Tahiti’S

Fashoda

A Memory of 1900 As Told By Grandma Julia Nordman To R. W. Robson

TO-DAY, the average Britisher can no more imagine his country at war with France than he can visua lise an armed conflict with the United States. The things which unite Britain and France are so many; and there are so few matters about which we might conceivably go a-feudin’.

But is was not ever thus. For a thousand years, up until the Battle of Waterloo, 137 years ago, Eng land and France were almost always fighting each other. A score of an cient saws and proverbs bear witness that an Englishman, when he thought of an enemy, thought of a French man, Frenchmen, no doubt, thought of Englishmen in the same way. In fact, if you go out to a pleasant corner of Tahiti you will find evidence that, only fifty years ago, French sentiment towards England was not exactly friendly.

There is an amusing and interest ing story here. It was told only the other day, at a gay party in Papeete.

Every year, on January 29, the Nordman family gather at dinner, to do honour to the birthday of Grand ma Julia Nordman. And on each occasion, old Mrs. Nordman tells the family a story, based on some event in her long life in Oceania. Last January 29, she was 87 years old; and she told this story of why an area in the Fautaua Valley is called “Fashoda” by some of the older families.

About the turn of the century, France and Britain had been squab bling over African colonial Terri tories; and there was an argument over one particular boundary, in Central Africa, which seemed to get under the skin of both English and French. When Kitchener defeated the Khalifa at Omdurman, the French evacuated Fashoda, a large town on the White Nile, 450 miles south of Khartoum. In 1899, Colonel Mar chant, a fiery Frenchman, reoccu pied Fashoda, and British forces, under General Stanley, approached Fashoda, with a view to throwing him out. There was intense feeling in Britain and France, and war was averted by a miracle.

TTHIS expectation of war was re fleeted in the French territory of Oceania. There was no Panama Canal then; Tahiti therefore was France’s most distant and isolated colony, and in danger of early seizure by the surrounding British.

But the Governor visualised no

tame surrender. Big guns were mounted on Faiere Hills, overlook ing Papeete Harbour. So that they might not be trapped in the coastal strip of Papeete, the Governor had a road constructed up the Fautaua Valley, and batteries were put in position there—and a suitable resi dence built for His Excellency.

All available men were drilled and trained. Preparations were made for a long resistanc. The whole popula tion was on the qui vive.

THERE came into Papeete a well known barquentine, the Tropic Bird, under Captain Jackson. Her English company knew nothing of impending war, and obviously could not care less; but the official French were suspicious and unfriendly.

But there was no lack of warmth in the welcome given certain officers of the Tropic Bird by Titi Peroni.

Since that day, fifty years have passed, and there have been many Belles of Papeete; but the veterans insist still that there never has been one to compare with the bewitching Titi, who was Belle of Papeete in 1900.

Titi spent that evening aboard the Tropic Bird. Relations were cordial; proceedings were convivial; the hos pitable bowl passed freely. Titi’s hosts found that her favourite bever age was rum; and so she got a lot of rum.

Titi told them that Papeete was ready to repel the English warships.

The Englishmen had been in out-of the-way places, and were surprised to hear of international tension. But they played up to Mademoiselle.

They assured her that when war came, they would personally invade Papeete and carry her off, as a special and cherished prisoner.

Titi reacted warmly to rum and affection. When, at a late hour, she left the ship, she pirouetted on the gangway, and staggered slightly on the wharf.

As she recovered, she faced the open sea. Then she stopped, as if shot, and stared wildly towards the Pass. Away out beyond the reef there was a double line of lights.

“Les Anglais! Les Anglais!” shrieked Titi, pointing wildly at the lights. Then she turned and ran swiftly into the town.

“La flotte Anglais!” she yelled, and in a few minutes she was surrounded by excited townspeople. Like wild

fire, the news spread that an English squadron was approaching the en trance to the port.

THE Governor took personal charge. Gendarmes tried to calm the excited populace. The naviga tion lights, giving the guide to the Pass, were extinguised; the town’s lights followed; persons were for bidden to smoke in the dark streets; the batteries were hurriedly manned.

It was a night of acute anxiety; but there was no sign of English ships.

The Governor became suspicious.

Whence had come the report of an approaching enemy? He got only a vague story of lights seen out at sea.

When dawn came, Papeete’s fisher men returned to port. Yes, they said, they had been fishing off Papeete all night—a score or more of them. Each boat carried a light.

High officialdom cursed softly. The hurriedly organised defence personnel were sent home for some sleep.

Orders under which part of the gubernatorial establishment had been headed for the Fautaua Valley were cancelled.

Two officials presently tracked the story back to Titi Peroni, and then sought audience with her at her resi dence. But the Belle of Papeete was in no mood for interrogation. She insisted that she was very ill, and bore shrill witness to the foulness of English liquor. Yes, she had seen lights—millions of lights. But her head—it was of a painfulness in describable!

The officials shrugged, and left her. She should have been arrested; but, after all she was very charm ing, was their Titi—even under a hang-over induced by “Rhum Anglais.”

“And that is why that plateau in the Fautaua Valley, where the guns and the Governor’s residence were mounted, is still called Fashoda,” concluded Grandma Nordman, The next toast was “To 137 years of Anglo-French peace”—but they drank it in the good wine of France, and not in “Rhum Anglais.”

Mr. Kent-Hughes, Australian Minister for Works and Housing, visited Bulolo, travelling from Lae by road, on March 29. He was accompanied by Mr. D. Rooner, Director of Works and Housing, Port Moresby, and Mr. G. Griffiths of the same department from Lae. Wau residents were disappointed that the Minister did not visit Wau for any length of time, so that they could air their grievances.