MacFarlane’s Place

Memories of on Idyllic Spot on Moorea.

By Our Tahiti Correspondent.

MacFARLANE’S place was in a setting of mountain and bay of exquisite beauty; so perfect in the blending of the blue of water and the varied shades of forest and plantation, so calm under an ineffable silence, that it ap peared the splendor of an enchantment.

It was situated in a little nook behind a palm-clothed point of land, on one of the deep bays that penetrate the heart of Moorea Island, French Oceania.

Moorea—in the days of which we write —was an unspoiled native paradise. There were but four Europeans resident there: the gendarme (the Government repres entative). an English aristocrat, a French planter, and MacFarlane.

MacFarlane had settled there to plant vanilla. He was an expert, the only ex pert at that time in Tahiti, in th,e cur ing of vanilla beans; but the price of vanilla had fallen far below the cost of production and he had turned to receiv ing paying guests—if the people applying suited his fancy.

He had erected small native-style that ched cottages about the grounds, as sleep ing quarters, to which he had given the names of th,e islands of the Leeward Group: Huahine, Raiatea, Tahaa. and Bora Bora. A central pavilion attached to the main house was the lounge and dining room. The grounds were planted with many varieties of hibiscus, olean der, crocus, lilies, and exotic palms.

There were, to be sure, some elements of disharmony to temper the idyllic per fection of this paradise: fierce, hungry mosquitoes that assailed us by day and passed the night in ceaseless endeavours to break through the meshes of our sleeping nets; centipedes that lurked in our shoes; and a colony of red ants, at the pool in the brook where we bathed, which gave us a fiery time if we chanced

to trespass on their chosen highways.

But these were of minor importance com pared with th,e absolute escape from the irritations of modern civilisation, and the unearthly beauty of the place.

Associated with our memories of Mac- Farlane’s place are some of our fellow guests: th,e learned Archdeacon who initiated us into the deeper mysteries of

Anglican canonical lore; the French doc tor from Papeete who gave us an en thusiastic lecture on elephantiasis in th,e presence of an astounded old native lady, who had been sitting on the lawn quiet ly plaiting a hat and suddenly found her ample calves the Exhibit A and Exhibit B of an excited harangue in a language she could not comprehend; and, above all, Puoro.

Puoro was not a guest from a far-away land; he lived about a kilometre down th,e bay, half way to Papetoai. Years be fore, when he was young and svelte, he had been the official player of the ac cordion to King Pomare V., of Tahiti.

Now, he was portly and had not seen his knees since 20 years; but his fingers had not lost their cunning. He knew but one European tune—a Virginia Reel, a favourite in the Old South, of the States before the Civil War; and such was the fire and rhythm when he played, that one could see, in imagination, a laughing damsel in crinoline and her swain trip ping across the floor of an old Southern

ballroom of some cotton king’s mansion.

He was at his best, however, in the exciting rhythms of Tahitian music. We used to invite him up to MacFarlane’s as our guest. When he was well lined with good food and a little good cheer (very little of the latter because he was a good church member) the sound of his accordion would gather together the na tives of the neighbourhood and we would hear native singing and see native danc ing at their natural best.

The going and coming between Tahiti and Moorea was, in these days, some thing of an adventure. The internal combustion engines of that period were petulant and capricious. That on the lit tle schooner voyaging to Moorea would sulk sometimes for hours while the boat tossed and rolled in the swell of the sea; and everyone on board became seasick.

That is why fewer and fewer went to MacParlane’s until finally MacFarlane gave up and went away to the island of Tubuai; and th,e most fascinating, the most idyllic place in the South Seas went back to jungle.

Years afterwards, we met a gentleman who had known MacFarlane before he came to the Islands. His name there was not MacFarlane. The place was the capital city of one of the great Domin ions of the British Empire. MacFarlane was one of its most respected citizens, a man of culture, and a member of the Upper Chamber of the Dominion Parlia ment. One day he packed a bag, put a few pounds sterling in his pocket and disappeared. There was no breath of scandal. His family in their beautiful home were well provided for.

There was no reason whatsoever for his going except a sudden overwhelming dis gust for civilisation. He could have re turned at any time and resumed his name and his position; but he never did. He lived for 30 years in the Islands and died there—he had found the haven of his dreams.