The Sicknesses Of Tami

By Te Ruau

IN his thatched, pebble-floored cookhouse I found Tami, ex-sailor, ex-tallyboy and Mate’s pimp, presently store-boy absent without leave (but of course virtuously expecting un-docked wages at the end of the month). He was squatting on a mat not too brilliantly clean, with a glass, a wide-mouthed bottle containing a white powder, and a small enamelled bowl in front of him. In his hand he held a des sert-spoon, bearing on its handle the engraved house-flag of a famous shipping company.

A man of many, mostly imaginary, sicknesses (when not real and due to a mixed and extensive diet in which fat half cooked pork and anciently-cooked fish fig ured largely), Tami greeted me cheerlessly, if politely, and proceeded to dip from the bottle two dessert-spoons of the white powder.

Becoming interested as I perched on the edge of the doorboard, I was informed that the gentleman was suffering from “piwa” (fever) for which he was about to consume “kinyin.” It was prescribed by his latest medical adviser, a returned native mission ary from Papua, who had there learned many of the white man’s ways, convert ing the heathen by methods in which black twist tobacco seems to have figured largely as an aid to grace. For “piwa” one table spoon, mixed to a cream with cold water, was regarded as a permanent cure for the Cook Islander’s main ills.

We argued more or less calmly. It was white man’s medicine, and Tami was free to admit that it would be very strong; but he persisted in upholding missionary know ledge, as a prominent church light him self, against that of any trader. But,

finally, and most reluctantly, he agreed (on my remarking that under no circum stances did I propose to provide any ship's biscuit, kegged salt beef, or coffin-timber, with “silver” fittings therefor, for the obsequies of any permanently-cured store boy, however holy or intellectual) to re duce that quinine dose to one teaspoon ful. But he was quite sure that it would not meet the needs of his case.

Having done my best, it was with mixed feelings that saw him prepare the potion, swallow, choke, spit, and grimace hor ribly. Then I left, that I might not be held as an accessory before a Tribal Court; for in those days it was a foregone conclusion that all the family would unite to swear away the liberty of anyone, so be that the sacred person of a missionary, with all the chiefs well to heel, might not be brought into the limelight.

I need not have worried. Hourly re ports supplied by a native friend not only assured me that Tami was alive and sweating profusely under piled covers, but also that six hours later he had assimi lated, under the direct supervision of the missionary aforesaid, another and larger dose. He was back at work, next morning, refusing to admit that his ears were fitted with bells or that he felt other than ex ceptionally fit and well.

The dosage tables of the British Phar macopoeia, seemingly, were not compiled to guide Brown Brother!

TAMI was again sick. Nothing concrete, but indefinite pains of wind, water, and tide —probably due to Tahiti rum, seven days from a still formed from a large iron kettle, a piece of bamboo with sundry packings of not over-clean rag, and, of course, the sugarcane molasSes or Juice “mash.” That the rum was smuggled goes perhaps without saying.

The more cocksure but less reliably in

formed might have suggested fllaria, ma laria or hookworm; and fish warmed-over in a native oven, for four consecutive days, is also worthy of consideration.

Tami’s latest Ta’unga Maori thought of none of these, but supplied him, at the direction of his ghost or familiar spirit, a weird and untranslatable name distinctly of the non-parlour variety, and provided Tami with an evil-looking olive-green mixture wherein fragments of bark and leaf were afloat, strange argosies on an unknown sea, in a not-very-inviting kero sene tin, autumnal in hue.

Decantation was suggested on Tami’s arrival with his load at the store door at 7 a.m. So he procured a No. 12 bucket from the stock (mine), an enamel basin (mine), and perched the whole on a con venient case of tinned beef (also mine) in the back storeroom.

Calling Tami and breaking the news to him that one bucket and one bowl were duly debited against his prospective wages (whereat he said dolefully “whooooo”) and that one case of beef, if wetted, would sidle underneath these entries, I learned that the mess had to be swallowed before sundown, roughly 6 p.m., else it would not effect a cure.

Tami was hopeful on all counts; but removed the apparatus to an empty beef case, to be sure of one phase.

Noon saw him visibly wilting and not feeding up to form. But, between us, we managed to keep him resolute; and at 4 p.m.

Tami and his bucket were put out Into the yard, as we wanted to close the store.

He had then a good third of the bucket to go, and made the remark: “Py Klaish!

He one damn pig pucketi, ol lite.”

I do not know whether he played fair, but I should imagine he did, for three very interested natives were hanging about (stimulated thereto by a gift of twist to bacco from me). Akama, or shame, would do the rest, I thought. He would not empty the bucket on the grass and go home, in the circumstances.

I nearly forgot to mention that on and off during the day, I had, unbeknown to Tami, been adding sundry cups of water from the tap to Tami’s bucket, to help the good work along.

Tami is an unsuspicious soul, for a fo’c’stle graduate—but he changed his doc tor next day and he has not been violently worshipful of me since. Tami’s medical adviser usually lasted a week, and his real friendships a little longer; therefore, I imagine, he must have smelt a rat.

HTAMI had a lodger—one of those queer fowl, reputedly monied, who drift in and out of the Islands, live native and seem, to say the least, “careful!”

This one had been down many times before, arriving with a bag of oatmeal, kerosene, a tin of what he called “grease,” and some canned skimmed milk for pro vender —buying his rice and sugar locally “to help local trade.”

This time he had brought along a large tin of raisins, which aroused Tami’s curi osity.

“Why you bring that?” he asked.

“Oh,” said the lodger, “I got ’em for a song, so I took ’em.”

Tami made no remark. But he took time off to consider the amazing news—and, next day, to a white friend, he said: “You know that fellow sing?”

The white man laughed. “No! not very much” —and laughed again.

Said Tami: “True, I tell you. He get the raisin for the. song, he tell me. Py crlpes, I not know he can sing, this long time!”