Billy Clanton: "You're so drunk, you can't hit nothin'. In fact, you're probably seeing double."
Doc Holliday: "That's why I have two guns, one for each of ya."
...
Doc Holliday: "It appears my hypocrisy knows no bounds."
Wyatt Earp: "Doc you're not a hypocrite, you just like to sound like one."
- from the film Tombstone
It's about 3 on Saturday afternoon, and I'm ute cargo again, travelling a short way uphill and into some native bush on the hills overlooking Apia. It's cool enough to be comfortable, and as we bounce to our destination, the potholed asphalt becomes potholed dirt, and finally twin tyre tracks in the long grass trail cleaving the bush.
Young Tala, Via, Willy and I are on the back- with an esky and lock box. Charlie and Pat- aka "Uncle F"- lead us in the cab.
We pull up near some moso'oi trees- favourites of the native pigeons (lupe & manutagi) and fruit bats (pe'a). A trio of tava'e (white tailed tropic birds) linger high in the sky above the trees- streamer like tail feathers twice the length of each bird, trailing them.
The lockbox secured in the back of the Toyta Landcruiser is opened to reveal an arsenal of shotguns and rifles which could arouse Charlton Heston. They're handed out without ceremony or instruction- and I'm immediately and acutely aware that I handle guns about as often as I go to the dentist...which frankly, could be more often.
Willy's .22 rifle is perfect for a novice, with a scope fitted, and a simple bolt action. I immediately forget which way the 'safety' action works- and have to ask Charlie. "I think it's this way- yeah, that should be it..." he says vaguely. Admiring his confidence, I leave the bolt open displaying the bullet-free chamber, until I have a clear shot & work it out for myself.
Uncle F, Tala and Via head into the bush, seeking manutagi or lupe- the colourful fruit pigeons which were once a Samoan staple, and are not yet a delicacy...more like a to'onai treat.
The remainder settle to watch the fruit in the tops of the maso'oi trees near the track, a favourite of the manutagi. It's sometime later that I spot one through the scope. I've seen them before, but they're naturally shy (with good reason) and so the scope offers me a clear view of a large dove, red crested, white bellied, with a yellow and green cloak...he looks like a trusting 8 year old has coloured him in without paying attention to the requirement for camoflage.
"See anything"...
"Not really" I lie. I do- I just don't particularly want to see a hole appear in the snowy breast.
There's a few booms from the bush- and not long after, Pat and Tala appear, a plucked wing hanging from the pocket of Pats hunting jacket- one of two pairs in there.
Pat- Uncle F- is 69 years old he says, and appears as fit as some men at 40, seeming to defy a steady stream of cigarettes and beer around the back of the ute.
If there were a Tokoroa Dictionary- then by definition, an inanimate object would be anything Uncle F hasn’t shot at, fought, or had intimate relations with it. (In fact, following anyone of those 3 events, a previously animate object may find itself within the other category.)
They call him Uncle F, because as well as being bilingual (like everyone except me in the company), Uncle F has developed a favourite expletive of infinite expression which peppers every sentence. When he finds out who my Dad is, he laughs and smiles saying something to the effect of
"I f_n worked with your f_n Dad and your f_n uncle...f_k, I love those mother f_rs...I used to go to their f_ing parties, funny as f_k…” and so on…
Occasionally a fat purple-green fiaui (white throated pigeon) flies over. Big cousin to the other pigeons, but not favoured for its flavour- they seem to know they can get away with a brief appearance...but none are silly enough to stay long.
As the sun sinks and the sky melts to blue, first one, then another pe'a begin to appear. I've watched flocks of hundreds from my balcony at home- but tonight there are fewer. Maybe a dozen loners float over the clearing we're in. I enjoyably waste 1/2 a dozen shotgun shells scaring the daylight out of some- driven more by lack of skill than conscience. Pat and Willy bag 6 between them. We've been in the bush for about 3 hours- but the bat shooting lasts only about 20 minutes. "Uma- that's enough" is the consensus.
Willy shows me in the light of the ute the differences between the two species of bat. They're covered in kitten fine fur, and their wings are soft and pliable- between latex and lycra (probably a word beginning with "L" then...) Their talons are ebony fishhooks.
I recognise most as the the ginger fox headed pe’a taulaga - the mango tree raiders of my childhood spent in PNG and Australia. One bat is larger and darker than the others. Pe'a vao- the Samoan flying fox- they're rarer, they don't roost in large noisy groups like their common cousins- preferring to fly alone, and not restricted to nocturnal movements.
We bump home, cargo again- guns away, beers out- a new moon is crescent, thin and resting just above the horizon, it's points upward, as though it were waiting to catch Venus which glows brightly above it. Night darkens further, stars spill brightly across the sky, and a cold edge is honed on the evening wind.
The following day, Willy instructs me on the preparation of three of the bats we share for to'onai. "It's like helping Batman undress", he says, making a single shallow cut straight down the spine of the bats, before deftly peeling off his "cape", gutting and cutting them into thirds to steam. One is wrapped in lu'au (taro leaves) with onions and seasoning- and steamed over a bbq. The others are steamed with a subtle gravy. They taste good.
I love to hunt- I'm just not very good at it. I have been critical of hunting native animals here and elsewhere. It is humbling to be able to experience it with people who consider this privilege a part of their culture...and who are happy to share it so that I might understand.
Notes:
The pe’a taulaga (Pacific Flying Fox) is listed as being of "Least Concern" It has a range across the Pacific and is hunted in many cultures. Populations are thought to be in slow decline, due to degradation of native forest for logging and cultivation.
Val Kimer as Doc Holliday in 'Tombstone' - best 'good-bad' character in a Western Film.
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