The Talune

“…I have also been troubled by some unfinished business. There are events in our past which have been little known in New Zealand, although they are well known in Samoa.
Those events relate to the inept and incompetent early administration of Samoa by New Zealand.
…In particular we acknowledge with regret the decision taken by the New Zealand authorities in 1918 to allow the ship Talune, carrying passengers with influenza, to dock in Apia... It is judged to be one of the worst epidemics recorded in the world, and was preventable.”
Rt Hon Helen Clark, Prime Minister 3 June 2002.

“Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”
George Satayan (except he probably said it in español)


When Helen Clark apologised to the Samoan people in 2002, regarding the influenza epidemic delivered to Samoa on the Talune, she was acknowledging a period of governance in which NZ administrators of Samoa showed deplorable judgement.

It would lead to the rise of the movement known as the “Mau”. But that is another story...this story is about the incident of the Talune- which would establish sentiments later embodied in that movement.

In 1918 , roughly 15 million people lost their lives to “Spanish” influenza as the strain spread across the globe in the wake of World War 1. In a world where global travel wasn't what it is today, it's evident that some deaths were preventable.

In September the USSC Niagara left Canada carrying NZ Prime Minister William Massey and the Minister of Finance...and (by the time it reached NZ) over 100 cases of influenza, and 2 dead. Although the ship had been quarantined in Fiji, Minister of Health (George Russell) allowed the ship to be cleared just 2 hours after docking in Auckland.

The Talune arrived in Auckland 9 days after Niagara. Talune then sailed on to Lyttleton, prior to the return voyage to Apia via Suva.

On board Talune were Mrs George Churchwood* (Ellen Ah Sue) and her children and a serving girl, Ta'u. *Ellen and George were parents to George Churchwood, who married Alma Stowers, my great aunt.

The ship was quarantined in Fiji on return, but landed passengers- introducing the influenza to Fiji. The ship's captain signed a document indicating there was no sickness on board - although several cases were apparent.

Passengers collected in Fiji had been charged double the usual fare (some ₤3) to allow for extra provisions, as it was likely that the ship for would be delayed in quarantine in Samoa.

By the time it made Apia- 3 days later on November 7, there were more cases on board. The Captain, one John Mawson, deliberately avoided quarantine in Samoa- claiming passengers were “seasick” and indicating everything had gone smoothly in Fiji. Passengers however, were surprised to be allowed ashore in Apia, despite obvious illnesses aboard.

Talune left Apia within 24 hours of arriving.

The next stop was Tonga. By the time Talune returned to Suva- there had been 15 deaths aboard.

The medical advisor in Apia, meanwhile had encouraged ill looking passengers upon disembarking, to hurry home.

Ta'u, the Churchwood's serving girl was to become the first of approximately 8500 Samoans to perish with influenza.

Before the epidemic was over, whole families would die in their homes. Entire villages were incapacitated, and corpses remained unburied, with no-one healthy enough to dig the graves. Ultimately, many bodies were either thrown into mass graves or left in their fale’s and their homes burnt.

Status was no defence- when one chief died in Apia,17 men came to collect his body... none returned to their village.

Logan- the NZ Administrator in charge of Samoa- would accomplish little in this time, but did manage to;
- threaten to burn down a boarding school if the sick girls inside would not come to dig graves
- blame Samoans themselves for the high death rate
- refuse an offer of help from the American's at Pago Pago (an inquiry into the event was told that he had then removed and destroyed the received telegram...)
- order wireless communications with the Americans to be cut-off.

New Zealand, pre-occupied with it's own influenza spread, never sent help. The first medical assistance to Samoa was provided by an Australian team.

In NZ, “Spanish” flu killed over 5500 people (less than 1% of the population).
Tonga would lose 10% of it's population as a result of Talune's visitation.
American Samoa by contrast didn't suffer from the pandemic, due to quarantine procedures being followed.

An estimated 8500 Samoans died (official records indicated 7542- but not all deaths were recorded, due to the scope of the epidemic).

22% of the population, 1 in 5 Samoans were killed.

“The introduction of influenza and the burying of the dead in a common grave has entirely changed their feelings, but this, I hope is only temporary and like children, they will get over it”
Col. Robert Logan- NZ administrator to Samoa.

All the single ladies

“I got gloss on my lips, a man on my hips
Got me tighter in my Dereon jeans
Acting up, drink in my cup
I can care less what you think”
Beyonce Knowles- "All the single ladies"

Fa’afafine in Samoa, according to sources number between 3000-5000 (of a total population of 190,000) …or 1:20 males.

In the words of someone who spent far to much time looking into the phenomenon, fa’afafine have formed an integral part of the Samoan population since pre Christian influence…”Boys who display marked effeminate behaviour in childhood are recognized to be Fa’afafines and are fully accepted within their families and society.”

But facts have no place here. From my observation, fa’afafine numbers appear to be on the increase. It looks more men are borrowing their sisters blouses and air kissing one another “Talofa”. (This is in addition to far too much floral print, and the cultural practice of everybody wearing dresses, regardless of masculinity.)

Not always easy to spot at a distance- fa’afafine range widely in appearance; from the aggressively feminine, clad in black vinyl several sizes too small, hairspray devouring “Tina Turner”- to the private school educated, caustically intelligent public servants (the “Eddie Izzard”)- to downright dangerously unpredictable street dwellers (somewhere between Jared Leto and Brittney Spears).

There are common features- and I think these indicate a reason for the rise in numbers.
More burley, brown effeminate blokes are looking for an excuse to express themselves… and to openly not just like- but to be able to play loudly, even dance to…Beyonce.

In some sort of bizarre reverse effect of her unbridled black and proud, hip jutting, seam tearing sexuality …I think Beyonce is making more Samoan men act like women.

Or it could be something else. But the weather, for instance, wouldn’t explain why I suddenly have a very soft spot for Taylor Swift…(although I refuse to worry unless her back catalogue starts to appeal).

A recent colonial history of Samoa (abridged version)

Bacon: “What’s that?”

Samoan Joes bartender: “It’s a cocktail. You asked for a cocktail.”

Bacon: “No- I asked you to give me a refreshing drink. I wasn’t expecting a rainforest. You could fall in love with an orangutan in that!”

bartender: “You want a pint, go to the pub.”

Bacon: “I thought this was a pub?”

bartender: “It’s a Samoan pub.”

- from Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels.



An Englishman, an American and a German walk into a Samoan Pub.

There are at least three Samoans behind the bar and another couple near the door- someone is snoring softly, but it’s difficult to tell who as no-one moves. The service is almost non existent, but it soon becomes clear there’s no beer and the alternatives all smell of coconut…but at least the pool table has been unlocked and it’s free to play.

The German takes the initiative and gets behind the bar to start straightening things out. He starts with the beer, and before long, under the one open eye of the bar manager, the German’s ordering the bar staff around like he owns the joint, there’s cold beer running like water and pork rinds have been added to the snack menu.

The Englishman and the American mumble for a while over their fresh beers about how much better the bar could be if the beer were warm, the food were cold and windows were bricked up- or if it were filled with sports memorabilia, the smell of fat frying and waitresses with low cut tops. With a couple of pints under their belts and the smell of roasting pork in their nostrils, sensing an opportunity the Yank and the Pom approach one of the more frazzled looking Samoan bar tenders and start to talk about employment conditions.

The Samoan bar tender listens intently, before approaching the bar manager and starting to whinge about the change in pace since the German arrived, adding “…since when did anyone work on weekends anyway?” The bar manager, not used to 3 customers at once, let alone upset staff with opinions, decides it’s all getting a bit complicated and takes the rest of the day off. The German left in command, seizes the reins, ramps up the brewing out back and contemplates adding schnitzel to the menu.

The Yank then quietly convinces the remaining disgruntled barstaff to make the German an offer, one which gives the German free run of the public bar (and attraction of the free pool table)- if in return he’ll let them section off the back half of the bar to open a deep-fryer and cleavage themed family restaurant. The German readily agrees- glad to be rid of the trouble makers. While the bar-splitting agreement is being made, the Englishman takes a peek at his pocket watch, discovers it’s half past tea-time and ducks off to find a Twinings.

A couple of hours later the Englishman comes back looking slightly worse for wear and accompanied by a large Kiwi who seems intent on making up for showing up late, rapidly downing beers as though it’s 6 pm closing. As the Pom introduces the Kiwi to the German at the bar he mumbles “don’t mention the war” through the side of his moustache- at which the Kiwi smirks drunkenly and with wide eyed innocence asks the German about the war. The German immediately takes offence and tells them to get their own bloody beer- before hiding the key to the pool table, switching off the keg and nicking off to find somewhere that appreciates good beer, a little efficiency and dictatorial middle management.

The Englishman senses a shift in the mood now that the German’s gone. The bar-staff are looking frustrated after a long day and now contemplating how they’re going to manage the sauerkraut and schnitzel special at dinner service. Displaying the better part of valour, the Pom asks the Kiwi to keep an eye on the bar in exchange for a free beer and free pool- while he pops out for a bit.

The Kiwi agrees amiably, grabbing one of the last warming frothy pints from the bar and staggering toward the pool table. It’s a minute or two before he realises the pool table is now locked and the key is missing. No longer under German observation, the staff have just started to relax and enjoy themselves again, when the Kiwi starts asking about the pool table key and wondering loudly and belligerently about why the beer is no longer running freely from the taps. The bar staff aren’t ruffled and couldn’t be bothered about the beer or finding the key- thinking that free pool is one of the attractions that started this mess anyway, and they’d no doubt be much less busy and generally happier without it. The Kiwi drunk, upset and completely failing to appreciate the average build of the so far docile Samoans- loses his rag and swings a pool cue at the nearest slumbering doorman. …at which point the Kiwi senses rather than hears a very low, very deep hum which resonates through the floor and the timber of the bar- something like the buzzing of a very, very large wasps nest…and shortly thereafter is assisted bodily but non-violently from the bar.

Thus leaving half of the original bar occupied by the now independent Samoan bar staff snoozing softly without the encumbrance of customers; and the other half under control of the Yank and the Samoan bar tender, happily doling out deep fried deserts for breakfast, lunch and dinner to a “growing” population.

bye-bye Savaii

“You say yes, and I say no, you say stop and I say go…
You say goodbye, and I say hello
Hello hello
I don’t know why you say goodbye, I say hello”- The Beatles

Savaii is a short 1 hour ferry ride from Upolu, and if you strap the ferry trip to a 1 hour/$4 bus fare from Apia, you’re facing a total of $16 tala ($8) and a couple of hours of mild adventure to find yourself on the Big Island.

There are fewer Samoan’s on Savaii- one of the reasons, apparently, that it’s not entirely surrounded by the reef lagoons (as Upolu is) which provide relatively safe access to the ocean, and shield the coast from the open Pacific. When combined with the large volcanic cones and the relatively short period since the last major eruption (which lasted from 1905-1911)… the big island has a couple of attractions sau risks which the smaller doesn’t.

I’m here for the weekend, taking advantage of an empty fale left by a couple of volunteers enjoying a Christmas break on Upolu. They live in a self contained room out the back of the Savaiian Hotel…which is closed for a couple of weeks when I arrive, lending the resort a ghost town atmosphere which lone caretaker Sa only adds to (he’s a Samoan Yul Brynner with a Steve Buschemi smile).

As I’m walking the few kilometers from the ferry to the hotel- I get offered a lift. The driver is named Tusi (his name literally means “story” or “book”). We exchange names and occupations…I give mine…
“ae a oe?” (and you?)
“I’m in the circus”
“Oh…?”
“The Samoan Magic Circus…”
When you’re fed a line like his from a dude name Tusi, you can either call him on it and spoil the fun…or go with it, and end up playing pool at Tusi’s place for a while, discussing his extensive international travel (Amsterdam is apparently the schnizzle), and meet some of his family before he gives me a lift to the Savaiian and my fale le aso.

My weekend consists of a bike ride from the Savaiian at Sapapali’i to Manase and back…I discover on arrival that I’ve misplaced my cashcard, lending me both a time limit and a cash budget for a day or two until I get back to Apia. The bike journey is 45km one way, the road is mostly flat with a couple of gentle hills designed for skinny white legs that last rode a bike in the 20th Century. It’s a pleasant, easy ride passing from the east coast of Faga, lined with fales; through more sparsely populated lush jungle, before appearing on the north east coast in lava fields and descending to the beaches of Manase, the tourist centre of Savaii, about 3 hours later. On Saturday night in Manase I get a basic, comfortable fale which my hostess discounts to $60 (NZD $30.00)- including breakfast and a tuna steak dinner. The fale is about 10m from the crystalline fish filled water… ta’ele (swim) or snorkel, go for a walk, find a beer, read a book- you know how holidays go.

Aso Sa is Sunday. The palagi advice I’ve had is that riding a bike or walking through the villages on Sunday isn’t encouraged, the shops are all closed and swimming (outside the resorts) isn’t done. There is, in short, nothing to do on Sunday. There is some substance to this…but…I have to ride home- I’m cash poor and I’ve asked a couple of locals if I’ll be cool riding home- they say “le afaina” (no worries).

Within a kilometre of leaving the fale at Manase I’ve seen ½ a dozen kids on bikes, lots of pedestrians, and a ta’avale (car) every minute or so. Not everyone is going to church- people are resting, bathing, doing chores or just playing with kids in the yard. There’s no indication I’m out of place and everyone is friendly- happy to wave or say “malo”. Something is occasionally lost in translation, and I get a couple of "I love you"s…odd but not unpleasant when it comes from a couple of mature ladies bedecked in white wear and hats like a pair of Polynesian country singers (you be Tammy, you be Dolly, I’ll be Kenny…). Kids all the way shout “bye-bye” and offer high fives…my “malo” meets repeated “bye-bye’s” as though it were time I left.

The shops are all open before Church, until 9 or 10. And after that, they close for a bit while everyone has lunch and a nap- or they don’t. I’m back on the East Coast before 11, and by 2pm I’m starving and my ghost resort fridge is only stocked with the lingering thoughts and odours of real food. So, I go for a walk and pass half a dozen closed stores, before coming to an open one. The shop keeper is sleeping happily on top of his deep freeze behind a counter full of fresh bread…even vividly imagining a corned beef sandwich, I can’t bring myself to wake him. 20m up the road another store is also open. They don’t have bread or corned beef- and I have to mention the sleeping storekeeper next door…”Oh, my brother- wake him up!” she says, before giving me about ¼ of a chicken, leftover from their family to‘ona’i to have on my sandwiches… I have to buy something to go with my free chicken and nap-interrupting bread, so I get a couple of beers for the fale fridge, even though alcohol isn’t sold on Sunday.

Saturday in Samoan is Aso To’ona’i…named for the feast to be prepared for Sunday, to’ona’i. Despite this weekly, not so subtle reminder the shops do a brisk trade Sunday morning…in a land where tomorrow is a long time away. 

Lots of things aren’t done (although most still are done) on Aso Sa in Savaii.

to'ona'i trouble

"All I wanna do
Make a meal of you
We are what we eat
You're my kind of meat
Got a hunger for your love...
Hot pot, cook it up, I'm never gonna stop
It's all I'm thinkin' of..." I Eat Cannibals- Total Coelo

This story is an adaptation of one, which is posted on a carving at the Robert Louis Stevenson museum in Vailima...it is the story of the cannibalism of King Maleatoa- and of how cannibalism in Samoa ended (sort-of)…

King Malietoa Uilamatutu lived at Tualagi, near Malie (not far from Magaea...home of another famous family). He was son of the first Malietoa- his father bravely and fiercely shrugged off Tongan tyranny around 1300 ad. The title Malietoa is taken from a phrase in the speech of the departing Tongan’s…"Mālie toa, mālie tau," meaning "great warriors, well fought." The title Malietoa has continued for over 700 years (the last holder of the title dying in just 2007).

The subject of our story Malietoa Uilamatutu (aka Faiga) was a reasonable man, although he had something of a soft spot for a meaty treat. In the absence of a reasonable butchery, and 800 years prior to the placement of Golden Arches in Saleufi…he managed both his subjects and his hankering, by occasionally (well…daily) ordering the sacrifice of a man from this village or that, to be served at his table.

Important folk hung about the land in front of the home of the Malietoa- the grass court of the king- a reception committee of orators, chiefs and other grass court specialists (possible a former Wimbledon champion or two- clearly they were important enough people that they got to hang about waiting on sunny afternoons, even though there was probably washing to be done at home).

When a sacrifice was ordered, the reception committee would greet the unfortunate victim (although the term “unfortunate victim” may well have been banned from use in preference for ”special lunchtime guest”) The welcome might have included speeches, special thanks and ceremony…but, it certainly included a short sharp rap to the back of the head when one least expected it, after which the “special lunchtime guest” was usually reported to have “ducked off to help in the kitchen”.

The ‘guest sau umu’ would be wrapped in a seated position, with his feet beneath him (it’s poor manners to point your feet…) and slowly roasted. Then the grass court specialists- brave warriors, noblemen, and other blokes skyving off washing duties- would all partake, with the heart and the nape of the neck reserved for the Malietoa.

One day, when Malietoa was getting older (and slowing down a little- possibly a result of his red meat diet…) two men arrived on the beach from Fafine in Savaii. On the same night the kings son, Polualeuligana, was sleeping on the beach. The men, dressed in finery had been invited for “The Kings Day”- a euphemism meaning that although they’d been invited to dinner as special guests, they probably wouldn’t be around to try the fruit and Pavlova.

Polualeuligana, heard the men talking and lamenting their sacrificial fate. He rared up from the beach in the dawn light, like a man shaped lamington, white sand and bronze skin, and presented a cunning plan for their escape…(cunning as a fox shaped guilt roast).

“Wrap me in this banana leaf” cried Polualeuligana. “Plait me up in the leaf like a fish for the umu” he persisted.

“Righto” said the blokes from Fafine, who bereft of a better plan would happily would have dressed him up as Priscilla Queen of the Beach, if they thought it might keep them around long enough to see the fruit platter.

“Does my butt look big in this?” queried Polualeuligana, before being assured that it did- which is considered a good thing in Samoa (and green can be such a difficult colour).

“Now put me on a pole”. After a moment or two of confusion, in which the men approached a couple of nearby sailors from Warsaw…Polualeuligana was secured firmly in leaf, and on a long wooden pole and promptly marched off to surprise his father.

When the fish de jour was presented to the Maietoa, he licked his lips and imagined the feast to come. But as the kuka began to unplait the “fish of the chief”- probably to pop in a bit of garlic and an onion- the feast began to act a little more luvely-jubbley than anticipated…

“It is I, father” cried Polualeuligana, flexing his buttocks against his firm leafy binding, and beginning to enjoy the attention a little.

“How can you be so cruel” began Malietoa… before continuing in parental fashion. “I -I’m not angry…just disappointed”

And so, the Malietoa decreed that if he could not cook his son this day, then no more should his subjects have to fear a Sunday roast at his place, and he ended canabalism in Samoa…mostly.

Sometimes naughty children are still roasted and eaten here- but that’s just for their own good. (You still have to set an example occasionally…)

Chikungunya bingo

Standard Samoan bingo has been in decline for sometime- and the effect on the retailers of ultra-fat highlighters has been dire. But de-fun-dont-stay-done-long up here and since earlier this year it appears* that the Samoan Bingo Retailers Association, the WHO (not the band who should- nay must- remain in obscurity...but the World Health Organisation), Aedes aegypti and Aedes albopictus (the parasitic not so high flyers who bought us all the fun of malaria and dengue fever), and a bunch of people who really wanted a week off, combined to bring to Samoa and a large part of the equatorial globe the brand new game everyone can play, and everybody seems to be playing… Chikungunya bingo.

With a simple set of symptoms, no known treatment and no way of preventing infection- anyone with skin can get involved. Just exit the house in daytime, expose a a well formed ankle, and wait for the kiss of Aedes or Aedes (once you’ve played you’ll be on a first name basis)…and then hang about waiting for the fun to start.

If you suddenly begin to experience cold shivers in the 30 degree light of day, and really want to lie down under a duvet…you’re on your way, and can tick off symptom one.

As the cold becomes hot again, but doesn’t stop at your normal 37.5 degree body temperature, instead revving your engine up to around 39 degrees, so that bits of your brain are starting to make not very funny comments about other bits of your brain, and you’re sweating and shaking like a Neil Diamond impressionist…well, cross off another a symptom, and cross your fingers while you can cause you won't be able to tomorrow.

30-48 hours later, if you’re swaying slightly next to the washing machine- waiting to recover your previously sweat soaked sheets and wondering where enough salt water could have come from to leave the entire bed in a state where you could farm mackerel…your bingo alert bell should be ringing, but it’s probably just your ears.

If your shoulders won’t allow you to reach up and peg your sheets to the line because you’ve developed the kind of arthritis that makes you crave a copper bangle, a flat in Noosa, and at least 2 fewer limbs…Chikun-bingo glory is almost upon you.

But only, finally, when you wake up a morning later, and stumble into the bathroom like you’ve got Parkinson’s because your feet are suddenly and painfully confused as to why they have arches, to discover large pink welts drawn across significant portions of your body…can you be sure, can you fully appreciate the irony, that you’ve hit solid Chikun-bingo-gold. The final fat pink highlighter of congratulations from the Samoan Bingo Retailers Association - a bunch of no-harm goodtimers with the kind of sense of humour that can only be treated with paracetomol and fluids.

http://www.who.int/mediacentre/factsheets/fs327/en/ 

Serving suggestions

Ever sat through a long grace, as plates of lovingly crafted food, hours in the preparation, go from sizzling or steaming, and salads from cool & crisp, to a general medium somewhere around room temperature where their flavours can mingle with optimum effect, and thought…gosh darn and gee whiz. 
Well, imagine the mind-explosion of discovering it could be deliberate. Apparently if your idea of aircon temp is a chilly 27 degrees- and your seasons range from “hot” to “you just stepped in something- oh, it’s lava- lucky, I thought it might have been from the dog”…you start to get a bit ambivalent about temperature all round…

What’s for lunch?
Taro, rice, sweet and sour pork, chicken…stir-fried vegetables
Vegetables?
Yeah- someone stuffed up.
When was it cooked?
Um…earlier.
Hot?
It certainly was.

Got a beer?
Yep, here’s one I took out of the fridge earlier…

How do you take your coffee?

Quite a long way, and then I wait a bit…

So- if you’re sitting about in the heat, and it’s humid enough for fish to cross the road between stormwater drains...it turns out that you may not be hanging out for the sensation of sizzling plates of just cooked food, or to scald the roof of your mouth on a frothing flat white or koko. 
Of course, that doesn’t explain why luke-warm beer would seem like fun…but beer's not always about the taste, is it?