We Take Kava

An Evening With the Polynesian Club in Sydney

By Judy Tudor

IHAVE often been told, right here in this office, that the trouble with me is that I know only Melanesia —I should see Polynesia.

“Is that so?” I have always replied.

“I like my romance strongly laced with reality. I can get all my tropical lagoon stuff at the movies—watching Dorothy Lamour disporting in a sarong. Melane sia will do for me!”

But now I ask leave to reserve my judgment on Polynesia until such time as I can get at it and see for myself.

On June I—the coldest night I have ever experienced in Sydney—the Poly nesian Club met at 250 George Street, and with an unpretentious clubroom, a piano, a violin, half a dozen ukeleles and guitars, plus the abundant personalities of its members, infused a spiritual warmth into the 'atmosphere that never existed in similar gatherings in Mela nesia.

Come to think of it, there are so many things that are “simply not done” in Melanesia proper (and I exclude Fiji here). that the creation of any such atmosphere would be impossible. Pos sibly it is this friendliness and com mingling of these people, gathered as they are from many different Pacific Territories which fly three distinct national flags, that impresses itself most upon the mind of one who has been

inculcated with the “must-not” tradi tions of the Australian Territories in the South-west Pacific. It has inspired in me, at least, a desire to see these people on their native soil, minus the trappings of Sydney-civilisation. So, Polynesia, here I come! (When Tojo permits.) rK principal guest of the evening was Corporal Richard Hahn, formerly of Tonga and Sydney, and now of the AIF, and on short leave in Sydney. Cor poral Hahn is an old friend of the club, and has returned from somewhere in the North with a profound respect for our American Allies, who, he considers, are doing a magnificent and often unappre ciated job.

“Dick” met many Polynesians serving in the US forces, and, on his own confes sion, never misses an opportunity of making their acquaintance. On his way south he visited a theatre and was shown to a seat next a copper-skinned gentle man.

After a time passed in silent scrutiny he asked, politely: “Which island do you come from?”

The serviceman looked at him in amazement for a moment, and then drawled:— “Say. buddy, haven’t you ever heard of Red Indians!”

Other guests were Alphonse Mai, of Tahiti, a descendant of both the Tahitian and the Bora Bora branches of the Society Islands’ Royal Family: and Sergeant Keo Kalani, an Hawaiian mem ber of the United States forces, and the first Hawaiian to be welcomed to the club.

During the evening kava (“vaka Viti”) was made by Ratu Peni, a junior member of the Cakobau family of Bau, Fiji, in honour of Richard Hahn. He was assisted by three other young Fijians.

I HAD been instructed, beforehand, that if kava were offered me. I must on no account refuse it. I agreed; I could not imagine why I should be asked to partake, anyway. But, after it had been variously described to me as tasting like toothpaste flavoured with pepper, dirty dishwater, and several other un pleasant things; and I had seen it made with solemn ceremony and handed around to guests in a brimming coconut shell, and drunk with further ceremony and a few graceful words in a Polynesian tongue, and had seen a Polynesian lady pull a wry face when the cup was offered her—l began to be worried seriously lest I, ungracefully European and unschooled in the art of kava drinking, should have to drink, simply because by some acci dent. I have been squeezed into the table of the guest of honour. I need not have worried: the kava bowl passed me by. I was able to have my initial experience of it later —in private, thank God.

Love of kava must surely be acquired with pain and perseverance. Peppered toothpaste—no; dirty dishwater —still no; but I imagine that it is faintly remi niscent of blue-water after a large and soapy family wash. Yet, strangely, it leaves a clean, astringent, and pleasant after-taste. Some Europeans eat olives to clean the palate between courses of a meal. It is common not to like olives, I have been told. I’m common —I loathe them; but I venture the suggestion that kava would have the same effect as olives, and be a darned sight more plea sant to take.

At the close of the evening the lady members of the club entertaihed the quests with Polynesian dances; a tiny lass, Hinemoa Mahomet, with all the charm of her Polynesian forebears, gave a special kopikopi. and Mrs. Goodman (formerlv of Tahiti) a hula which soon had half the men of the company out on the floor accompanying her.

HOW many of us in the last three and a half war years have expressed the desire to take ourselves off to some Pacific island, and there forget the world and its troubles?

Yet—as befits true sons of warriors— thousands of these Polynesian people are now serving in the fighting services, either under the Stars and Stripes, the Cross of Lorraine, or the Union Jack.

The Polynesian Club of Sydney is doing a fine job in providing those of them whose duties bring them here, to what must be a strange, cold and self-sufficient land, with hospitality and companion ship.

It would be idle for me to pretend any knowledge of Polynesia. It would be more idle still for me to form any opinion of them after seeing a comparatively small group of people of Polynesian blood at play for an hour or two. That would be talking through my hat, even more than usual.

But I would like to say this: Polynesian graciousness and gracefulness seem to be symbolised by the dances of their women, and by their art of turning simple kava drinking into a dignified ceremony. And. as one who belongs to a community where manners are not, where graeious ness is a forgotten art and personal dig nity at a discount: where life consists of being half trampled to death morning and evening by the rush of the strongest to board tram or bus; and where the simple act of asking for something in a shon is to leave oneself wide open to insult—l have only one plea to make to Polynesia: for heaven’s sake, stay as you are!

Our European world is over-pepned, over-worked, over-anxious about itself— and most of us don’t do a darned thing about it but harness ourselves voluntarily to the treadmill. So, stav as you are.

Polynesia—you have got something there!