Cloying praise has shared in spoiling the native Samoan. Robert Louis Stevenson was the worst sinner. It was too easy to sentimentalize their sweet and gentle women, their courteous patriarchal chiefs, the waterfalls that sang like fountains day and night. Before Hollywood went South Sea and flattered them with the camera, Stevenson had told us in charming, balanced sentences how he had lived among Greeks in Eden’s Vale. Samoan conceit became elephantoid under this pretty coddling, and the abundant orators around the kava ring told them again that they occupied the Navel of the World. It was never raucous boasting. As I have said, the Samoans are a race of gentlefolk.
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The medical problem in Western Samoa was more than a matter of lining them up, treating them, sending them home. In American Samoa, our Navy tried the efficiency method, but it didn’t work very well with a people who live on ceremony as much as Japan did under the Shogunate. A sick Samoan, if he has rank, pays for his operation a thousandfold before he is home and recovered.
The Samoan social system could ramify its way across a hundred library shelves. To be brief, its core is the Matai, or master. This title goes to the head of the Ainga, or family, and is handed down like an heirloom. The title Tufunga is high, and carries with it the greatest dignity, and the honors that go with it have always been recognized.
To the practical modern doctor the old ceremonial is what can’t be cured and must be endured. Take the ceremonial journey they call the malanga—if a Samoan goes visiting relatives and takes the whole village along, it becomes a malanga, and the visitors are apt to eat the host’s provisions down to the last taro, while he bites his nails in secret and publicly implores his guests to stay longer. But this generosity has a true Christmas spirit—you give something and expect something back. Pretty soon the host will be on a malanga of his own—then it will be his turn to do the feasting, and yours to pay for it.
Treating a sick Samoan is an ordeal for the doctor and it is not always so easy on the patient. N.M.P. Ielu Kuresa, an honored graduate of our School, wrote an article for our medical journal, the Native Medical Practitioner, in which he described the rigmarole which surrounds a simple surgical operation. This is his account, in brief:—
“To be operated on by a doctor does not mean the doctor’s bill only. Custom and etiquette must be complied with. In the first place, the scene will be at the patient’s own home.... Having come to the conclusion that he must be operated on, he will first inform his immediate family of his intentions. At this stage a daughter or son, perhaps residing some distance away, will have to be sent for in order to participate in a family meeting to decide whether the sick person’s wishes should be carried out, or whether a further try of other native medicine or treatment be applied.” Every Matai, under these circumstances, must make peace with his kinsmen; otherwise “it means carrying with you bad luck and perhaps better chances of dying. Samoans are very particular about their selection of physicians and will travel miles to get to a good surgeon, leaving another doctor who might be close to their village.”
All the related Matais are informed of the coming event. Then the Orators are brought into play. They assemble at the sick man’s house, and there is a contest of eloquence, wishing the patient “all good luck and God’s never-failing help....” So the Orators must get their pork and the sympathizers must feast—“... food in such a quantity as befits the title of the sick person ... a whole roasted pig, or even two, bread or biscuits and of course taro by the score ... the first installment on operating expenses.” Any other stricken member of the Ainga, a wife or child, gets the same ceremony, scaled down to the social importance of the sufferer.
“The first expense, then, can be from £1 to £5, to be conservative.” If the Matai happens to be hard up he must borrow pigs from his in-laws. “At times, just to conform with Samoan customs, if no pigs are forthcoming from the son-in-law or the daughter-in-law, or the sister, the Ainga must resort to parting with a share of the family lands, or some other form of property.”
This blow-off ends the first scene. A boat is probably necessary to carry the patient to the hospital. The crew offers its services free—But wait. The expedition is called ole si’ingama’i, “party-carrying-the-sick.” The boating expedition swells to a heavy-laden fleet. And don’t forget the Tulafale, the all-pervading Orators, bringing their wives and children and in-laws.