Some old duck burst into the hut and gave Ruita a bear hug, including a gentle slap on her behind. Then he eagerly shook my hand and told me in Tahitian how happy he was to see me and I must see his “popaa machine” at once.
Ruita said, “This one is a sort of uncle of mine. A rarity in the islands—he is a miser. He even still has some bird money.”
“What's that?”
“You know nothing about the islands,” she said, teasing me. “Everything I must explain to you—except making love; that you do well on your own, Bird money is from the old days when the whalers used Chilean silver dollars. These have a big eagle on the face, so they were called bird money. But now they have disappeared.”
“They have not disappeared for me,” the old man said, “I do not spend my money foolishly. Also, they are quite beautiful for their own sake, if rubbed well with a soft cloth. I have the best motor in all the islands and this too shines like coins when rubbed. It cost me many thousand taras. I must show you to it, it is a motor for the outside of a boat. Unhappily it no longer works and therefore I hope you may be able to repair it.”
I said I would be happy to see it and Ruita told me in English, “Look at his motor now or he will be hurt, but do it quickly. Then dress your best.”
I followed the old joker to his hut, and there I found a gleaming twenty horsepower outboard motor on an aluminum rack. “This is mine,” the man said proudly, as if showing off a jewel. “It cost many taras and is it not a thing of much beauty?”
I told him it was as beautiful as a sunset. A tara is a Polynesian dollar and equal to five Tahitian francs. This outboard probably sold for around three hundred dollars in the States, and at least a grand to this old man after he paid the various shipping charges. I said in my best Tahitian, “I am sure this makes a canoe travel with the speed of a shark.”
“Like the fastest fish it went on water—but only once. Then it does not work, although I give it clean petrol. Can you repair it?”
I found the name plate on the motor and felt sorry for the old guy—they had sent him a fresh water model, and what it needed was cleaning and oiling, scrape off the salt water corrosion.
“Can this popaa marvel be made to run with speed of a flying fish once more?”
“I think so.”
He had a large-featured face with a great nose and deep wrinkles, a rather solemn puss, but now it became one big smile as he shook my hand hard, asking, “You can truly do this?”
“If nothing is broken I will make it run again.”
“You will make me most happy. For an old man, new happiness is a rare thing. I make many sacks of copra for you. If I was younger, I would dive and bring you shell for trade.”
“I'll look at it tomorrow. Now I must dress for the wedding.”
“God be with you.”
Walking by the other huts I heard the hum of sewing machines, last minute preparations for holiday dress. On the Hooker Eddie was already dressed in a shirt and tie and an old pair of clean suntans. He had on his new sneakers and his hair was brushed down, heavily greased with a scented pomade he must have borrowed from an islander.
I dug out a white sport shirt and white drill pants which were in fair condition. As I dressed Eddie smoked an American butt he had chiseled, said, “We'll do okay here. The men are rested from diving and will make copra for us.”
We took a knife and a pair of scissors as gifts and walked toward the church, joining a steady stream of chattering islanders, most of them walking gingerly as if breaking in new shoes—or maybe breaking in feet which only saw shoes for an hour or so on Sundays, and on occasions like this.
The sun had almost disappeared on the horizon when we entered the church, or rather, got as near the doorway as we could. The islanders politely made room for us to step inside but we said it was okay—it was hot and stuffy in the church and there were about as many people outside as inside. The kids were up front, the women on the right, the men on the left, all of them sitting on the floor. The Deacon was dressed in a cheap black woolen suit which must have been very uncomfortable. He stepped up to the altar and read from a bible, the two catechists—also in hot woolen black suits— then read some more and the Deacon made a speech, which I didn't get as he was talking in the true Tuamotu dialect.
The bride's father spoke from the floor, then the Chief made a short speech, and at last came the hymn singing. The islanders sang loudly and with great enjoyment, for religion is alive, a thing of joy and pleasure in the islands.
I tried to find Ruita, but she was sitting inside on the coral floor. After another short talk by the Deacon, the church “ceremony” was finished and with much eager laughter presents were heaped on the bride and groom. Then everybody rushed toward the fire pit, where great piles of food were ready.
Overturned wooden crates covered with palm leaves served as a long banquet table—over two hundred people were eating—and at the head of it Titi sat with a portable radio which was blaring forth music and news from Papeete. Every few minutes somebody would pop up and make a quick speech, wishing the newlyweds much happiness, but aside from the radio music and the speeches, the only other sounds were those of solid eating. Using palm leaves as both plates and napkins, we ate sizzling portions of roast pig, rice, turtle meat, breadfruit, fish, chickens, crabs, canned meats, fruits, and for dessert a sort of coconut pudding. Of course everybody made many trips to the punch bowls between stuffing his gut.
- There is an art to stuffing yourself; it's something like getting drunk. You eat deliberately and slowly, pausing to rest whenever you feel on the verge of throwing up; one can not only put away a remarkable amount of food but your entire body takes on a heavy numb feeling. Added to this, the punch had a kick like raw whiskey. I was getting high as a kite.
Every once in a while I would turn and find Ruita smiling at me as she finished a mouthful of food. I would squeeze her hand or press her thigh, but nothing stopped us from the business at hand—eating. The radio gave out a steady stream of French classical music, jazz, and some island songs having the sour sadness of hill-billy ballads. When the island music was played some of the men would get up and dance— mostly a great deal of wild arm- and leg-flinging. Of course, these dances only lasted a few seconds; then the dancer, being stuffed, would fall to the sand and rest flat on his back. Others kept eating till they toppled over backwards; they lay, snoring and breaking wind, for a half-hour or so, and then they would sit up and tackle chunks of raw fish floating in lime juice.
At one point, the belching drowned out the noise of the radio. I found the lime juice good for calming my stomach— the skin over my gut was actually drum tight—and once when I was simply staring at the sand, too full to move my hands, Ruita passed a palm leaf with something on it that looked like a spaghetti. I'd never seen it before and it had an interesting oyster-taste. I ate them like I was hungry, asked Ruita what they were. She told me, “Palolo.”
“What's that?”
“Darling, I'm too full to talk,” she said, rubbing her greasy mouth against my beard. “Mama, tell Ray what palolo is.”