We Remember Rotuma

A. L. Austin

AS the sea roared in battle with Rotu ma’s coral reefs, the Pioneer’s pas sengers were taking a more than usual interest in the barometer. All were ashore with the weather very much on the ominous side, and while officials had checked up on departmental affairs on their one day's visit to Fiji’s adopted island, the passengers had explored the hillsides and had been caught in a down pour.

The demand for dry towels and clothes had been satisfied and now the victims stood around on the verandah drinking tea and looking much like a group in vaudeville, for the men had requisitioned all the shirts and trousers from my hus band’s supply. Shirts, taut on the larger chests and trousers in determined en casement of corpulent waist-lines, con trasted amusingly with the corrugated look of the same sized clothes worn by the smaller men; but through their joking remarks there penetrated concern at the falling barometer needle.

My husband and I were then new to the colony, and as we had not experienced a hurricane we scarcely knew what to ex pect. We had been told, too, that Rotuma lay outside the hurricane zone, so that every few minutes of calm convinced me that the storm was over. But the glass tapping continued and a funereal voice occasionally mourned, “It’s still dropping.”

With the wind’s louder howl, the ship’s officer literally blew in with the announce ment —“The Captain would like you all to come on board without delay so that he can make for the open sea.” So, with a final tap at the glass, our guests hurried their farewells, and later, through binocu lars, we watched them leave the launch to mount safely the gangway of the Pioneer.

The storm soon increased to even heavier squalls. Our reed car-shed became air-borne while we hoped that the car itself would remain grounded. Much to the amusement of our young daughter, I was soon able to make and sail paper boats on the now flooded verandah. But the Pioneer had not managed to get away after all, and messages reached us from time to time, during the next two days, that she was cruising along on whichever happened to be the most sheltered side of the island. The ship’s passengers were being distressingly tossed about and drums of oil had been emptied now and then upon the angry sea.

A faithful watcher —at the suggestion of the Rev. Fr. Griffon of the Roman Catho lic Mission —braced himself on the beach throughout these nights keeping his lan tern alight. At different times during the day we caught sight of the ship heaving about, and we felt especially sorry for the two children who were on board with their mother. Once or twice, during a lull, the concerned, sympathetic Captain Mullins tried to launch a boat to get some of the passengers ashore but the sea was too rough.

The usual devastation had taken place on land. Large areas of bush were blackened as if by fire. Tortured palm trees lay around in whipped defeat, their twisted fronds piled in exhausted heaps over land strewn with scraps of fencing, roofing iron, spouting and empty tins.

When at length the shaken passengers came ashore for a few days to recover from their unpleasant experience the sun shone once more. But we decided that it could not be said truthfully that Rotuma lay outside the hurricane zone.

IN that same year the British gun-boat, Laburnam, visited the island and the people made their biggest display of all

time in the ship’s honour. Every village took part in the celebrations and the old war-dances were executed with such vigour that the ground shook as the Ro tumans stamped along the main road.

Each man wore a magnificent head-dress of reeds and feathers, but as the excite ment increased it became disarranged until it resembled a plucked carcase perched precariously on the head of an elated victor.

Wrestling, and Samoan sword dances added to the entertainment and after a sincerely worded speech of appreciation from the Captain of Laburnam he was presented with an old war club by one of Rotuma’s chiefs who remarked, that, had the Captain been given the club in the bad old days it would have been incum bent upon him to kill a man with it.

IN our shipping facilities we were more fortunate in our time than the resi dents of Rotuma are to-day, taut we had no wireless communication, and if the expected ship didn’t arrive we were left ignorant as to the reason. This happened once when the monthly visit of the Makatea was ‘overdue, and the vessel was looked for every morning and given up every evening for a further fortnight.

The lorries stood idle, as the stores had run out of petrol. Flour dwindled, and the little that remained was mouldy. We oegan to wonder whether the end of the rest of the world had come with our island as the only one remaining, but before we were reduced to hard tack instead of bread, the Endeavour appeared on the horizon and our exile was over.

OUR house was so situated that a “lift ing” wind would sometimes sweep around the back of the building, and there were occasions when anyone occupy ing a particular room could be startled at night by the bed-clothes suddenly billow ing like an opening parachute.

The house-boy’s sleeping quarters lay in line with the hospital—in the same direc tion of the wind —and the Rotumans had feasted this boy’s mind with many stories of prowling spirits. One morning, just before dawn, the boy came pounding along the verandah screaming that the devil was in his house, and had not only caught hold of his leg, but had sat upon his chest. At tempts to pacify him were useless. He would never again sleep in his quarters but rolled himself up near the kitchen door at night. He threatened to leave us before the arrival of every boat, but re mained, after .all, until our time was up.

ONE day, the men decided to explore one of the island’s extinct volcanoes.

With stout rope and other mountain eering gear they set off with Rotumans as guides. The floor of the crater was guaranteed safe to stand upon, and one by one the men were lowered in and brought up again. The first man down disturbed some hundreds of bats and reported the carcase of a dog lying on the crater’s floor.

The last man to be lowered was the manager of a store buying a fair amount of copra at a poor—though ruling—rate of payment. No sooner was the store manager inside the crater, than the Rotu mans, in great glee, threatened to leave him there unless he gave them a better price for their copra. The poor man looked at the bones of the dog and didn’t like what he saw, but all ended happily when the Rotumans had had their joke and brought him to the top.

THEN there was the day when the Jap anese paid a peaceful visit to Rotuma in search of drinking water. Their (See opposite)

sailing vessel was well out to sea and the crew came ashore in a dinghy minus utensils of any kind. Borrowed buckets were filled from the tank and carried to the shore to be emptied into the waiting dinghy. After several journeys to and from the tank, the Japanese returned the buckets to the Rotumans, jumped into the dinghy, and with their feet in the drink ing water, rowed off.

THERE are photographic memories of the long white sandy shore dotted with palms which grew to the water’s edge and extended back to the pineapple planted slopes: and of the eighteen miles of road where, at different points, the fine shore sand was used for surfacing, causing the vehicles to slither and slide on their tortuous way. The same roads were flanked in so many places by rich foliage of croton, fern and flower, encouraging numerous birds to nest and carol there.

But if one were inclined toward lingering, the mood was soon nipped in the bud by the swarms of mosquitoes which mono polised the loveliest parts of the island to such an extent that one was unable for long to stand and stare.

But Rotuma —with its kind and likeable people, hospitable, generous and sincere— is a jewel of the South Pacific seas bring ing me memories both grave and gay.

1 found that fishing in the deep water held even greater thrills for the onlooker From the deck of a launch I watched naked Tongan boys dive into the depths on the outerside of the reef. Equipped with a one-pronged spear they hunted the coral caves and ledges for deep-sea fish, and fearlessly tackled and brought up fish as big as themselves.

T'ongans rarely seem to get badly mauled or bitten by sharks. And in the great shark fishing grounds which lie be tween the main island of Tongatabu and the island of Eau, Tongan natives actually noose sharks. There is an ancient legend concerning the peculiar method of fish ing here. It is said that a beautiful woman called Hina was racing with her lover near Eau Island when a whirlpool caught them. From the spot where Hina was drowned there sprang up the sharks, and today natives believe that their song to Hina will call up these brutes. Fisher men go to this particular spot in their canoes and while they beat the surface of the sea with coconut shells tied to a long stick, they chant their song to the goddess Hina, and as the sharks come towards the canoes they are noosed and killed with clubs.

CIRABS form an everyday item of diet j in many islands. In the Fiji group I had my first introduction to the many varieties of crabs which exist in the tropics. Everywhere I went there were crabs, all sizes, shapes and colours, from pale pink to red, purple and black. In all market places there were crabs, threaded on strings like beads graded according to size, with big fellows at the bottom and each one above getting smaller and smaller. On every island, crabs pock marked the ground with their holes. They slid sideways under rocks on the beach, and they even climbed trees. The tree climbing variety are huge with powerful pinchers capable of crushing coconuts.

At one European planter’s home I heard crabs clatter through the house at night.

Another host actually had a pet crab which lived under jan open board in the kitchen. He fed it on scraps, and once it carried off the cat’s saucer of milk, kept it for a few days, but finding it couldn’t eat china, returned it to the exact spot from which it was stolen.

My close association with crabs, how ever, did nothing to banish my horror of them and I could never fancy them either as pets or as food. Pacific Island ers might regard them as a tasty item along with their gaudy coloured fish, black sea slugs and raw sea worms, but for myself, I longed for nothing more exciting than a piece of blue cod or groper.