonprocessive novels. Ihim aera, certainly, is a recorder of a particular clearly perceived culture which, like W ordsworth or Hardy or Achebe in their times and places, he wishes to preserve from oblivion, and w hose values he wishes to assert. Stow seems to be writing a more personal recapitulation of childhood experience, and perhaps a self­ justification of his voluntary exile. In neither case does one feel the sense of concerted enquiry that one does in W endt's novel. Stow and Ihimaera profess certain values, Wendt (and his reader) discover them. This makes W endt's novel a more difficult and demanding one, but implies as well an additional level of excitement. Sons for the Return Home deals with the love affair between a young Samoan and a white New Zealand girl, his return to Samoa and u ltim ate rejection of his country. At first the girl m akes all the advances and the protagonist is antipathetic. However her persistence ev en tu ally overcom es his relu ctance, they com m ence an affair, carefully guide each other along the edges of their respective social circles, visit each other's homes, and pass an idyllic month touring the North Island of New Zealand during which she becomes pregnant. On their return they inexplicably separate for a couple of weeks until one night she summons him to a middle-class party where she tries to goad him into fighting a form er boyfriend. He declines and leaves, she follow s him out and after passionately pum m elling him for a few seconds reiterates that she rejects her former circle for him, and reveals that she is pregnant. She declines his offer of marriage for fear that that would trap him into what might become a loveless marriage like her parents', and so although they both want to marry, she decides to go to Australia, think things over, have an abortion so there will be no hint of compulsion or possibility of later recrimination by him, and then come back and marry him. She does this but is overcome by guilt and does not return, saying that while she does love him intensely, to

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return would be to destroy him with her guilt. He is distraught, beats up the former boyfriend, and a little later finishes his studies and returns with his family to Samoa where he is unhappy both in the v illa g e and in A pia. On d isco v erin g th at his m oth er had m ischievously promoted the girl's abortion realising that this would alienate them rather than prepare for an unambiguous marriage as the girl expected, he feels the last tie with his family broken, and in an enigm atic final scene he returns to New Zealand, a m ore experienced and now totally detached young man. Just as Ihimaera used an individual consciousness to portray a collective ritual, so Wendt focuses on a single personality to present a theme which in part repudiates the importance of personality. The first indication the reader has of this tension is the anonym ity of the characters who remain throughout "h e", "the girl", "his m other" etc. Since the practice is awkward and risks confusion, one must ask what g ain s there are. Perhaps it is easier to deal w ith d elica te autobiographical incidents in this way, but there is no reason to believe that Wendt is coy. On the other hand this is the saga of a fam ily's outward voyage, conquering and triumphal return. The pattern is epic, and the anonymity accentuates this. For a sim ilar purpose Patrick W hite suppresses the name of his character in the opening pages of The Tree o f Man. But there is an important thematic reason too, for the persistent anonym ity of these characters who in other respects are carefully detailed through action, dialogue and m otive or obsession suggests a two-tiered view of human life which W endt is exploring. Even as it reveals m an's v u ln erabilities, a p sychological study necessarily im plies the im portance of individuals. The Polynesian view is less flattering to the single soul, for whereas there may be value in the collective, the individual is subsidiary. H ow ever, instead of praising the family as Ihim aera does. W endt exploits the ironical tension which results from considering the individual simultaneously as a developing self-exploring consciousness and as an insignificant pawn of fate or chance. The coalescence of these two ideas produces the intellectual verdict that life is absurd, but for the Polynesian this does not destroy its positiveness, nor does it obviate the need to find a practical, individual attitude or stance. The coherence of one's stance to life can be termed maturity. Like Stow 's, W endt's concept of maturity involves repudiation of land and family and seizing upon lines like "this was now the only right way for him to break away from her and the safety of home and country, and to be what he w as," (p.214). One could be forgiven for thinking their ideas coincide. But in each case the repudiation is in response to more profound problems. W ith W endt's hero it is not the m etaphysic of time, but rather the range of forces — social, racial, fam ilial and personal — which retard one from achieving insightful honesty. M aturity for W endt involves courage, clear-sightedness, the ability to bear responsibility, and the willingness to lend oneself freely to the chaotic rhythms of life. The first three are active and invite a psychological portrayal. The last is a wise passiveness much more

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difficult to portray in traditional ways, and for this Wendt invokes Polynesian mythology. Ken Arvidson has pointed out that the Polynesian god, M au i, seem s to provide the key to the novel.1 He is mentioned in the final line and has appeared throughout the story, being associated in particular with the young man's assertion that Polynesian mythology is based upon the absurdity of life, (p.99) Maui is the Polynesian version of Prom etheus, the dynamic underworld force and breaker of taboos, the irreverent yet effective provider of fire, land and protracted daylight. His role in the novel is to suggest a mischievous unorthodoxy associated with W endt's idea of maturity. This is apparent at a number of levels and can be clearly seen if one opposes the lines of succession here and in Tangi. In Tangi "the eldest son looks after the younger ones" and Tama is the eldest son of Rongo who was also the eldest son. W endt's hero, by contrast, is the youngest son of a youngest son of a youngest son, and the law of succession in this novel is accordingly different. "In every generation it is always the youngest sons in our family who must carry on.... They have always proved the most gifted." (pp.33-3). The hero is a Maui figure, for Maui himself was a youngest son in whose informality and unpredictability Wendt finds an image for the fluid and illogical pattern of life. I'd like to quote from a folklorist to bring out this underw orld elem ent in M aui. She is contrasting him with the much more establishment god, Tahaki. Maui is such a direct contrast to Tahaki that it seems as if the feeling were. 'Well, if 1 can't be as good as Tahaki, I'll be as bad as Maui.' Maui is essentially a hero of the Polynesian proletariat and the nonconformists. He was the youngest of a large family of male children, an ignominious position in Polynesian society. He defied an endless number of taboos in a society in which the word taboo originated. Maui who in defiance of gods and every obstacle stole fire for mankind and raised the sky did more lasting good for mankind than Tahaki who, with everyone's goodwill and assistance, simply conformed to social standards.2

But Maui is as important for Wendt in his defeat as in his triumphs. In achieving so much, but still ultim ately defeated by death, Maui becom es an emblem for foredoomed human aspiration which at first sight may not seem to differ greatly from that of Tam burlane or M anfred. But there is an im portant difference of tone, a note of acceptance yet resilience and irreverence which is foreign to western culture. Maui com bines the stature of Prometheus with the folksy m ischief of Robin Hood, and this is what Wendt seeks to capture in his rendering of the story, and especially in that final line, "H e imagined Maui to have been happy in his death." (p.217). M aui's career embodies both assertive and acquiescent aspects and thus serves as apropriate figure for the maturity to which the young man grows. This may not be immediately obvious since first and last 1 Review .Landfall, XXVIII, no.3, 1974, p.259. 2 Katherine Luomala, “Notes on the Development of Polynesian Hcro-Cyclcs”, Journal o f the Polynesian Society, vol.49, 1940, p.373.

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we see him as an isolated figure, but there is a significant difference between the two states. At first he is defensively alone, refusing any contact except that of his family. Despite the cynical self-confidence he m anifests on the football field, despite the defensive, clinical sexual experience he has had, despite his independence in choice of a course of study, he is still em otionally unformed and his stance of non­ involvem ent is a negative defence. This stance is eroded by the m arathon advances of the girl, and through her he com es to understand himself and New Zealand racial tensions more clearly. The increased insight does not, however, prevent him from acceding to the abortion which alienates him from the girl. When he returns to Samoa his p a keh a experience prevents him from accepting the easy pre­ em inence in which his mother glories. Nor does the town offer any sort of com prom ise because he is too aware of the hypocrisy and cultural debasement there. He has no alternative but to leave again, and the revelation of his m other's complicity in the abortion provides a convenient opportunity for him to ritually renounce hom e and fam ily. This renunciation is a m ore positive one than that in Stow 's novel because it involves both the assertive and acquiescent elements. The gesture of renunciation was a "slap of his forgiving hand" (p.215). The myth of Maui too, although it enshrines the mystery of individual death, is given a positive rendering as if to spell out that even though life is contradictory and ambiguous it is still good and still demands acquiescence. Thus one version of the Maui story concludes: And thus did the laughter of his companions at the last and most scandalous of his exploits deprive mankind of immortality. For Hinenui always knew what Maui had it in mind to do to her. But she knew that it was best that man should die, and return to the darkness from which he comes, down that path which she made to Rarohenga.1

The young m an, for all his apparent isolation and inactivity, is transformed by the end of the novel through losing not illusions (like Rob Coram) but intolerance and prejudices. At the most obvious level, the racial, he has become less aggressively antagonistic to the Maori and less passively or defensively antagonistic to the pakeha. To do this he had to free him self of the personal and racial m ythology which often crops up in W endt's fiction. These sectarian self-im ages are destructive to the individual not only because they are m isleading in detail but because they seek to impose a pattern on life where none exists nor can exist. Personal or racial myths may have practical uses and applications in the short term but ultimately they im ply a non­ acquiescence with life. Other intolerances are less obvious: that against people in general, seen in his stance of non-involvement; that against the physical self, seen in his sexual prudishness and jealousy; and ultim ately, intolerance of life itself in acceding to the abortion.

1 Antony Alpcrs, Maori Myths and Tribal Legends, London: John Murray, 1964, p.70.

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More interesting is the accession to courage by the young man. In his short stories Wendt seems to regard courage as the universal Samoan virtue, but there is a spectrum of courage. At one end is the physical courage demanded of Pili by his grandfather in the short story, "Pint-Sized Devil on a Thoroughbred." After making Pili return day after day to a fight with an older boy until he wins, the grandfather explains: Victory is a matter of guts plus technique, but mainly guts. Fear is nothing. It's a matter of working at it. Chipping it away until you're scared no more and your guts arc the guts of a man.1

Somewhere in the middle of the spectrum is a combination of physical and psychical courage as in "A Cross of Soot". In this story Wendt shows a boy playing round a jail persuading one of the prisoners to tattoo a star on his hand. Only a cross has been completed when the prisoner is led away to be executed, something which is not referred to directly by the other prisoners, but which the boy intuits. The brave b earin g of pain thus becom es associated w ith in itiatio n into knowledgeable maturity, and when the boy returns home his mother is about to scold him but desists seeing a new awareness in his eyes. This coalescence of insight and courage reaches its fullest exploration in the ascetic view of the long story, "Flying-Fox in a Freedom Tree". The dying Flying-Fox describes a landscape he once saw which sym bolises the rigorous perspicacity that metaphysical courage can attain, and which, I think, corresponds to the dispossessed suspension of the young man in Sons. You travel for miles through forest and so many villages where the people have ruined the beauty, and then... And then It is there. You feci you are right in it at last. Get me? Like you arc there where the peace lies, where all the dirty little places and lies and monuments we make to ourselves mean nothing because lava can be nothing else but lava. I felt like I had been searching for that all my miserable life. Boy, it made me see things so clear for once. That being a dwarf or a saint does not mean anything ...That we are all equal in silence, in the nothing, in lava.2

This universal néant which suppresses personality and the forces which form personality is of a different order from the wall of selfprotective silence with which the hero surrounds him self for a good part of the book. The one is a denial of the processes of life, the other is an acceptance of them. The self-conquering dem ands insight and courage, and in the dispossession of what has formed and constrained us we witness to life. As the father puts it, We forget too easily what we are, and — most of all — the beauty we are capable of when we heal ourselves. There are no evil spirits or wrathful gods: we are, in the first instance, not victims of circumstance either. We are all equal in our affliction and our guilt. We secrete the poison of that affliction, (p.208) 1 Flying-Fox in a Freedom Tree. Auckland: Longman Paul, 1974, p. 132. 2 ibid.

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The i n d i v i d u a l , then has n o one to blame; he is totally responsible. So many of the more overt concerns of the novel, sexual reticence and jealousy, parental imposition, racism, are distractions from a vital and positive self-acceptance. Self-acceptance involves a denial of the formed personality, just as W endt's protagonist is denied a name. To win through to the emancipation the young man achieves, one needs to shed family, race, country, not just as security blankets as in Stow 's novel, but at the more profound level of elem ents of the personality. Only then is one capable of that acquiescence in fate that could imagine "Maui to have been happy in his death" (p.217). Courage, then, is a major part of W endt's concept of maturity. It is the elusive, vital courage that rejoices in personal responsibility, extirpates from the personality outside influences of all sorts, and above all adopts a wry fatalism which does not struggle querulously with what life offers. The conclusion to the novel is difficult because W endt's concept is difficult rather than confused or vague. It is a demanding novel, at least for a western reader, simply because W endt's theme has suggested a retreat from traditional characterisation and a much greater use of a mythological pattern. But it is in precisely this way that the English novel is enriched through contact with other cultures, so it is a demand that we are committed to meet. Each of these novels is concerned with the passage from a naive to a mature attitude to life. The starting points of the protagonists are quite different, of course, as are the authors' ideas of in what exactly m aturity consists. But even more interesting and im portant is the diversity of method and technique found in the three novels. This is Stow 's most relaxed novel in which he all but abandons the symbolic stridence of the previous two, yet he has never written so physically, to present the world, or rather Rob's section of Australia, as a plethora of sounds and shapes and smells and scenes for animal action. Ihimaera fuses two radically different types of event, an individual literary creation and a collective ritual into a form which is as startling and individual as was Tristram Shandy or Such is Life. W endt writes an in tricate exploration of cross-cultural values draw ing upon both Polynesia and the W est for elements in his fictional method. It is, when you think about it, an extraordinary diversity. The English novel is alive and well, and living in the Antipodes.

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MOUNTAINS IN THE SEA: THE EMERGENCE OF CONTEMPORARY HAWAIIAN POETRY IN ENGLISH Richard Hamasaki Richard Hamasaki has had a long association with the modem literary scene in Hawai'i. In association with Wayne Kaumuali'i Westlake and Marjorie Crocombe, he edited A Pacific Islands Collection in the series Seaweeds arid Constructions (number seven, Honolulu, 1983). The article below is adapted from the introductory chapter to his M.A. thesis submitted to the University of Hawai'i in 1989. Hamasaki teaches at Kamehameha Schools, Honolulu, where he has developed an elective course, Literature of the Pacific.'_____________________

'Olelo Mua (Introduction)1 Haw ai’i's literary heritage can be compared to mountains in the sea. Often, only the apparent mountain peaks rising above sea level are visible and acknowledged. W hile some writers of H aw ai'i receive widespread acknowledgement like these highly visible peaks, beneath the ocean lies a substantial m ountainous region. O ne need only explore below the surface to examine a complex undersea topography, the very foundation of Hawai'i's many literatures. And while access is relatively sim ple, it is indeed unfortunate that much of H aw ai’i's literatu re — like our submerged geographical features — rem ains hidden, ignored or under-utilized by students, teachers, scholars, the general public, and even by many of Hawai'i's own writers. Daily, over 200,000 students from elementary school to middle school, from high school to the universities, arrive at their respective institutions and scarcely, if ever, encounter the great wealth of our native and local literatures. The immense irony and paradox of living on the tips of great m ountains and rarely, perhaps never, exploring and utilizing one's own cultural resources cannot be overstated. The educational im plications alone are staggering. Today there are Hawaiian chanters, composers, poets, short story writers, playwrights, scriptwriters, journalists, essayists, novelists, and the list goes on. In a Sunday newspaper edition focusing on the art of the H aw aiian dance, hula, Hawaiian genealogist and scholar Edith M cKinzie observed that in ancient Hawai’i, hula as a dance form was merely an extension of the poetry of Hawaiians. In essence, hula is and alw ays w as a 'literary' event — whether traditional, modern, or a com bination of both. W hile contemporary literature produced in the H aw aiian language continues to manifest itself most prom inently in hula and song, Hawaiian writers utilizing poetic forms and genres of contem porary literatu re in English have only recently begun to emerge. An overview of the various periods of Hawai’i's literature can help to highlight the developm ent of Haw aiian literatu re and of H aw aiian w riters, their role and status as im aginative w riters of English, Hawaiian and Hawai'i Creole English ('pidgin').

1 Modem Hawaiian uses macron accents over long vowels. Unfortunately these were not within the capability of this book's production equipment.

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In this survey, the word 'Hawaiian' refers to "any descendant of the aboriginal peoples inhabiting the Hawaiian Islands...in 1778" — arbitrary blood quantum percentage requirem ents notw ithstanding (State of H aw ai’i, 1985: 252). Furtherm ore, the term 'H aw aiian literature' (as opposed to 'literature of Hawai’i') refers specifically to the imaginative literature produced by Hawaiians of Polynesian descent, whether written in the native language, in H aw ai’i Creole English, standard English, or a combination of the above. According to David E. Stannard, author o f Before the H orror, native Haw aiians first arrived in H aw ai’i around the turn of the western millenium, and at the latest, in the first century A.D. At the beginning of contact with Euro-American expansion their numbers had reached around 800,000. (Stannard 1989; for contrast, see also G riffon 1983; W olstencroft 1983). H aw ai’i's present population is approxim ately a m illion. W hile the native H aw aiian population reached its lowest point in the 1890s — below 40,000 — today there are approximately 211,400 people of Hawaiian descent living in the Islands, or just over 20 percent of Hawai’i's total population (Stannard 1989; Schmitt 1988; Wisniewski 1979). Joseph R. Morgan, in the Atlas o f Hawaii, identifies twelve ethnic groups in Hawai’i: African-Americans, Portuguese, Hawaiians, "PartH aw aiian s", C hinese, Filipino, Japan ese, K orean, Puerto R ican, Sam oans, "O ther W hites," and "M ixed (excluding 'Part-H aw aiian')" (Morgan 1983: 10; Schmitt 1983). More recent arrivals include, among others, V ietnam ese, Laotians, and P acific Island ers m ostly from M icronesia and Polynesia. More than a few non-Hawaiians have, to varying degrees, intermixed with the H aw aiian community racially and /or culturally so that one can speak of a perpetually evolving 'local literature' and culture in which the languages, customs and values of the islands have manifested hybrid characteristics unique to Hawai’i (Sumida, 1991). And because of pointed distinctions and debate, which will be discussed further, between the terms 'local literature' and 'Hawaiian literature', it is important to reiterate that Hawaiian here refers to anyone ethnically related to the descendants of the early Polynesian settlers — as long as there is som e fraction of blood quantum present (Hamasaki, 1987). Although the Polynesian settlers in H aw ai’i prior to western contact did not possess a written language, they did have a complex oral tradition, which included the verbal arts: proverbs, riddles, poetry, chants, stories, folk tales, legends and genealogies. U tilizing an extensive and precise vocabulary, Hawaiian oral composers were close observers o f their environment and of individuals and objects around them. Poetic devices such as onom atopeia, m etaphor, and allusion were employed commonly and with imaginative dexterity. Speech was employed as carefully and effectively as poetry and oratory ... Speech evoked images and emotions in the listener, and the images were considered no less real presences than the emotions. A word for a thing was like a name for a person. One called and received a response. Moreover, names themselves were not arbitrary, but had meanings, which could be revelations of

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the character or destiny of a person or the nature of the thing. At the birth of a child, a respected family elder, usually the grandfather, would prepare himself spiritually and then receive the name of the child in a dream .... The power of words could render them dangerous. Words hurt, Curses killed. Careless speaking could unleash terrible forces. I ka 'olelo ke ola, i ka 'olelo ka make. In the word, there is life; in the word, death. (Chariot 1983, 41;42)

Chariot here builds on extensive research of the ancient genres of Hawaiian and Polynesian oral traditions by Professor Rubellite Kawena Johnson of the U niversity of Hawai i's Indo-European Languages D epartm ent and others before her, such as Sam uel M anaiakalani K am akau, M artha Beckw ith, A lexander Fornander, Mary Kawena Pukui and Sam uel H. Elbert (Beckwith 1918, 1970; Fornander 1919; Kamakau 1961; Johnson 1987a, 1987b). Ke Au Palapala (The Era of Writing) In less than half a century since Captain Cook's arrival in the Hawaiian Islands in 1778, a written literature produced by Hawaiians emerged. After the New England missionaries established the Hawai’i mission press in 1822, along with the introduction of a standardized Hawaiian orthography in 1826, and the informal introduction of mass education by 1831, native Haw aiian scholars and w riters of the nineteenth century began recording their own histories, adapting and publishing a written, imaginative literature based on oral genres of their ancestors. The process of adapting and accommodating Hawaiian verbal arts into written form included a flavoring of this literature, to varying degrees, with infusions of Judeo-Christian forms and philosophies (Bingham 1847; Beckwith 1918; Fornander 1919; Pukui et al. 1972; Day 1973). Ironically, as mass education in H aw ai’i increased dramatically after the 1820s and into the late 1800s, the Haw aiian population continued to plummet, due largely to the introduction of devastating diseases beginning with Cook's arrival in 1778. In 1896, three years after the overthrow of the Haw aiian m onarchy, when the H aw aiian population was at its lowest point, English was declared the official language of the public schools (Stannard 1989; Pukui et al. 1972: 2). By m id-1930, H aw ai’i Creole English (H CE), known more com m only today as 'pidgin', had become the primary language of the children of plantation workers, and the mother tongue common to the majority of H awai'i-born children of various ethnic groups (Hawaiians included). The dram atic rise of HCE speakers in the mid-1930s was inadvertently encouraged after the establishm ent in the 1920s of two separate categories of public schools: English standard schools which admitted only students who successfully passed standard English language exams; and common schools for those who did not (Sato 1985). In the meantime, the Hawaiian language was tragically neglected. Today, according to Johnson:

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Appreciation of Hawaiian culture in the contem porary social environment has been restructured mentally from Hawaiian into English. The typical Hawaiian does not think as a native Hawaiian, or, to put it in another way, acts as a native Hawaiian who thinks in English (Johnson 1987b, 10).

In an outline from her course "H aw aiian Literature in Translation", Professor Johnson schematises Hawai’i's written literature accordingly, into six periods between 1778 to the present (Johnson 1987a). The six periods also delineate significant chronological events in H aw ai'i's history. 1778-1819

Literature of European explorers, 'observer literature' — journals, logs, diaries written by 'o b serv ers' and v isito rs to the H aw aiian Islands. Captain Cook first arrives in the Hawaiian Islands in 1778. 1819 marks the death of Kamehameha I, and the overturning of the kapu system , the basis o f the H aw aiian indigenous religion.

Perhaps one of the best examples of 'observer literature' can be found in the journals produced by many of the officers and crew m em bers who first voyaged to the H aw aiian islands under the com m and of Captain Jam es Cook between 1776-1779. C ook's and Lieutenant K ing's journals are especially fascinating and significant; though obviously written from a non-H awaiian point of view, and heavily censored by the British Royal Society, they provide invaluable docum entation detailing aspects of Hawaiian civilization and culture at the point of western contact (Dougherty 1992). Hawaiian as well as non-Hawaiian creative writers have utilized these journals as essential reference material. For exam ple, locally-born novelist O.A. Bushnell produced a convincing work titled Return o f Lono. W ithout access to journals and logs from Cook's expedition to Hawai'i, Bushnell's novel (written from a naive m idshipm an's point of view on board C ook's ship) would have been much less convincing. By the m id-1800s, visiting w riters added to this 'observer literature', producing poetry, fiction as well as non-fictional accounts inspired by their brief sojourns in Hawai’i. Between the early 1840s and the early 20th century, writers such as Herman M elville (1819-1891), Mark Tw ain (1835-1910), Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894), Jack London (1876-1916), and W. Somerset M augham (1874-1965) visited and produced work in, and about, Hawai’i. In 1959 — when Hawai’i became a 50th state — co-editors, University of Hawai'i professors, A. G rove Day and Carl Stroven published an anthology, A Hawaiian R ead er. This particular collection introduces many of the visiting writers who landed on Hawaiian shores and produced an imaginative literature based upon their experiences here (Day and Stroven 1959). It should be noted that while this literature generally offers very little insight into Polynesian characters and indigenous cultural experiences.

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study and utilization o f their work in direct contrast and comparison to works by Hawaiian writers can be revealing. Comparing works like Jack Lon d on's short story "K oolau the Leper" with P i’ilani K o'olau's au to biog rap h ical accou n t, "T h e True Story of K a la u aik o 'o lau " translated by Frances N. Frazier, invites discussion and evaluation. Pi'ilani Ko'olau's work was published in Hawaiian in 1906, and Jack London's work appeared in 1912 (Day 1959; Frazier 1987). Examination of literary nuances, style, depth, content and perspectives of both works in juxtaposition can easily envelop readers in waves of cross currents and, perhaps, turbulence. 1820-1854

’M issio n a ry P e rio d ’: a c o n tin u a tio n o f ’o b s e r v e r lit e r a t u r e ' w h ich in c lu d e s m ission aries and v isitin g w riters. N ative Hawaiian writers begin writing and publishing in their ow n language. K am eham eha II (Liholiho) and Kamehameha III (Kauikeaouli) are the reigning monarchs.

1855-1875

The rise of Hawaiian journalism and literacy of native Hawaiians: competition between the mission presses, government and independent presses. Visiting writers continue to produce literatu re about H aw ai’i. K am eham eha IV (Alexander Liholiho) and Kamehameha V (Lot Kamehameha) are the reigning monarchs.

Betw een 1834 and 1948, over a hundred H aw aiian-language newspapers were published, but only a fraction of the extant work has been translated (M ookini 1974; Johnson 1987c). Signficant native H aw aiian-language historians include David Malo (circa 1793-1853), John Papa I’i (1800-1870) and Samuel M anaiakalani Kamakau (18151876). Both Malo and I’i composed Hawaiian poetry (Malo 1898; I'i 1959), but Kamakau was by far the most prolific, and his translated works such as Ruling Chiefs o f Hawai'i, Ka Po'e Kahiko (The People o f O ld ), and The Works o f the People o f Old (Na Hana a ka P o’e Kahiko) are invaluable resources for students of literature as well as the social sciences. In the early 1900s, Abraham Fom ander, in his multi-volume w ork H aw aiian A n tiqu ities and F olk-L ore, collected a w ealth of Hawaiian legends, folklore, genealogies, chants and poetry in bilingual texts, translated and edited by Thomas G. Thrum. Writers S.N. Haleole, G.W . Kahiolo and M oses K. N akuina, among others, published a vibrant im aginative literature based on the Hawaiian genre, ka'ao, a narrative "rehearsed in prose and interspersed in song" (Beckw ith 1918: 9). Kahiolo's He M o'olelo no Kamapua’a is a lyrical account of the m etam orphosis and powerful male personae evoked in the legendary h a lf-m a n , h a lf-p ig d em ig od , K am ap u a’a. K ah io lo p u b lish ed Kam apua'a in serial form from 1856 to 1861 in the Hawaiian language weekly, Ka Hae Hawaii (Kahiolo 1856-1861, 1978). H aleole's Laieikaw ai

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was first published in serial form in the independent press, Nupepa K uokoa. H aleole's extended legend reveals unique em ploym ent of imagery, of natural and supernatural phenomena and relationships, interw eaving rom ance and tragedy with rich m etaphor. In 1863 L aieikaw ai was published in book form, and later reprinted in 1885 (Beckwith 1918). English translations of both Haleole and Kahiolo are accessible. Hawaiian language versions of The Wind Gourd o f La'amaomao, written by S.K. Kuapuu and S.M. Kamakau, appeared in Hawaiian new spapers from 1861 to 1871. However, M oses K. N akuina's text published in 1902 is a literary culm ination o f the various versions (Kawaharada in Nakuina 1992). Translated into English in 1990 (a revised translation for the second edition was published in 1992), N a k u in a 's Wind G ourd o f La'am aom ao ex p lo res, am ong other themes, the interdependent relationships between several generations of high-ranking attendants and their ruling ch ief Keaw enuiaum i. Incisive observations of a highly dynam ic and not infallible ancient Hawaiian society are abundant in this powerful work that combines chant, dialogue and narrative. Literary allusions, riddling, punning, innuendo, onom atopoeia, employment of metaphor and metamorphosis as well as evocations of the supernatural world abound in this early literature, originating directly from the oral tradition The world of dreams and nature's responsiveness to hum an beckoning, and vice versa, are often integrated w ithout self-consciousness into the w aking w orld o f Hawaiian belief and action, lending an im agistic and even 'surreal' quality to Hawaiian traditional literature. Unlike many of the works by contem porary Hawaiian and other Pacific Island w riters, these early exam ples are characterized by m ythological themes and characters rooted in song and chant. 1875-1900

'Kalakaua Period': King Kalakaua influences the revival of the d a n ce/litera tu re of hula, resulting in a flow ering o f H aw aiian song composition, and co llectin g o f m yths and legends. Visiting writers continue to produce lite ra tu re about H aw ai'i. T h e H aw aiian monarchy is illegally overthrow n (1893) and Hawai'i is annexed by the U.S. (1898). Queen Lili uokalani is the last ruling monarch.

1900-1950

Folklore, linguistic, anthropological scholars begin compiling, translating and working with native H aw aiian authors. English standard schools established. Visiting w riters continue to p ro d u c e lite r a tu r e a b o u t H a w a i'i. Contem porary ethnic w riting em erges from p la n ta tio n labor co m m u n ities (C h in e se, Japan ese, Filipino, K orean, am ong others)

1%

initially indentured in the late 1800s through early 1900s. After the arrival of Asian, Caribbean and European immigrant laborers from the m id-1800s, another significant body of w ritten imaginative literature began to emerge, identified by Professor Johnson and others as Hawai'i's 'ethnic literature' or 'local literature'. For many o f the w riters of this evolving literary period, English is the predom inant language; how ever, it is not used exclusively, and Haw aiian, the native languages of the immigrants, as well as Haw ai’i Creole English are utilized. In 1979, Arnold Hiura and Stephen Sumida in their annotated bibliography of Asian American literature in Hawai’i noted that they had 744 entries for Asian American writers alone, between the early 1900s and the late 1970s (Hiura & Sumida 1979). W riting in 1986, with hindsight, Sumida added: ... it is a literature that goes back at least three generations, in some instances more, with hardly a break in the activity of writing imaginative works since the immigrants' arrivals in Hawai’i from Asia through the later 19th and early 20th centuries.... Our bibliography, with some twenty pages of introduction, a subject index, and other apparatus, ended up being 210 pages long. We found nearly 750 works ranging from novels through two-act dramas to individual lyric poems and poetry collections (Sumida 1986: 305).

In this comprehensive work, the editors noted that this Hawai’i Series of annotated bibliographies published by the University o f H aw ai’i Social Sciences and Linguistics Institute covered a wealth of publications and documents pertaining to Hawaii's Asian im m igrants and their descendants.... These bibliographies.... should be consulted not only to locate nonfictional studies of Hawaii's Asian American cultures, but also to help identify works of Asian-language literature written by Hawaii's Asian immigrants (Hiura and Sumida 1979: vii).

'Local' creative expression, as m entioned later, has taken on other associations than just 'ethnic' or 'immigrant' writing. A literature conference which will include authors, scholars, teachers and critics is being planned for the spring of 1994. Initiated by Hawaiian poet and critic M ichael M cPherson and organized by English instructor Lorna Hershinow, its primary purpose is to address the definitions, aesthetics, content and ramifications of the term 'local literature'. As noted below, too, work composed in English by writers of Hawaiian ancestry signifies yet another period, or branch, of emerging literature. This literature can be compared and related to the recent developm ent of contem porary literature in English from the Pacific Islands, examined in part by Subramani in his South Pacific Literature: From Myth to Fabulation (1985, 1992).

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1950-now

Contemporary ethnic writing consolidates its presence as 'local' writing, and visiting writers continue to produce literature about Hawai’i. H aw ai'i becom es a U .S. sta te in 1959. Contemporary Pacific literature emerges.

Despite the fact that there are fewer than 1,000 native speakers of the H aw aiian language today (Kim ura 1989), H aw aiian-language w riters continue to com pose and publish in the native language, especially in the light of the recent resurgence of interest in Hawaiian language studies. Contem porary H aw aiian-langu age w riters and com posers often utilize styles and genres w hich are based upon indigenous oral traditions as well as contemporary innovations. In this period of w ritten literature in the Hawaiian language, which began well over 150 years ago, a growing body of contemporary songs, chants, poetry and prose continues to be produced annually. As we m ight expect, though, English-language w riting by H aw aiians has also increased. One recent strategy for holding these developments together is bilingual representation of H aw aiian-language poem s. Poem s composed in Hawaiian are often presented side-by*side with an equally refined English rendering, both created by the same poet (Hall 1985).

Ho'opapa (Debate over Literature) Another component of this emerging literary phase is the literature of pidgin English, or Hawai'i Creole English (HCE). The origin of HCE in H awai'i's written literature is hazy, but HCE usage seems to have first begun in the form of dram atic plays w ritten by students at the University of Hawai'i just prior to and immediately after World War Two (Hiura and Sumida 1979). From the early 1960s to the present, 'pidgin theater' emerged as a viable vehicle, primarily for locally born playwrights (Carroll 1983). The 1960s seem to be a demarcation point for the emergence of HCE writers. For example, locally-born playwright Edward Sakam oto, novelist M ilton M urayam a (both of Japanese ancestry), and Hawaiian novelist and short story writer John Diominis Holt, have produced works combining both pidgin and standardized English. Bamboo Ridge, The Hawaii W riters' Q uarterly, founded in 1978, has also published a substantial body of literature written in pidgin. Overall, this period is by far the most complex and controversial. Darrel H.V. Lum and Eric Chock, co-editors of Bam boo Ridge, have both attem pted to define aspects o f this literature, by identifying literature produced by locally-born residents of H aw ai’i as "Local Literature" (Chock and Lum 1986). In an article titled "W hat Is Local Literature? Part I," Lum tried to explain the goals of their journal: "w e have a particular interest in local writers — writers whose work reflects the multicultural composition of the islands." (Lum 1984: 9). He also noted that by publishing local writers, a definition for this writing would eventually emerge.

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Sumida has followed up on his earlier research into 'ethnic' literatures with a compelling study, And the View from the Shore: The P astoral and the H eroic in H aw aii's Literary T raditions (S ea ttle: University of W ashington Press 1991). Sum ida's 1982 doctoral thesis, which is the basis for this m ore recent publication, exam ines the literature of both Hawaiian writers and locally-born, non-H awaiian w riters. Sumida examines how the "pastoral" and the "h eroic" have shaped Hawai’i's literature, "how peculiarities of the Hawaiian setting and her culturally diverse peoples have given rise to d istinctive featu res" (Sum ida 1982:1). He "analyzes one aspect of a sw eeping Hawaiian renaissance which, while based in part on the teachings and heritage of the Islands' ancients, is coming to encompass all of Hawaii's people" (Sumida 1982:439). Especially significant is Sumida's expansive, at times humorous, and ultimately incisive grasp of 'local literature', its origin, roots, implications and directions. W ithin the native Hawaiian literary arena there is a sim ilar n egotiation of definitions. H aw aiian w riter and editor M ichael McPherson, while unsure about defining "the aesthetic foundation and parameters of local writing", stated in an essay for the Hawaii Literary Arts Council: I will venture an opinion that what we arc writing is a particular American literature, that the same conventions which inform the work of a writer such as Faulkner who enlarges upon a particular region obtain here (in Hawaii! as well (McPherson, 1982: 5).

On the other hand, Hawaiian poet and University of Hawai’i's Director for the Center for Hawaiian Studies, Haunani-Kay Trask, in an article titled "Indigenous Writers and the Colonial Situation," has stated that: for myself and others like me, Hawaii is a part of the Pacific, as opposed to the United States.... In Hawaii, the colonial heritage is American. As in other colonies, the prevailing political elites have completely adopted American ways while suppressing native ways (Trask 1984: 77).

W hile Trask has made it clear that she will never claim to be or acknowledge any outsider's claim that she is an American writer, she goes a step further when referring to her own identity as a writer in Haw ai’i: "Local does not translate into 'indigenous'." (Trask 1984: 78). She concludes: "Publishing for the indigenous writer, then, is not only an ambitious dream, as it is for most writers. It is a necessary struggle against extinction" (Trask 1984: 79). Because 'local literature' and writing in 'pidgin' are also reflective of native Hawaiian expression, Hawaiian writers have been identified with local writing. Initially, the collective promotion of local writing helped H aw aiian literary expression to establish itself, perhaps in opposition to 'm ainland' or 'w hite' cultural dom ination, but at the sam e tim e, the m ajor elem ents of 'local' w riting fit tidily within 'm ulticultural' or 'Asian-American' categories and in doing so tended to obscure indigenous cultural politics generally, and native Hawaiian literature as a specific writing. Lum and Chock (1986) both worried over

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labels and their implications while asserting the general uniqueness of a local Hawaiian literature. The recent resurgence of interest in the H aw aiian language, especially am ong native H aw aiians, perhaps indicates that any generalized engulfment in 'local' multiculturalism is not an acceptable common denom inator for many H aw aiians — writers, artists and scholars included. Ke Ao (The Dawn) Any study of contemporary Hawaiian literature, whatever its medium of expression, cannot proceed w ithout acknow ledging landscape architect, author, editor, and publisher John Dominis Holt (1919-1993). O f Hawaiian, Tahitian, English, Spanish and Corsican ancestry, Holt grew up in a multi-cultural, multi-ethnic household. He is the first of his Hawaiian generation to write and publish a signficant body of creative literature in English. His writing, in light of his multi-ethnic background, reveals a pervasive concern for his Hawaiian heritage, and nearly all of his published writings focus on Hawaiian characters, settings, histories and themes. In 1964, Holt published a personal essay on Hawaiian identity and place called "On Being Hawaiian". A year later he published, titled in pidgin, Today Ees Sad-dy Night and Other Stories, his first collection of con tem p orary stories prim arily featu rin g H aw aiian and local characters. In 1974 he established Topgallant Publishing Company and published Kaulana Na Pua (Famous are the Flowers), his play on the overthrow of the Hawaiian monarchy, which was originally performed in 1971. In 1977 Holt published Princess o f the Night Rides, his second book of stories, primarily a revision of his earlier collection. Perhaps his m ost accom plished literary work to date is a novel, W a im ea S u m m er, about a fourteen year-old boy of Hawaiian ancestry, Mark Hull, who spends his summer vacation on the island of H aw ai’i. This 1976 novel utilizes three languages: standard English, Haw ai’i Creole English (pidgin), and Hawaiian. The novel evokes cultural, racial and social stereotypes and is a com plex study of relation sh ip s and destructive conflicts between contemporary Hawaiians of various ages and socio-economic classes. Holt was sixty when his first poem was published, and it was not until 1985 that he published several more poems in a locally published literary magazine, Ramrod. A year later, Holt brought out a long poem dedicated to Queen Lili’uokalani, titled H anai. In the same year, Holt also w rote and published The Art o f Featherw ork in Old H awaii, a semi-autobiographical, historical account. Although Holt emerges as the first Hawaiian to write and publish a novel in addition to two collections of short stories in English, he was not alone in his efforts. In the 1960s and early 1970s, younger Hawaiian writers who had entered universities in Hawai’i and elsewhere became actively involved in literary activities. Literary magazines published in English had been in existence from the 1920s, but a sustained literary tradition beyond university student publications had not yet been established. Betw een 1963 to 1972, a university m agazine, K a p a ,

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appeared, picking up w here short-lived The Lit (1951-2) and T h e H aw aii Quill M agazine (1928-37) had left off. The last two issues of Kapa document an important emergence of both Hawaiian and locallyborn writers. Among them were Hawaiian poet Dana Naone Hall, and C hinese-A m erican w riter D arrell H.Y. Lum. Both authors have continued with their writing and publishing for over twenty years. After 1972, K apa's name was changed to the H aw aii Review (1973 to present), originally titled Hawaii Literary Review. Between 1965 and 1975, alternative publishing opportunities in Hawai'i were rare, and only two other small-press literary magazines provided a vehicle for local writers. They were M elc (1965 to present?), edited and published in mimeo by Stephan Baciu, professor of European languages at U.H., and Tantalus (1974), published independently by locally-born poet Bob Lamansky. In the late 1970s, however, a plethora of small-press literary magazines emerged. Inevitably, publications sometimes appeared then quickly disappeared; dates of publication for each magazine will help give the reader a sense of when independent literary m agazine publishing in Hawai i began to address a literary demand among both H aw aiian and non-H aw aiian w riters and editors: Seaw eeds and C o n s tr u c tio n s (1976 to 1984), Haleakala Poetry Journal (1977 to ?), Plumber's Inc. (1977 to ?), H anai (1977), Shitashi (1977), Bamboo Ridge, A H aw aii W riters' Q uarterly (1978 to present), L ilik o i (1978), Kane Lehua (1979 to present), Rainbird (1980 to present). R am rod (1980 to p resen t), The Paper (1981-1987), H a p a (1981-83), The C ham inade Literary Review (1987 to present) and M anoa (1989 to present). H aw aiian poets such as Dana N aone H all, M ichael Am ong, W ayne Kaum uali'i W estlake, and Larry Lindsey Kimura were first published in several of the above-m entioned sm all-press literary magazines in the late 1960s and early-to-mid-1970s. In the late 1970s, Hawaiian poets such as Cecilia Kapua Lindo and Tamara Wong began publishing their early poems in the N ative H aw aiian, a com m unity newspaper. Of im portant note, Hawaiian poet, essayist and fiction w riter Leialoha Apo Perkins, continuing in the tradition of John Dominis Holt, has self-published a substantial number of works since the 1980s. In what appears to be her first collection of essays and poems, Kingdom s o f the Heart (1980), Perkins notes that her earliest set of poetry in this volum e — "Love Poem s" — was composed over a twenty-year period. Ironically, the English language empowered Pacific Islanders to share their creative visions regionally. In the sum m er of 1979, the U niversity of H aw ai'i sponsored "Interch ange, A Sym posium on Regionalism , Internationalism , and Ethnicity in Literature". Albert W endt and Subram ani, both working at the University of the South Pacific in Fiji, were included in this symposium which eventually led, in part, to several publications which helped to facilitate regional Pacific Island literary consciousness in Hawai’i. W orks published in H aw ai’i such as In terchan ge (Spalding and Stewart 1980) — based on the 1979 conference cited above — included sign ifican t panel discussions involving various authors (and members of the audience),

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Wendt and Subramani among them. Asian Pacific Literature (1981), a three-volume textbook published by the State of H awai'i's Department of Education (Harstad and Harstad 1981), contains work by many contem porary Pacific Island writers. Also, cooperatively published literary anthologies, Mana (Hawaii edition, 1981) and Seaw eeds and Constructions, A Pacific Islands Collection (1983), opened new avenues for this em erging regional literature. Literary anthologies published between 1973 and 1986 have also featured a number of Hawaiian poets and writers. For example, in 1973, Haw aiian poet and com poser Larry Lindsey Kim ura published a bilingual poem in Haw aiian and English titled "T h e Legend of Kapalaoa" in an anthology, M anna-M ana (Kimura 1973). From the late 1970s, other literary anthologies follow ed, such as Talk Story: An A n thology o f H aw aii's Local W riters (1978), P oetry H aw aii: A C o n te m p o r a r y A n th o lo g y (1979), S eaw eed s an d C o n stru c tio n s A nthology Hawaii (1979), the Hawai’i edition of Mana, A South Pacific Journal o f Language and Literature (1981), Ho'i Ho'i Hou: A Tribute to George Helm and Kimo M itchell (1984), M alam a: H awaiian Land and Sea (1985), The Best o f Bamboo Ridge (1986), and Passages to the Dream Shore (1987). Hawaiian poets and writers such as Michael McPherson, H aunani-K ay Trask, Leialoha Apo Perkins, Im aikalani K alahele, Joseph P. Balaz, and M ahealani K am au’u (form erly In g ), have appeared in one or more of the anthologies cited above. Also, many of the editors of the above literary anthologies were locally born; three of the editors and co-editors are Hawaiian. In 1989, two significant anthologies were published: H o'om anoa edited by Haw aiian poet Joseph P. Balaz, and a special issue of the University o f H aw ai’i student m agazine the H aw ai'i R eview , titled "Aloha Aina, the Native Hawaiian Issue". Both publications feature works, prim arily poetry and prose, written exclusively by Hawaiian writers; both publications are also primarily in English. W hile most of the writers in H o'om anoa have had extensive publication experience, the H aivai’i Review, as a student production, understandably features younger writers along with the veterans listed above. Unlike the early poetry of Hall, Westlake and Balaz, the poetry of the 1980s found in both anthologies reflects an unrestrained synthesis of specific Hawaiian words, place names and phrases. Diverse themes are also present, ranging from self-reflection to appeals for collective consciousness. For exam ple, in H o ’om an oa , H aunani-Kay Trask in "L ove Between the Two of U s" shares with her audience em otions regarding an intimate relationship between the narrator and a nonH aw aiian haole (once designating som ething strange or foreign, the term now commonly refers to whites). The poet begins by identifying the felt distance between the narrator and her acquaintance, a "star crossed...Shakespearean figure/ of ridiculous posturing". "W hy should any Hawaiian believe?" she asks, only to discover that after a year, her tentative relationship has evolved into a love that is not "bounded by ra ce/ and power and the heavy/ fist of lust". Rather, the love is rooted in her understanding of his resolve, his humility and "sorrow for my

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p eop le". The poem concludes with an open-ended question that transforms the archetypal metaphor of a "war between the sexes" into a battlefield of collective struggle, a "chosen sep aration / from that which is haole". Dana Naone Hall's poems in Ho'omanoa are like buttresses which frame the anthology. "Fall into Grace" (first published in 1973), "Night Sound" (in 1977), "Ka Mo olelo O Ke Alanui, The Story of the Road" (in 1985), and her 1989 poem "Hawaii '89" reveal H all's abilities as a gifted and eclectic poet. W ithin her work are layered textures of H aw aiian m ythology, allusion and m etaphor, arranged w ithin the fram ework o f contemporary free verse (Hamasaki 1989). One o f the first published Hawaiian poets writing in English, Hall rem ains a pioneer practitioner and teacher of this em erging and evolving H aw aiian/ Pacific Islands literature. Both anthologies represent a significant and collective movement within the Hawaiian community. Reminiscent of the initial flowering of H aw aiian-language new spapers and presses in the nineteenth century, the 1989 anthologies written prim arily in English address topics including, but not limited to: Hawaiian identity within a local multi-racial community, Hawaiian sovereignty, land struggles, concern for education, history and language use. Also included are the im plem entation and utilization, within specific literary w orks, of Hawaiian mythology and allusion, as well as works which explore the dynam ics of conflicting philosophies among Hawaiians themselves. W hile many themes are specific to Hawai'i and the island Pacific, a global dialogue is also evident, with the presence in both collections of international poetic forms such as concrete poetry and epigram m atic verse reflective of the influences of Asian, Latin, Greek and Polynesian literary genres.

Holomua (Moving Forward) Stu dies o f H aw ai'i's literatu re by Mary Kawena Pukui, M artha Beckwith, N athaniel B. Emerson, Rubellite Kawena Johnson, Dorothy B. Barrere, Philip Ige, Steven Sumida, Leialoha Apo Perkins, and by this author, among others, can reveal that distinct literatures have emerged and are growing. Criticism has yet to address adequately the sim ilarities and differences between written literature in the Hawaiian language and the more recent im aginative w riting in English by Hawaiians. Also, much work needs to be done compiling, publishing and studying Haw aiian-language poetry from the nineteenth century to the present. For example, contemporary Haw aiian-language poets like Kihei de Silva and Kaupena Wong continue to produce works that are rarely, if ever, acknowledged or included in literary publications. It is not surprising that de Silva's original chants and com positions performed by Kihei's wife, kumu hula Mapuana de Silva, and students from her hula school, Halau M ohala ’Ilim a, and her Kam eham eha Schools hula club, Na Wahine Hele La O Kaiona, probably reach a far greater audience than most of the work produced by Hawaiian writers in English. W hile hula has been widely acknowledged as a performing

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art, it rarely finds a place in language arts or literary curricula, which likewise fail to encourage inspection of the ever-mounting repertoire o f ancient and con tem p orary H aw aiian -lan gu age ch an ts and com positions, despite the availability of im pressive bilingual texts. Teacher education programs and English departments are missing an opportunity to effectively integrate the study of Hawaiian literature into the predominantly non-Hawaiian literature programs throughout the state. The study and dissem ination of newly em erging literatures in H aw ai'i are pertinent, necessary, and provide altern atives to a colonizing literary canon. These literatures are also significant in that they not only provide fresh materials for use in the education system, but also evoke the dynamic interplay of cultural, political, historical and social fabrics; they have an inherent focus on values rooted in our sense of place and self; they have a literary uniqueness as well as a thematic universality expressed across the wide language range in H awai'i. This w riting and its analysis will continue to em erge as locally-born authors perpetuate oral traditions and build upon their foundation in ke au palapala — the era of writing. The revitalization of the Haw aiian language and the appearance of readily accessible bilingual texts are key developm ents w ithin the continuum of Hawai’i's literature, but writers will not necessarily be fixed in 'purely7 traditional forms. The influence of world literature in translation upon most contemporary writers, regardless of origin, is not insignificant: the work of Gabriel García Márquez comes to mind as one example. No less important from our own Pacific Island vantage point are works produced in English such as Leaves o f the Banyan Tree by Sam oan novelist A lbert W endt and The Bone People by M aori w riter Keri Hulme. These have enjoyed international audiences and have been translated into a variety of languages. Emerging literatures are like active volcanoes: new mountains are formed, som etim es 'overnight'. Undersea eruptions, how ever, rarely concern the public. N evertheless, for H a w a ii's w riters, perhaps especially for writers of native Hawaiian ancestry, the water boils with urgency. Despite the frustrating inevitability that most of Hawai’i's vast literary heritage w ill rem ain hidden beneath the surface, under­ utilized and ignored, political change exerts an ever-increasing upward pressure. On January 17, 1993, in observance of the overthrow o f the indigenous kingdom of H aw ai'i and subsequent dem ise o f the Hawaiian nation, a record-breaking 10,000 to 15,000 Haw aiians and supporters gathered at 'Iolani Palace in downtown Honolulu. Today, it is not uncommon to see public parks and campgrounds strewn with tents and make-shift pavilions occupied by scores of homeless families as well as political supporters, most of whom are of Hawaiian ancestry. At the entrance to one such camp located makai (ocean-side) of Sea Life Park, the world-famous tourist destination at Makapu'u, there are two prominently displayed flags fluttering side by side in the tradewinds: the flag of the once sovereign Haw aiian nation and the flag of the United Nations. The State is currently negotiating to move the camp

20 «

inland Joseph P Baiaz, poet of Hawaiian ancestry and graduate of the English language-dom inated public school system , now inform ally studying the Hawaiian language and fluent in both standard English and Hawai i Creole English (pidgin) declares in his poem “M oe'uhane" ('dream' or literally, 'soul sleep'): I dream of the way*» of the past — 1 cannot go back I hike the hills and valleys of Wahiawa... I play in the waves of Waimca, and spear fish from the reefs of Ka wa iloa 1 grow banana>, ulu. and papayas... I cannot go back — I never left.

(Balaz 1985: 3)

Selected Bibliography Armstrong, R. Warwick., ed. 1983. Atlas of Hawaii. 2nd ed. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Balaz, Joseph. 1980-1987 ed. Ramrod. Honolulu: Iron Bench Press, Nos. 1-8. 1985 After the Drought, Honolulu: Topgallant Press. 1989 ed. Ho'omanoa. Honolulu: Ku Pa'a Press. Barrere, Dorothy B., Mary Kawcna Pukui, and Marion Kelly. 1980. Hula: Historical Perspectives. Honolulu: Department of Anthropology, Bishop Museum. Beckwith, Martha Warren. 1918 Introduction to The Hawaiian Romance o f Laieikawai, by S.N . Haleole. See Haleole 1918. 1970 Hawaiian Mythology. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. 1972 Kumulipo. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Bingham, Hiram. 1847. A Residence of Twenty-One Years in the Sandm ch Islands. Reprint. Rutland: Charles E. Tuttle Company, 1981. Bushnell, O.A. 1971. Return of Lono. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Carroll, Dennis. 1983 Kumu Kahua Plays. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Chariot, John. 1983. Chanting the Universe. Honolulu: Emphasis International. Chock, Eric. 1986. "On Local Literature from Writers of Hawaii: A Focus On Our Literary Heritage." In The Best o f Bamboo Ridge. See Chock and Lum 1986. Chock, Eric, and Darrell H.Y Lum., cds. 1986. The Best o f Bamboo Ridge. Honolulu: Bamboo Ridge Press. Day, A. Grove and Carl Stroven., eds. 1959. A Hawaiian Reader. New York: Popular Library. Day, A. Grove and Albertine Loomis. 1973. Ka Pa'i Palapala: Early Printing in Hawaii. Honolulu: Printing Industries of Hawaii. Dougherty, Michael. 1992. To Steal a Kingdom. Waimanalo: Island Style Press.

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Emerson, Nathaniel B. 1965 Unwritten Literature of Hawaii: The Sacred Songs o f the Hula. Rutland: Charles E. Tuttle Co. 1978 Pele and Hiiaka: A Myth from Hawaii. Rutland: Charles E. Tuttle Co. Fornandcr, Alexander. 1919. Memoirs o f the Bernice Pauahi Bishop Museum o f Polynesian Ethnology and Natural History ('T h e Hawaiians' Account of the Formation of Their Islands and Origin of Their Race, with the Traditions of Their Migrations, Etc., as Gathered from Original Sources"), Volumes 4-6. Reprinted in 1974. Fraizer, Frances N. 1987. "The True Story of Kaluaiko'olau, or Ko'olau the Leper." In The Hawaiian journal o f History. Honolulu: Hawaiian Historical Society, Volume 21. Griffon, P. Bion. 1983. In Atlas of Hawaii. See Armstrong 1983. Haleole. S. N. 1918. The Hawaiian Romance o f Laieikawai. Translated by Martha Warren Beckwith. Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office. Hall, Dana Naone. 1985 ed. Malama, Hawaiian Land and Water. Special issue of B a m b o o Ridge, The Hawaii Writers' Quarterly. Honolulu: Bamboo Ridge Press, No. 29, Winter. 1989 In Ho’omanoa. See Balaz 1989. Hamasaki, Richard. 1987 "On Hawaiian C reative W riters." In H on olu lu S tar-B u lletin . Supplement. Sect. 2, February 17. 1989 "Singing in Their Genealogical Trees: The Emergence of Contemporary Hawaiian Poetry in English-Dana Naone Hall, Wayne Kaumuali'i Westlake, Joseph P. Balaz." M.A. thesis in Pacific Islands Studies, University of Hawai'i at Manoa. Hamasaki, Richard and Wayne K. Westlake., eds. 1981 Mana, A South Pacific \ournal o f Language and Literature, guest editors, Hawaii edition. Fiji: South Pacific Creative Arts Society, and Mana Publications, Vol. 6, N o.l. 1983 A Pacific Islands C ollection. A special issue of S eaw eeds and Constructions. Honolulu: No. 7., rpt. 1984. Harstad, James and Cheryl A. 1981. A sian-Pacific Literature. Honolulu: State of Hawaii Department of Education, Vols. 1, 2, 3. Hiura, Arnold, and Stephen Sumida., eds. 1979. Asian American Literature o f Hawaii: An Annotated Bibliography. Honolulu: Hawaii Ethnic Resources Center: Talk Story, Inc. Holt, John Dominis. 1964 On Being Hawaiian. Honolulu: Topgallant Publishing Co., Ltd. 1974 Kaulana Na Pua (Famous are the Flowers). Honolulu: Topgallant Publishing Co., Ltd. 1976 Waimea Summer. Honolulu: Topgallant Publishing Co., Ltd. 1977 Princess of the Night Rides and Other Tales. Honolulu: Topgallant Publishing Co., Ltd. Hulme, Keri. 1986. The Bone People. New York: Penguin Books. Ige, Philip Keimin. 1968. "Paradise and Melting Pot in Fiction and Non-Fiction of Hawaii: A Study of Cross-cultural Record." Unpublished dissertation. Colombia University. 1'i, John Papa. 1959. Fragments of Hawaiian History. Translated by Mary Kawena Pukui. Honolulu: Bishop Museum Press, Johnson, Rubcllitc Kawena. 1987a "Introduction to Hawaiian Literature." Department of Indo-European Languages, University of Hawaii, Manoa. Photocopy. 1987b "From Orality to Literacy in Hawaii." In Humanities Reader's Guide, Literacy and Orality: The Transform ation o f Thought. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Foundation and the Third International Conference on Thinking.

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1987c

Lectures and personal conversations. Author audited Johnson's University of Hawai'i course, "Hawaiian Literature in Translation." Kahiolo, G. W. 1856 - 1861. He Moolelo no Kamapuaa. Translated by Esther T. Mookini and Erin C. Ncizmcn. Honolulu: Hawaiian Studies Program, University of Hawaii, 1978. Kamakau, Samuel M. 1964 Ka P oe Kahiko, The People of Old. Honolulu: Bishop Museum Press. 1976 The Works o f the People o f Old. Na Hana a ka P o e Kahiko. Honolulu: Bishop Museum Press. 1961 Ruling Chiefs of Hawaii. Honolulu: Kamehameha Schools Press. Kawaharada, Dennis., ed. "introduction" to The Wind Gourd o f La'amaomao. See Nakuina 1992. Kimura, Larry. 1973 In Manna-Mana. See Lueras 1973. 1989 "The Revitalization of the Hawaiian Language." Hawai'i Review. Honolulu: Board of Publications, University of Hawai'i at Manoa, Vol. 13, No. 3, Fall. Ko'olau, Pi'ilani. 1906. See Frazier, 1987. London, Jack. 1912. See Day and Stroven, 1959. Lueras, Leonard., ed. 1973. Manna-Mana. Honolulu: no publisher given. Lum, Darrell H.Y. 1984 "W hat Is Local Literature? Part I." Hawaii Literary Arts Council N ewsletter. No. 73, March. 1986 "Local Literature and Lunch" in The Best of Bamboo Ridge. See Chock and Lum 1986. M alo, David. 1898. H aw aiian A n tiqu ities (M oolelo Hawaii). Translated by Nathaniel B. Emerson. 2nd ed. Honolulu: Bishop Museum Press, 1951. McPherson, Michael. 1982. "Leaving without the Sail: Local Literature and the English Language." In Hawaii Literary Arts Council Newsletter. Vol. 19, Nos. 13-14, February. Mookini, Esther K. 1974. The Hawaiian Newspapers. Honolulu: Topgallant Publishing Company, Ltd. Morgan, Joseph R. 1983. In Atlas of Hawaii. See Armstrong 1983. Nakuina, Moses K. 1992. The Wind Gourd of La'amaomao, 2nd ed. Honolulu: Kalamaku Press. Naone, Dana. See Hall, Dana Naone. Perkins, Leialoha Apo. 1980. Kingdoms of the Heart. Honolulu: Kamalu'uluolele Press. Pukui, Mary Kawena and Samuel H. Elbert. 1965. Hawaiian Dictionary. Honolulu: University Press of Hawaii. Pukui, Mary Kawena, E.W. Haertig, M.D., and Catherine A. Lee. 1972. Nana 1 Ke Kumu (Look to the Source). Honolulu: Hui Hanai, Vols. 1 and 2. Sato, Charlene. 1985. "Linguistic Inequality in Hawaii: The Post-Creole Dilemma." In Language o f Inequality. Wolfson, N. and J. Manes (eds.). Berlin: Mouton. Schmitt, Robert C. 1983 In Atlas of Hawaii. Sec Armstrong 1983. 1987 ed. State Data Book. Honolulu: State of Hawaii. Spalding, Linda and Frank Stewart. 1980. Interchange , A Symposium on Regionalism internationalism , and Ethnicity in Literature. Honolulu: InterArts H aw aii. Stannard, David E. 1989. Before the Horror. Honolulu: Social Science Research Institute, University of Hawaii. State of Hawaii. 1985. Hawaii Revised Statutes. Supplement. Vol. 1, Titles 1*5, Chapters 1-42. Honolulu: State of Hawaii. Subramani. 1976 ed. Mana Review: A South Pacific Journal of Language and Literature. Suva: Mana Publications and the South Pacific Creative Arts Society. Vol. 1, No. 1, January.

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1985

South Pacific Literature: From Myth to Fabulation. Suva: University of the South Pacific. 2nd ed., 1992. Sumida, Stephen. 1982 "Our Whole Voice: The Pastoral and Heroic in Hawaii's Literature/' Ph.D. dissertation in English Literature. University of Washington. 1986 "Waiting for the Big Fish: Recent Research in the Asian American Literature of Hawaii." In The Best o f Bamboo Ridge. See Chock and Lum 1986. 1991 And the View from the Shore , Literary Traditions o f Hawai'i. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Trask, Haunani-Kay. 1984 "Indigenous Writers and the Colonial Situation." In Pacific Islands Communication Journal. Honolulu: East-West Center. Vol. 13, No. 1. 1989 In Ho'omanoa. See Balaz 1989. Wendt, Albert 1 9 7 6 'Towards a New Oceania." In Mana. See Subramani 1976. Also in A Pacific Islands Collection. See Hamasaki and Westlake. 1984 The Banyan. Carden City: Doubleday and Company, Inc. Originally published as Leaves of the Banyan Tree. Westlake, Wayne K. 1981 and 1983. See Hamasaki and Westlake. W isniew ski, Richard A. 1979. The Rise and Fall o f the Hawaiian Kingdom: A Pictorial History. Honolulu: Pacific Basin Enterprises. Wolstencroft, Ramon D. 1983. In Atlas o f Hawaii. See Armstrong 1983.

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Supplementary Material: A Select List of Early Commentary Most of the critical material is to be found scattered through journals such as: Maria, South Pacific Creative Arts Society, U.S.P., Suva, Fiji Pacific Quarterly, Moana, Hamilton NZ World Literature Written in English, Guelph, Canada journal of Commonwealth Literature, Hull, UK Landfall, Christchurch, NZ Papua New Guinea Writing, Port Moresby, PNG Kovave, Port Moresby, PNG Ondobondo, University, PNG Bikmaus, Boroko, PNG Span, South Pacific Assoc, for Commonwealth Lang, and Lit. Studies Commonwealth/Echos du Commonwealth, Dijon, France World Literature Today, Norman Oklahoma, USA

Anthologies of Writing: Beier, Ulli (ed.). Black Writing from New Guinea, St Lucia: Univ. Queensland Press, 1973 Beier, Ulli (ed.). Voices o f Independence, UQP, 1980 Crocombe, Marjorie, et al (eds.), Te Rau Maire: Stories and Poems from the South Pacific, Rarotonga: USP Extension Centre, 1992. Ihimaera, Witi, & Don Long (eds.). Into the World of Light: an anthology o f Maori Writing, Auckland: Heinemann, 1982 Hamasaki, Richard (ed.), Seaweeds and Constructions Number 7, Honolulu: Elepaio Press, 1983. Powell, Ganga (ed ). Through Melanesian Eyes, Melbourne: Macmillan, 1987. Wendt, Albert (ed.), Lali: a Pacific Anthology, Auckland: Longman Paul, 1980

Ckpgral Aoki, Diane, Bibliography of Plays by and about the Pacific islands, M ana, 9.2,1992:79. During, Simon, review of Subramani’s South Pacific Literature, Landfall 163, 41.3, 1987: 358. New Literatures Review, Pacific numbers, 9, 1981 and 20, 1990. O'Carroll, John, "Pacific Literature: A Sketch of a Problematic", M ana, 9.2, 1992: 57. Sharrad, Paul, "Imagining the Pacific", Meanjin , 49.4, 1990: 597-606. Simms, Norman, Silence and Invisibility, Washington D.C.: Three Continents Press, 1985. Simms, Norman, Writers from the South Pacific, a bio-bibliographical critical series of essays on 80 leading writers, Washington: Three Continents, 1989. Su bram an i, South Pacific Literature: from Myth toFabulation, S u v a : University of the South Pacific, 1985. Subramani (ed.), After Narrative: the Pursuit o f Reality and Fiction, Suva: University of the South Pacific, 1990.

Chatterjee, Kalyan, "Papua New Guinea Literature: Innocence and SelfKnowledge", Pacific Islands Communcation Journal, 14.1, 1985: 1. Eri, Vincent, "The Development of Creative Writing in Papua New Guinea", Papua New Guinea Writing, 6, June 1972: 12. Krauth, Nigel, 'Towards a Balanced Approach in the Study of Modern PNG Literature," in Elton Brash & M. Grecius (eds.) Teaching Literature in Papua New Guinea, Port Moresby: UPNG, 1973. McLaren, John, "Through Native Eyes", Overland, 47,1971: 44.

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May, Ronald J., "Nationalism and PNG Writing", Australian Quarterly, 43(2), 1971:56. Williams, Maslyn, "Behind the Scenes Papua", Sydney Morning Herald, 20 Feb. 1971: 23. Grace Anderson, Lauri, "Maoriness and the Clash of Cultures in Patricia Grace's M utuwhenua", World Literature Written in English, 26.1, 1986: 188. Beston, John, 'T h e Fiction of Patricia Grace", Ariel, 15.2, 1984: 41. Miekle, Phoebe, "Inside and Outside Views: Maori Writers of Short Stories in English", ACLALS Bulletin, 5.1, 1978: 15. Orbell, Margaret, "Maori Women's Writing: An Introductory Survey", World Literature Written in English, 17.1, 1978: 252. Pearson, Bill, "Witi Ihimaera and Patricia Grace", in Cherry Hankin (ed.). C ritical Essays in the New Zealand Short Story, A u cklan d : Heinemann, 1982:166. Simms, Norman, "Maori Literature in English: Part One: Prose Fiction: Patricia Grace", Pacific Quarterly (Moana), 3.2, 1978: 86. H&u'pfe Interview with Subramani, Landfall 169, 43.1, 1989: 35. Edmond, Rod, "'Kiss my arse!' Epeli Hau'ofa and the Politics of Laughter," Journal of Commonwealth Literature, XXV.1, 1990: 142-155. Hau'ofa, Epeli, "The Writer as Outsider", New Literatures Review, 20, 1990: 41. Helmers, Leonie, "Finding a New Voice," Pacific Islands Monthly, December 1988:42. Ryan, J.S., "Epeli Hau'ofa's Polynesian Human Comedy", New Literatures Review, 20, 1990: 32. Hulme Dale, Judith, "The Bone People: (Not) Having it Both W ays", L an dfall 156, 39.4,1986: 413. Evans, Miriama, "Politics and Maori Literature", Landfall 153, 39.1,1985: 40. Hulme, Keri, "Myth Omen Ghost and Dream / in P. Sharrad (ed.). Poetry of the Pacific Region, Adelaide: CRNLE, 1984: 31. Hulm e, K eri, "M au ri: b i-cu ltu ral Poetry in New Z ea la n d ," in Amirthanayagam & Harrex (eds.), Only Connect, Adelaide: CRNLE, 1981:290. Webby, Elizabeth, "Keri Hulme: Spiralling to Success", Meanjin, 44.1, 1985:15. Ihim aera Beston, John, "Interview with Witi Ihimaera", World Literature Written in English, 16.1, 1977: 115. Corballis, Richard & Simon Garrett, Introducing Witi Ihimaera, Auckland: Longman Paul, 1984. Grover, Ray, "Participating", Islands, 4, 1973: 212. Ihimaera, Witi, "Why I W rite", World Literature Written in English, 14.1, 1975: 117. Pearson, Bill, "Witi Ihimaera and Patricia Grace", in Cherry Hankin (ed.). C ritical Essays in the New Zealand Short Story, A u cklan d : Heinemann, 1982: 166. Simms, Norman, "Maori Literature in English: Prose Writers. Part Two: Witi Ihimaera", Pacific Quarterly (Moana) 3.3, 1978: 338 Wynn, Graeme, 'Tradition and Change in Recent Maori Fiction: the Writing of Witi Ihimaera", International Fiction Review, 2, 1975: 127.

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iDd.Q-F.uUD

Pillai, Raymond, "Prose Fiction in Fiji: A Question of Direction", M ana, 4.2,

1981:1. Subramani, "Images of Fiji in Literature", in Chris Tiffin (ed.). South Pacific Images, St Lucia, Brisbane: SPACLALS, 1980: 43. PPgtry

Beston, John, "Chill and Flame: the Poetry of John Kasaipwalova," M eanjin, 40.4,1981:480. McGaw, William, "The Sense of the Past in Pre-Independence Papua New Guinean Poetry", in Kirpal Singh (ed.) The Writer's Sense o f the Past, Singapore: Singapore University Press, 1987: 83. Manoa, Pio, "Singing in their Genealogical Trees", Mana 1.1,1976: 61. Sftaba

Krauth, Nigel, "Russell Soaba's Latest Work: An Investigation into Accidents Along the Road to Papua New Guinea Independence", A C L A L S Bulletin, 5.2, 1979: 40. Tiamon, Zak, "Russell Soaba's Wanpis", Ondobondo 2, 1983: 29. Tiffin, Chris, review of Wanpis, Span, 7, 1978: 66. Tuwhare Barrett, Tia, "Hone Tuwhare, the Carver Poet,", Commonwealth, 7.2, 1985: 48. Manhire, Bill, "Ready to Move: Interview with Hone Tuwhare", Landfall, 167, 42.3, 1988: 262. Wendt Echos du Commonwealth, no.8, special Albert Wendt number with select bibliography. Davidson, Jim (ed.). Sideways from the Page: the Meanjin interviews, Melbourne: Fontana/Collins, 1983: 71 Interview with Marjorie Crocombe, Mana, June \973/Mana Annual, 1977: 45. N azareth, Peter, "Coloured M an's Burden: Albert W endt", journal of Commonwealth Literature, 14.1, 1979: 73. Tiffin, Helen, "You Can't Go Home Again: the Colonial Dilemma in the Works of Albert Wendt", Meanjin, 37.1,1978: 119. Wertheim, Albert, " Leaves of the Banyan Tree: Coming of Age in Samoa", World Literature Written in English, 24.2, 1984: 443.

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