Polynesian Islands

MAKI MAORI: A Mystery of The Polynesian Islands

By James P. Shortall

THE evening meal over, we shifted to the long cane chairs on the front verandah, facing the reef.

It was one of those stifling, strangely still tropical nights with never a rustle from the palms over hanging the beach and only the softest rythmic sighing of the surf far out across the shallows.

Still, that is, except for the distant screeching of bats, back behind the house, towards the mountains.

“No wonder these people are such a ghost-ridden lot,” I said to the Doc. “What with ancient tomb stones and burial mounds every few yards along the coastal road, and the screeching and swooping of those things all night.”

The Doc was silent for a time, his pipe flaring like a distant volcano in the darkness, a few yards away.

“Yes. But there’s more in it than that,” he finally said, quietly. “I’m satisfied that there are ghosts, and other things round here that affect these people, even if they don’t affect us.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m ready enough to admit there are more things in heaven and earth, etc. —but give us some concrete facts. They’re the things you live by, aren’t they? Let’s hear about it.”

The Doc leaned over and knocked his pipe out on the edge of a carved wooden bowl. “Yes, we have plenty af well-documented, good, solid facts,” he said. “I’m not going to pretend that I can interpret them; I'm just going to present them.

“For instance; In the past three weeks we’ve had three cases of what you’d call voodoo or black-magic— maki maori they call it round here — and every year we have a number of them—all very similar —all com pletely unrecognisable in modern medical science.”

The Doctor’s story, in almost his own words: • THIS is about what happens. The victim is “wished” to death by someone. I believe there are only ane or two on the island here who :an do the job—and they do it pre sumably at a price—and no one is ever likely to find out just who these medicine-men are, for obvious reasons.

Generally, I believe, something be longing to the victim —preferably a lock of hair—is delivered to the

operator. What he then does 1 do not know. But the cases we manage to get into hospital all agree more or less on the same symptoms.

First, there’s a heaviness or dull pain at the back of the head for per haps a couple of weeks, accom panied by a great uneasiness. Then there is often a sudden paralysis of one side of the body. If we get them at this stage we find extraordinary body temperatures—readings as high as 108 degrees above the waist, and perhaps very sub-normal below. In the ordinary course, the end is always fatal, preceded by a couple of days of violent stomach upset, with con sequent severe dehydration of the body and great weakness.

Well, those are the symptoms.

We've tried everything—all the modern drugs—we’ve taken blood tests, etc., etc. As far as we’re con cerned, they have no identifiable disease at all. There’s just nothing that we can do for them to keep them alive. Intravenous salines, etc., keep them going for a while, but only for a while.

Usually, the patient will never dis close the cause of the trouble—some times he doesn't even know about it.

It’s usually the relatives who have been instrumental in getting the patient to hospital who tell us, though now we can usually guess.

Once we know, the treatment is de finitely unorthodox, and almost always effective.

SO far as I know, there is only one man on this island who can cure these cases, and—this will surprise you—he’s a European. Admittedly he’s lived a long time with these people. I’m not going to say who it is, but his name was given to me by the relatives of one of these cases.

Nor have I discussed the matter with him in any way whatsoever. I have merely witnessed his work.

You must understand that these cases are sometimes very young chil dren—far too young to be “scared to death” by threats. Then there are others who, though they know what is wrong, have no idea who has been the cause of the curse, or the reason for it. I reject the ‘“scared to death”

theory entirely; there’s something

much deeper than that.

Now, when a case comes in, I simply drive round and see this European and at the same time send the patient home in the ambulance with instructions for him, or her, to be put to bed in a room and every one to get out of the house, and away.

I then bring the curer along to the house in the car. He goes in, re mains there perhaps one minute.

comes back to the car, and I drive him home. By the time I get back to the patient he is, to all intents,

completely cured, though naturally

weak from dehydration. He is given plenty of fluids, allowed to sleep, and is up and about as well as ever next day.

MAKE what you like of it—those are the simple, bare facts of what is happening right here on this little island with all its civilised amenities, its planes and ships com ing and going, right now in this year of 1948.

The medical records naturally do not show these deaths (where they occur) as maki maori, because there’s no such disease. They are simply put down as dysentery or something similar. What else can we do? At present the fatal cases are those that never reach us, through fear on the part of the relatives.

As things are at the moment, if this European were to leave the island, or die, I know of no one who could cure these cases. The cure is cer tainly not by persuasion or encourage ment, for not a single word is spoken.

He merely enters the room—some times puts his hand momentarily on the patient—sometimes just pauses at the bedside. Frequently, the patient is delirious or unconscious.

This sort of thing has been going on for a long, long time, and it’s about the last carry-over from the old days remaining here, strangely enough. All the best of the old culture is gone and forgotten—and the sooner this goes the better. * * * “Yes,” the Doc concluded, “you can take it from me there are more things going on round here than the average European resident dreams of.”