Tahiti—Then And

Now

By A. C. Rowland

OUR first impression of Papeete—when we landed there over thirty years ago—was that it resembled some quiet, isolated town in the Deep South of the United States.

It was a village of old buildings and had that venerable patina which is the hallmark of long-established community life, and settled usages and traditions.

The highways, shadowy under the in terlacing branches of stately trees, were flanked by white picket fences. Behind these were veritable jungles of hibiscus, frangipani, exora, glossy-leaf bushes bearing the starlike Hare Tahiti, dwarf palms, yellow jessamine and a wealth of other tropical garden plants, that hid all but the roofs of the landowner’s houses. The fragrance of exotic blos soms scented the lanes and byways by day and by night.

Occasionally, one had to step aside to allow the passing of some vehicle of ancient pattern drawn by an equally venerable horse. But most of the time the pedestrian could stroll leisurely, with nothing to disturb or alarm him.

The inhabitants were Polynesians, and a sprinkling of European officials and merchants. The native men went about clad in the kilt of red or blue cotton cloth called pareu, exhibiting noble torso and sturdy limbs that painters were later to travel half the world to picture on canvas.

The costume of the womenfolk—reach ing to the ground and, often, with a sweeping train —seemed rather odd, at first sight. But when, to-day, we see a stately matron (who has not sur rendered to modem fashion) as she passes by carrying her train with the inimitable swing and grace distinctive of the women of Tahiti in that earlier time, we want to wave our hats and cheer.

THE men wear trousers, now. To those in distant lands who are interested in feminine fashions in our South Sea metropolis we can only say—circumspice.

Papeete has been swept and beautified and garnished during the intervening years, until it is a truly modern city.

Archaic buildings and picturesque old rookeries have given place to up-to-date stream-lined structures.

One no longer strolls along the high ways and byways.

The noble heroes who charged the Russian cannon at Balaclava had no greater need of valour and firmness of spirit than has one who to-day essays an expedition through the narrow lanes of Papeete. The Immortal Six Hun dred had to meet only the round shot hurled from the cannon’s mouth. Daily, in addition to hacking our way through clotted masses of petrol fumes and car bon monoxide (which slowly poisons our blood and destroys our vital tissues) and, what is worse, through solid walls of stench from cooking garlic and onions, we are assailed from all sides by gigan tic missiles more ponderous than the cannon themselves. If we escape the motor car we are menaced by a volley of bicycles.

It is an exciting adventure and prob ably gives us the measure of exercise needed to keep our wits alert and our muscles springy. Certainly it reminds . us daily that there is no escape any

where from twentieth century standardi sation.

Admiral Byrd is even now rounding up the lonely penguins of Antarctica to conformity; the remote isles of the sea have tourist hotels to accommodate air-plane passengers; and the pygmies of the Aruwini forest in darkest Africa dance to the measures of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band.”