“Bon Courage!"

A Tahitian Passes Through Sydney

By Eric Ramsden

ON Moorea, where he was born not more than a quarter of a century ago, Te Arai was one of the simple folk of the island, a delver of the soil and a fisherman —as, indeed, had been his ancestors for centuries.

Te Arai had married early. With his wife and three small sons he had lived happily until the tocsin of war had sounded on a continent thousands of miles away. For their wants the Atua had provided fish fresh from the sea, taro and uru, satfron-hued fei from the mountain’s side.

I call him Te Arai. Actually, his name does not matter. He came in the Free French force to Sydney, a volunteer for General de Gaulle.

The fact that I had been in his dis trict, Papetoai, with its palm-shaded har bour, on the reef of which was piled an old French gun-boat—a perpetual re minder of the intrusion of the white man into a communal life that had remained unchanged in essentials since the dawn of time —was a bond between us. Te Arai spoke no English. My Tahitian was exceedingly limited. But once the Poly nesian aroha is given, the bar of tongues is not unsurmountable.

“Ta’u hoa maitai,” he had said. “My good friend!” And then Te Arai had Helped himself to what he called a “bif stek”. Not before, though, with upraised fork, he had called down upon it the blessing of the Atua.

In Sydney, Te Arai was bewildered, hopelessly at sea. The canyons of cement through which he made his way, in his ill-fitting military uniform, oppressed him. At all times he was anxious to discard his heavy boots.

Yet he was eager to learn the ways of Australia, a bright-faced, eager little fel low, insignificant in stature, but, like all Polynesians, ever friendly. That confi dence, however, had not always been reciprocated. One day three young thugs had set upon him. Fortunately, a policeman had arrived in time. But, for some days, Te Arai had an ugly bruise on his chin. The Tahitian liked his glass of wine. But henceforth, he was not anxious to drink with strangers . . .

One wondered why he, a married man with three tama’ri’ri’ and a wife, had enlisted, why this white man’s war had interrupted his simple way of living?

Perhaps an inherent Polynesian curiosity and urge to travel had something to do with it. Te Arai could not explain. All I knew was that he was as homesick as only a Polynesian can be, and that he felt the cold of the Australian winter extremely. Te Arai is a child of the sun.

His thoughts ever returned home wards. On his fingers he would enumer ate the products, fruits and fish, one by one, in the Market on Papeete; or he would recite all the familiar names that he loved—not forgetting a single moun tain peak on either Tahiti or Moorea. In imagination, we crossed the strait that separates the islands in Henare’s little Mitiaro; we even speeded by bus along the ni’au-fringed roadway from Papeete to Tautira or Papenoo. There was not a path that Te Arai did not know, and his eyes would gleam as he recalled the landmarks, district by district . . .

At last came the time for departure.

In a noisy electric train we rattled out into the suburbs.

Te Arai’s facej set like a graven image, reminded me of one of his own ti’i. He stared into the darkness. Occa

sionally, he breathed the word “arowha” through set lips. His heart was too full for speech.

With boots removed in front of a roar ing fire, he gazed into the flames. I waited for his parau, for his farewell speech.

Finally, from a pocket he produced his family pictures. There was Te Arai himself, natty in kepi and shorts, stand ing beside his wife. The eyes of the vahine haunt me still, deep and mourn ful. Between them was little Adolf — the proud father saw no incongruity in his name! —alive and alert, one hand grasping that of Te Arai. The other was held by his mother. Clad in the tradi tional pareu, her raven hair fell long past her shoulders. There were no flowers in the tresses of Madame Te Arai.

Enclosed in a letter from Te Arai’s wife were a few words in a childish scrawl. With painstaking effort, little Adolf had written in his copy-book hand: “Bon courage, mon papa, Bon courage!”

“The words of my son, ta’u tamaiti,” he explained. “I must be worthy of them!”

On a deserted railway station in the dawn we waved farewell. An hour later, a little figure huddled in a military greatcoat walked into Liverpool camp.

Throughout the night his eyes had not closed. If Te Arai was late for “service” that morning, I trust that his officer had a kind and understanding heart.