In the Track of the Trades / The Account of a Fourteen Thousand Mile Yachting Cruise to the Hawaiis, Marquesas, Societies, Samoas and Fijis

by Lewis R. Freeman

The guest, on receiving the kava, bows to the Chief and other dignitaries, and, with the word "man'uia,"—the equivalent of "To your health"—drinks it at a single draught. The epu is then returned to the bearer by spinning it across the mat to her feet. The Tulafele now calls the name of the guest next in rank, and the ceremony is repeated, this continuing until all have been served. There are no "second helpings."

The genealogy and rank of all Samoans are so well known that, amongst themselves, there is no question in determining the order of precedence in drinking. With foreigners present, however, the matter of rank is a complicated one. Unless a native of supreme rank, like Maatafa of Apia, who was nearer our idea of a king than any other Samoan, is to be served, it is customary to offer the first drink of kava to the most distinguished of the visitors, the next to the highest chief, the next to the second most important visitor, and so by alternation. When the almost sacred Mataafa was present, however, etiquette required that he be served first, and always from his own special epu, out of which no other was ever allowed to drink.

The hitting off of the correct order of foreign visitors, especially where several different nationalities are present, is a trying task for the tulafale, and, except on very formal occasions where inquiry is made beforehand, many amusing "reversals" occur. Several times, probably because I happened to bulk somewhat more largely against the sky-line—the Samoan, unless he stops to think, is almost sure to place brawn before brain—I was presented with the initial epu of kava in advance of the Commodore, and at one informal little party the both of us were passed over in favour of our gigantic bo'sun, Gus, who, with the easy, indolent assurance of the Viking from whom he was descended, was leaning against the post of the house, a passive spectator. On this, as on all other occasions, however, the Commodore and I had the consolation of being served before the Mater and Claribel. The Samoan is not exactly a Turk in the matter of women, but he takes care that they never stand in his own light.

The tulafale never calls a guest by his name in designating him for a drink of kava, but by some euphemistic appellation that is intended to be, and usually is, complimentary. The Commodore was always some variation of "The Great One Who Comes in His Own Ship." The Mater was usually something akin to "The Bright New Moon of the Great One," but once, when we brought her in to a talolo at Apia after a stormy passage from Tutuila, she displayed so much individuality as to inspire the observant tulafale to bestow a title all her own. "Take the kava to 'The Beautiful One Who is Sad Because of the Rocking of the Boat,'" ordered that autocrat of the epu, the translation of which so tickled the risibilities of the ever-resilient Mater that the look of sadness passed and the title lost its point forthwith. Claribel drew down an assorted lot of titles, among them being "The Watchful One," "The White Taupo" and, one day when she was wearing her pince nez, "The Four-Eyed One."

Whenever the Commodore was present—except on the two or three occasions when they mixed us up and served me first—I was always hailed as some kind of satellite of the "Great One." When appearing independently I was served under a number of nondescript titles, the most notable among which was one bestowed at a small village on the leeward side of Tutuila which I visited with my friend, Judge Gurr. The first cup on this occasion was presented to the Judge, the second to the village chief, and as the third was filled the single magic word, "Tusitala!" fell from the lips of the "Master of Ceremonies."

"A cup to the memory of the beloved Stevenson!" I told myself, a possible explanation of which flashed to my mind with the dawning recollection that the village, Fauga-sa, under a slightly altered name, had figured as the scene of one of the novelist's best stories. Athrill with interest, I waited expectantly, keen on missing no detail of the pretty observance, when, lo!—the brown Hebe of the kava cup came mincing across the mat and, with a sweep and flourish of her graceful arm, held the epu poised in front of my vacantly grinning face.

'"What's this for? Do they take me for a reincarnation of Stevenson?" I cried excitedly to the Judge, quite forgetting in the excitement of the moment what the etiquette of the occasion demanded.

"Drink the kava!" he admonished in an anxious undertone, not a little embarrassed by so flagrant a faux pas on the part of one for whom he was standing sponsor; "I'll explain in a moment."

I drained the coco shell of its spicy contents at a gulp, twirled it back to the taupo, and, as the latter began filling it for the next drink, turned inquiringly to my companion.

"No, they didn't confuse you with Stevenson," said the Judge dryly. "I merely explained to the tulafale, when he asked, that you were a scribbler of sorts, and because the nearest equivalent to that in the Samoan language is a 'Teller of Tales,' he hailed you as Tusitala when your turn for the kava arrived."