The South Sea Myth.

An Indignant Resident of Tahiti Wants “Damages!”

Written for “The Pacific Islands Monthly ” by Robert Dean Frisbie.

ON the island of Moorea, along two kilometres of beach, there are 19 white men who have arrived during the past six months.

They are all victims of ridiculous, mendacious books about the Pacific is lands —such trash as “Isles of Eden” and “White Man, Brown Woman,” for in stance. A year ago there were two whites along this beach, both old resi dents, men who have a moral right to live in the islands, for they are pro ducers.

But our 19 new whites are a different species. They wander down the beach in such scanty attire that the natives turn their heads and blush; they stick gar denias behind their ears, make love to the native girls, strum ukuleles on the outer beach, and live on a native diet, even though it makes them ill. They are trying to create the atmosphere they ex pected, but failed to find.

Some of them are out-and-out beach combers; others are perfectly respect able people who are unable to adapt themselves to their environments.

All the more accessible islands of the Eastern Pacific have their quotas of de pression-evaders, beachcombers, alco holics, lechers and romanticists. It is true that there has always been a sprinkling of them —but never before so many as at present.

Mr. Loring Andrews is responsible for about half of them. In his book, “Isles of Eden,” he tells his readers that money is a secondary matter in the islands —in fact, one can “live on ten dollars a month and have a new girl every day,” or words to that effect —I am quoting the sense of an advertisement in the New York Times!

He says it is a simple matter to throw a line in the water and haul out any quantity of fish; that in pig hunting all one needs is a bush knife; and that you can have all the food you want for the picking!

Think of the effect such statements have upon the men who are suffering from the hard times! Some of those who have enough money left come to the islands, to be disillusioned; but they come with round trip tickets —the authorities see to that. When their few pounds are gone, they return to the bread lines of civilisation, wiser but poorer men.

Though its effect may not be as vicious as “Isles of Eden,” “Trader Tom”

Richards’ volume, "White Man, Brown Woman” is probably the most amazing mass of fabrications to appear since “Baron Munchhausen.” I do not object to the fibs he has told about himself, for, though he has certainly overdone it, still it is ethically permissible for an author to claim as his own the experi ences of another. It is simply a matter of technique: the first person is more effective than the third person in re counting an experience. However, it should not be over done, especially when the things recounted occurred before one was born.

But what I object to in “White Man, Brown Woman,” is Richards’ misrepre sentations —or rather, lies —about the is lands. Open the book at random, read a sentence, and the chances are that it will be a falsehood. I write advisedly.

For instance, about Manahiki (never

having lived there, “Trader Tom’’ does not know how to spell the name of the island): Hundreds of pigs were killed for the feast (there are not over a hundred pigs on Manahiki); the dancers trod on live coals (humbug!); the lagoon was red with the blood of man-eating sharks (there are no man-eating sharks in Manahiki lagoon); the chief always gives a stranger his eldest daughter (Tom had better not go back to Manahiki after writing that); Tom beat his native woman and one of his native men merci lessly (in the first place, he never had a native woman; in the second, he was a short, slight lad, hardly out of his teens when he was in the islands); Tom saved the day when the British flag was hauled down (the incident happened years be fore Tom was born). The above are only a few of the questionable things in one chapter about Manahiki.

I believe that men who have come to the islands on a wild goose chase, after reading such trumped-up and meretrici ous books, should have damages from the authors. If one is told, in a volume that claims to be factual, that he can go to an island and live on ten dollars a month; or that the chief will give him his prettiest daughter; or that he will be looked upon as a white god—and if he goes to such an island and finds that no such conditions exist, why should he not be able to sue the author and win his case.

The author has trespassed upon his credulity, has obtained money under false pretences and has done him an in jury, perhaps an irremediable one. Per sonally, I should much rather have an author pick my pocket for £10 than have him cost me £100 in a futile voy age to a mythical land.

I really believe that some day an author will be held responsible for the veracity of his work. Then such books as O’Brien’s “White Shadows in the South Seas,” Robert Keable’s “Numer ous Treasure,” Middleton’s “South Sea Foam,” Artist Gibbings’ “Iorana,” Mr.

Somebody’s “Island Women I Have Loved” (!), Andrew’s “Isles of Eden,”

“Trader Tom’s” “White Man, Brown Woman,” and a host of others will be published as romances or phantasies; and the Pacific Islands will be rid of many of the beachcombers, who are both unsightly in their semi-nude condition, and are injurious to the prestige and good name of the permanent white resi dents.