Polynesia Quotes

breeds of dogs were developed and raised for food in Aztec Mexico, Polynesia, and ancient China.

I was thinking about people," said Polynesia." People make me sick. They think they're so wonderful. The world has been going on now for thousands of years, hasn't it? And the only thing in animal language that people have learned to understand is that when a dog wags his tail he means 'I'm glad'! It's funny isn't it? You are the very first man to talk like us. Oh, sometimes people annoy me dreadfully - such airs they put on, talking about 'the dumb animals.' Dumb! Huh! Why I knew a macaw once who could say 'Good morning' in seven different ways.

Are today's fears more or less founded than the fears of that time? When it comes to the future, we are just as blind as our fathers. Swiss and Swedes have their anti-nuclear shelters, but what will they find when they come out into the open? There are Polynesia, New Zealand, Tierra del Fuego, the Antarctic: perhaps they will remain unharmed. Obtaining a passport and entry visa is much easier than it was then, so why aren't we going? Why aren't 'we leaving our country? Why aren't we leaving "before"?

As I walked up toward the band kids, Ben shouted, ''Jacobsen, was I dreaming or did you-'' I gave him the slightest shake of my head and he changed gears mid sentence- ''and me go on a wild adventure to French Polynesia last night, traveling in a sailboat made of bananas?'' ''That was one delicious sailboat,'' I answered.

It’s understandable, then, that pretty much every human culture independently developed some version of the belief that a special animating force makes living things alive. The Romans called it spiritus and the Greeks pneuma (both words also meaning “breath”). In China it is called chi, which also translates to “blood” because they felt the life force was carried in the blood. In Japan it is ki, in India prana, in Polynesia mana, and in Arabic it is baraka.

Christ will never more come down to earth nor will there be any law-giver, nor will murder cease nor theft, nor rape, and yet... and yet one expects something, something terrifyingly marvellous and absurd, perhaps a cold lobster with mayonnaise served gratis, perhaps an invention, like the electric light, like television, only more devastating, more soul rending, an invention unthinkable that will bring a shattering calm and void, not the calm and void of death but of life such as the monks dreamed, such as is dreamed still in the Himalayas, in Tibet, in Lahore, in the Aleutian Islands, in Polynesia, in Easter Island, the dream of men before the flood, before the word was written, the dream of cave men and anthropophagists, of those with double sex and short tails, of those who are said to be crazy and have no way of defending themselves because they are outnumbered by those who are not crazy.

Therefore, men of Polynesia and Boston and China and Mount Fuji and the barrios of the Philippines, do not come to these islands empty-handed, or craven in spirit, or afraid to starve. There is no food here. In these islands there is no certainty. Bring your own food, your own gods, your own flowers and fruits and concepts. For if you come without resources to these islands you will perish... On these harsh terms the islands waited.

Polynesians were both the most closely related and the most widely dispersed people in the world. Seven’s

This is what is meant by the Polynesian Triangle, an area of ten million square miles in the middle of the Pacific Ocean defined by the three points of Hawai‘i, New Zealand, and Easter Island.

Vision is not so much about just looking but knowing what to look for. It's experience.

Hawai‘i, for example, you go mauka, toward the mountain, or makai, toward the sea—directions that can point north, south, east, or west, depending upon where you are standing

Although oral traditions often seem focused on the past, they are actually quite present-centered. In an oral culture, only what matters to the living is retained.

They had a constellation known as Big Bird, which overlaps our constellations Orion and Canis Major, and they gave the same name to the planet Venus that we give it: Morning Star. Not

But what was really surprising was how early the dates were: at 2,800 years before the present, they pushed the occupation of New Caledonia back to the end of the first millennium B.C. IN

Vast tracts of ocean, whether Polynesia, Micronesia or Melanesia, contain island populations that remain outside the modern world. They know about it, they may have traveled to it, they appreciate artifacts and medical help from it, but they live their daily lives much as hundreds of generations of ancestors before them, without money, electricity, phones, TV or manufactured food.

Whether you move in distinguished circles or you take refuge among the head-hunters of Polynesia, whether you lock yourself into a monastery or decide to spend the rest of your life in the company of beautiful and lascivious women, you always have to face the same percentage of stupid people – which percentage (in accordance with the First Law) will always surpass your expectations.

perhaps to keep out the pigs. They had a large number of words for types of wind, including strong wind, storm wind, light wind, dry wind, winds from various directions, and wind bringing rain.

In a world without writing, there are no inventories or statistics; in fact, writing, so far as anyone knows, was invented in order to make accurate lists of commodities like she-goats and oxen and amphorae of wine.

Whoever they were, the so-called Lapita people appeared to be the first people on the scene in these places, and this, in turn, meant that not only were they the true pioneers of the remote Pacific—the first people to sail over the horizon to islands that were too far away to see—but they were also the first people to reach the Polynesian Triangle. And this meant that they were the immediate precursors and ancestors of the Polynesians.

But it does have the merit of asking whether there is knowledge encoded in Tupaia’s chart that might be difficult for us to see because it is based on unfamiliar assumptions about how information is most usefully organized.

During the era of that trade, Africa was largely ruled by Africans, who established the conditions under which slave sales took place. The crew of a slave ship was in no position to defy African rulers and their armies by going out across the land and capturing people willy-nilly. The stronger African peoples captured and enslaved the weaker peoples—the same pattern found over the centuries in Europe, Asia, the Western Hemisphere, and Polynesia:

In some traditions, Te Pō is associated with Te Kore, a word that in common speech expresses simple negation but here is elevated to mean something like “Nothingness” or “the Void.” Like Te Pō, Te Kore can be qualified—Kore-nui (the Vast Void); Kore-roa (the Far-Extending Void); Kore-para (the Parched Void); Kore-rawea (the Void in Which Nothing Is Felt)—suggesting that it is less a matter of true absence or emptiness and more a kind of liminal space between being and nonbeing—a “realm of potential being,

The first is that the relationships among all forms of matter are ones of kinship; everything that exists is, in a fairly literal sense, related to everything else. The stone that is the ancestor Raukawa is also, in its own right, an ancestor, being part of the same continuum of creation as the man and the ancestral hero. The second is that the mechanism of creation for everything in the world—not just humans, animals, and gods but even things that we would describe as inorganic, like sand and stones—is a form of sexual reproduction. Creation in traditional Polynesian myths is, fundamentally, a matter of procreation.

All the islands inside this triangle were originally settled by a clearly identifiable group of voyagers: a people with a single language and set of customs, a particular body of myths, a distinctive arsenal of tools and skills, and a “portmanteau biota” of plants and animals that they carried with them wherever they went. They had no knowledge of writing or metal tools—no maps or compasses—and yet they succeeded in colonizing the largest ocean on the planet, occupying every habitable rock between New Guinea and the Galápagos, and establishing what was, until the modern era, the largest single culture area in the world.

According to many Polynesian creation stories, the origin of the universe begins in something known as Te Pō. Typically described as a period of chaos or darkness or a kind of night, Te Pō is what existed before any gods, sky, land, sea, plants, animals, or humans had come into being. It is associated not just with the dim beginnings of the world but with the time before birth, the time after death, and the mysteries of the spirit world. In the dualistic philosophy of the Polynesians, it is opposed to Te Ao, the world of light and ordinary human endeavor. We live in Te Ao, but it is from Te Pō that we come, and to it that we ultimately return. The

In 1951, the first radiocarbon date from the Pacific was reported by Willard F. Libby’s lab at the University of Chicago. Based on a sample of charcoal from the lowest layer of an excavation of the Kuli‘ou‘ou rock-shelter, on the island of O‘ahu, it fixed the earliest occupation of this Hawaiian site at A.D. 1004, plus or minus 180 years.

They were polytheistic, and the name for their most securely reconstructible deity relates to the word for “sky.” Their word for human, on the other hand, was derived from their word for “earth” or “land.” Their poetry revolved around themes of fertility, reciprocity, immortality, and heroic deeds; a single famous phrase, best known to us from the Homeric epics, is glossed as “imperishable fame.

References to Te Pō occur in myths and chants throughout Polynesia, including one of the most famous of all, a two-thousand-line Hawaiian creation chant known as the Kumulipo, meaning “Beginning in deep darkness.” Composed at the beginning of the eighteenth century to mark the birth of the high chief Lonoikamakahiki, it begins, in Queen Lili‘uokalani’s translation: At the time that turned the heat of the earth At the time when the heavens turned and changed At the time when the light of the sun was subdued To cause light to break forth At the time of the night of Makalii [winter] Then began the slime which established the earth, The source of deepest darkness Of the depth of darkness, of the depth of darkness, Of the darkness of the sun, in the depth of night, It is night, So night was born.

The officer argued that even if they managed to find “a desert island,” they would certainly perish from starvation or thirst. Emory pointed out that Polynesians had been managing just fine for hundreds, if not thousands, of years and that there was food and water to be had on even the smallest islands if you knew where to look. Coconuts alone provided food, water, containers, and fuel for a fire; the problem was that most American servicemen had no idea how to husk one. Asked if he could teach them, Emory replied, Of course—all that was needed was a pointed stick. And so began his stint as survival instructor to the U.S. military in the Pacific theater. Emory compiled a little manual of the basics, entitled South Sea Lore (known in its first incarnation as the Castaway’s Baedeker to the South Seas).

The city of Gregoria was ahead. The boys were sleeping, and I was alone in my eternity at the wheel, and the road ran straight as an arrow. Not like driving across Carolina, or Texas, or Arizona, or Illinois; but like driving across the world and into the places where we would finally learn ourselves among the Fellahin Indians of the world, the essential strain of the basic primitive, wailing humanity that stretches in a belt around the equatorial belly of the world from Malaya (the long fingernail of China) to India the great subcontinent to Arabia to Morocco to the selfsame deserts and jungles of Mexico and over the waves to Polynesia to mystic Siam of the Yellow Robe and on around, on around, so that you hear the same mournful wail by the rotted walls of Cádiz, Spain, that you hear 12,000 miles around in the depths of Benares the Capital of the World.

Te Po-nui The great night Te Po-roa The long night Te Po-uriuri The deep night Te Po-kerekere The intense night Te Po-tiwhatiwha The dark night Te Po-te-kitea The night in which nothing is seen Te Po-tangotango The intensely dark night Te Po-whawha The night of feeling Te Po-namunamu-ki-taiao The night of seeking passage to the world Te Po-tahuri-atu The night of restless turning Te Po-tahuri-mai-ki-taiao The night of turning towards the revealed

But what was really surprising was how early the dates were: at 2,800 years before the present, they pushed the occupation of New Caledonia back to the end of the first millennium B.C. IN THE YEARS that followed, Lapita sites would be discovered on the Mussau Islands off Papua New Guinea, the Reef and Santa Cruz Islands, Tikopia Vanuatu, Fiji, Tonga, Futuna, and Samoa—in other words, virtually everywhere between the Bismarck Archipelago and the western edge of Polynesia. Dates from these sites confirmed the age of the culture represented by these ceramics, but they also revealed an unexpected pattern: Lapita settlements across a 2,500-mile swath of the western Pacific—from roughly the Solomon Islands to Samoa—seem to have appeared almost simultaneously around 1000 B.C. Furthermore, east of the Solomons, they appeared to represent a cultural horizon: no one predated them in these islands, archaeologically speaking; no cultural artifacts underlay theirs.

Be it as it may, it is certain he had deserted from a home ship in the early gold-digging days, and in a few years became talked about as the terror of this or that group of islands in Polynesia. He would kidnap natives, he would strip some lonely white trader to the very pyjamas he stood in, and after he had robbed the poor devil, he would as likely as not invite him to fight a duel with shot-guns on the beach — which would have been fair enough as these things go, if the other man hadn’t been by that time already half-dead with fright. Brown was a latter-day buccaneer, sorry enough, like his more celebrated prototypes; but what distinguished him from his contemporary brother ruffians, like Bully Hayes or the mellifluous Pease, or that perfumed, Dundreary-whiskered, dandified scoundrel known as Dirty Dick, was the arrogant temper of his misdeeds and a vehement scorn for mankind at large and for his victims in particular. The others were merely vulgar and greedy brutes, but he seemed moved by some complex intention. He

One of Libby’s key assumptions had been that the quantity of carbon-14 in the atmosphere was constant, but this, as it turned out, was not true. Changes in the earth’s magnetic field, sunspot activity, even human activities like burning fossil fuels, exploding atom bombs, and testing nuclear weapons, altered the atmospheric concentration of radiocarbon. Unless radiocarbon dates were corrected using a known formula (i.e., calibrated), they could be off by significant amounts (as much as seven hundred years in the case of dates around 3000 B.C.). Gradually

Proto-Oceanic is the theoretical mother tongue of the Oceanic peoples and the language from which all the Oceanic languages are thought to descend. It is a huge family, encompassing more than 450 languages, including those spoken on all the islands of Polynesia, most of the smaller islands of Melanesia, and all the islands of Micronesia except two. It is itself a branch of the larger Austronesian language family, a truly stupendous grouping of more than a thousand languages, which includes, in addition to all the Oceanic languages, those of the Philippines, Borneo, Indonesia, Timor, the Moluccas, and Madagascar. The very oldest Austronesian languages—and thus, in a sense, their geographic root—are a group of languages known as Formosan, a few of which are still spoken by the indigenous inhabitants of Ilha Formosa (Beautiful Island), an old Portuguese name for the island of Taiwan. Thus, at least from a linguistic point of view, the path back from Polynesia to the ultimate homeland proceeds through the Melanesian and Southeast Asian archipelagoes to an island off the coast of China, where the trail goes cold around 5000 or 6000 B.C.

Then one day, as he was watching one of his workers sift a shovelful of earth, something among the rocks and sand caught his eye, “a flat fragment of some brick-red substance,” which appeared briefly and then disappeared. It looked, thought Suggs, exactly like a piece of pottery. But that couldn’t be—pottery was found throughout Island Southeast Asia and much of Melanesia, but it had never been seen east of Samoa. And yet, there it was: an unmistakable potsherd from the lowest level of the dark band of sand that indicated human habitation. Almost immediately, a second, larger fragment emerged, then a third: a piece of an ancient pot rim with a grooved and rounded lip and marks on the inner and outer surfaces, “from the hand of the potter who had smoothed this vessel in the dim past.” In all, five fragments of pottery were discovered, belonging to just three vessels: a poorly fired, crumbly brown pot with a coarse temper; a well-fired reddish-brown bowl with a flared rim; and a fine-tempered fragment, also reddish brown, with marks that showed it had been polished using some kind of tool. Modest though they were, these ceramic tidbits changed “the complexion of Polynesian prehistory”—though, as was so often the case, it was not immediately clear in precisely what way.

It was the artifact of choice for a technique called seriation, which involved sorting objects by shape or style or some other formal feature and then ranging them in series, on the principle that things that are alike probably belong to the same period and that changes in style are often incremental. Like stratigraphy, seriation is a means of establishing relative chronologies; combined with the new technique of radiocarbon dating, it could be used to nail down whole stretches of cultural time. There was, however, no pottery in Hawai‘i, and Sinoto wondered what else could be used as a “diagnostic” artifact. The answer was fishhooks. Like

Two possible reasons for this might be that, like politics, all navigation is local, and that what is true in one geographical region is not necessarily true in another. The night sky in New Zealand is not the same as the night sky in Papua New Guinea, which is not the same as the night sky in Hawai‘i. The winds and currents in the Solomons are not the same as those around Rapa Nui or in the Marquesas. A second consideration might be that in many Oceanic societies, navigational knowledge is believed to have been privileged and known to only a few, which may mean that it was especially easy to lose once it was no longer central to a society’s survival.

them—or something like it. They even got the Doctor some tobacco one day, when he had finished what he had brought with him and wanted to smoke. At night they slept in tents made of palm leaves, on thick, soft beds of dried grass. And after a while they got used to walking such a lot and did not get so tired and enjoyed the life of travel very much. But they were always glad when the night came and they stopped for their resting time. Then the Doctor used to make a little fire of sticks; and after they had had their supper, they would sit round it in a ring, listening to Polynesia singing songs about the sea, or to Chee-Chee telling stories of the jungle. And many of the tales that Chee-Chee told were very interesting. Because although the monkeys had no history books of their own before Doctor Dolittle came to write them for them, they remember everything that happens by telling stories to their children. And Chee-Chee spoke of many things his grandmother had told him—tales of long, long, long ago, before Noah and the Flood—of the days when men dressed in bearskins and lived in holes in the rock and ate their mutton raw because they did not know what cooking was, never having seen a fire. And he told them of the great mammoths, and lizards as long as a train, that wandered over the mountains in those times, nibbling from the treetops. And often they got so interested listening that when he had finished they found their fire had gone right out, and they had to scurry around to get more sticks and build a new one. Now, when the King’s army had gone back and told the King that they couldn’t find the Doctor, the King sent them out again and told them they must stay in the jungle till they caught him. So all this time, while the Doctor and his animals were going along toward the Land of the Monkeys, thinking themselves quite safe, they were still being followed by the King’s men. If Chee-Chee had known this, he would most likely have hidden them again. But he didn’t know it. One day Chee-Chee climbed up a high rock and looked out over the treetops. And when he came down he said they were now quite close to the Land of the Monkeys and would soon be there. And that same evening, sure enough, they saw Chee-Chee’s cousin and a lot of other monkeys, who had not yet gotten sick, sitting in the trees by the edge of a swamp, looking and waiting for them. And when they saw the famous doctor really come, these monkeys made a tremendous noise, cheering and waving leaves and swinging out of the branches to greet him. They wanted to carry his bag and his trunk and everything he had. And one of the bigger ones even carried Gub-Gub, who had gotten

The way a star compass works is this: You begin by envisioning the horizon as a circle marking the meeting point of the earth and the sky—which, of course, is exactly how it looks from a boat on the ocean or the high point of a small island. In the mind of an experienced navigator, this circle is dotted with points marking the rising and setting positions of particular stars. When the navigator imagines himself at the center of this circle and his destination as a point on the horizon, the star compass becomes a plotting diagram, giving the bearing of his target island in terms of the rising and setting points of particular stars. A “star path” is a course defined by the series of stars that rise over the course of a night in a particular direction.

The splitting off of the Oceanic branch of this language family is thought to have taken place in the neighborhood of the Bismarcks around the time of the first Lapita settlement, and it is strongly linked with the rapid colonization of the islands between there and Samoa between 1500 and 1000 B.C. Thus, the reconstruction of Proto-Oceanic opens a window onto the otherwise fairly mysterious Lapita world. Little survives in archaeological contexts in the tropics—none of the baskets or cordage or wooden housewares, no foodstuffs or clothing, no buildings apart from stone foundations and the dark impressions left by long-decayed posts. But something of the texture of these people’s lives can be extracted from their reconstructed vocabulary, working back through the ages via whatever was essential enough to pass on.

It is almost impossible to imagine such a world today: one without books or calendars or accounts, never mind the Internet, one in which nothing has ever been documented and all the information that can be possessed is held in the minds of a few. But literacy has emerged only in the past five or six thousand years, and for most of human history this was how knowledge was stored and communicated. The advent of writing is often seen as one of the watershed developments in human history, and it can be argued that the presence or absence of writing shapes cultures in fundamental ways—some would even say it shapes consciousness itself. But even if that is too great a claim, it is certainly true that the ability to document what is known changes the way knowledge is constructed, including the kinds of information that can be transmitted and the shape that information takes.

The birds had multiplied. She'd installed rows upon rows of floating melamine shelves above shoulder height to accommodate the expression of her once humble collection. Though she'd had bird figurines all over the apartment, the bulk of her prized collection was confined to her bedroom because it had given her joy to wake up to them every morning. Before I'd left, I had a tradition of gifting her with bird figurines. It began with a storm petrel, a Wakamba carving of ebony wood from Kenya I had picked up at the museum gift shop from a sixth-grade school field trip. She'd adored the unexpected birthday present, and I had hunted for them since. Clusters of ceramic birds were perched on every shelf. Her obsession had brought her happiness, so I'd fed it. The tiki bird from French Polynesia nested beside a delft bluebird from the Netherlands. One of my favorites was a glass rainbow macaw from an Argentinian artist that mimicked the vibrant barrios of Buenos Aires. Since the sixth grade, I'd given her one every year until I'd left: eight birds in total. As I lifted each member of her extensive bird collection, I imagined Ma-ma was with me, telling a story about each one. There were no signs of dust anywhere; cleanliness had been her religion. I counted eighty-eight birds in total. Ma-ma had been busy collecting while I was gone. I couldn't deny that every time I saw a beautiful feathered creature in figurine form, I thought of my mother. If only I'd sent her one, even a single bird, from my travels, it could have been the precursor to establishing communication once more. Ma-ma had spoken to her birds often, especially when she cleaned them every Saturday morning. I had imagined she was some fairy-tale princess in the Black Forest holding court over an avian kingdom. I was tempted to speak to them now, but I didn't want to be the one to convey the loss of their queen. Suddenly, however, Ma-ma's collection stirred. It began as a single chirp, a mournful cry swelling into a chorus. The figurines burst into song, tiny beaks opening, chests puffed, to release a somber tribute to their departed beloved. The tune was unfamiliar, yet its melancholy was palpable, rising, surging until the final trill when every bird bowed their heads toward the empty bed, frozen as if they hadn't sung seconds before. I thanked them for the happiness they'd bestowed on Ma-ma.

The archaeologist attached to the Bayard Dominick’s Marquesan team had reported in 1925 that the Marquesas offered “few opportunities for archaeological research.” But in 1956, a new expedition set out to reexamine the possibilities in these islands at the eastern edge of the Polynesian Triangle. An energetic Columbia University graduate student named Robert Suggs was sent ahead to reconnoiter, and he quickly discovered that the previous generation had gotten it all wrong. Everywhere he looked, he saw archaeological potential. “We were seldom out of sight of some relic of the ancient Marquesan culture,” he writes. “Through all the valleys were scattered clusters of ruined house platforms. . . . Overgrown with weeds, half tumbled down beneath the weight of toppled trees and the pressure of the inexorable palm roots, these ancient village sites were sources of stone axes, carved stone pestles, skulls, and other sundry curios.” There were ceremonial plazas “hundreds of feet long” and, high on the cliffs above the deep valleys, “burial caves containing the remains of the population of centuries past.” The coup de grâce came when Suggs and his guide followed up on a report of a large number of “pig bones” in the dunes at a place called Ha‘atuatua. This windswept expanse of scrub and sand lies on the exposed eastern corner of Nuku Hiva. A decade earlier, in 1946, a tidal wave had cut away part of the beach, and since then bones and other artifacts had been washing out of the dunes. Not knowing quite what to expect, Suggs and his guide rode over on horseback. When they came out of the “hibiscus tangle” at the back of the beach and “caught sight of the debris washing down the slope,” he writes, “I nearly fell out of the saddle.” The bones that were scattered all along the slope and on the beach below were not pig bones but human bones! Ribs, vertebrae, thigh bones, bits of skull vault, and innumerable hand and foot bones were everywhere. At the edge of the bank a bleached female skull rested upside down, almost entirely exposed. Where the bank had been cut away, a dark horizontal band about two feet thick could be seen between layers of clean white sand. Embedded in this band were bits of charcoal and saucers of ash, fragments of pearl shell, stone and coral tools, and large fitted stones that appeared to be part of a buried pavement. They had discovered the remains of an entire village, complete with postholes, cooking pits, courtyards, and burials. The time was too short to explore the site fully, but the very next year, Suggs and his wife returned to examine it. There

This is also evidenced by wider genealogies of similar gods across Polynesia, where they also hold dominion over the afterlife. These connections of death and creation show that Kane and Kanaloa were two necessary halves of the world, a philosophy that is not overly concerned with the dichotomy of good versus evil. In cultural activities and old chants, there exists a vast amount of mythical and religious lore that invokes Kane and Kanaloa together. Both gods were invoked by those involved with canoes, whether they were builders, explorers, or sailors, with Kane being for the consecration of newly built canoes and Kanaloa for sailing.

We know now that all the people of Polynesia carry taro root and coconut palm and breadfruit with them when they settle a new island, but they themselves will tell you that the gods planted these things here. Some of their stories are quite fabulous. They say that the breadfruit tree was crafted by the gods to resemble a human body, as a clue to humans, you see- to tell us that the tree is useful. They say that this is why the leaves of the breadfruit resemble hands- to show humans that they should reach toward this tree and find sustenance there. In fact, the Tahitians say that 'all' the useful plants on this island resemble parts of the human body, as a message from the gods, you see. This is why coconut oil, which is helpful for headaches, comes from the coconut, which looks like a head. 'Mape' chestnuts are said to be good for kidney ailments, for they resemble kidneys themselves, or so I am told. The bright red sap of the 'fei' plant is meant to be useful for blood ailments." "The signature of all things," Alma murmured.

Polynesia it’s known as the “honi”, and the point is to exchange “ha”— the breath of life, and “mana”— the spiritual power within people. Back through the mists of time, many cultures have believed that an individual’s soul was carried on the breath.

Nestled in the tropics of the Coral Sea, New Caledonia was a French territory and where Julie and Marc had just sold the sailboat that took them 15,000 miles around the world. Of course, recouping their initial investment had been part of the plan. All said and done, their 15-month exploration of the globe, from the gondola-rich waterways of Venice to the tribal shores of Polynesia, had cost between $18,000 and $19,000. Less than rent and baguettes in Paris.

That’s what I like about Polynesians. They wear their hearts on their sleeve knowing that, for adults, there are better games to play than hiding their emotions from each other

One of the many pernicious aspects of this research was the way it was used to classify human “races.” In biology and anthropology, race has long been abandoned as a meaningful category; indeed, although the term has been in use since the seventeenth century, it has never been precisely defined. There has never been any agreement about the number of human races, or what the definitive characteristics of a race might be: skin color, hair type, head shape, etc. Genetic research in the twentieth century has shown that there are no genes that correspond to racial types and that the range of variation within so-called races is greater than the variation across them. But scientists in the early 1920s were working with an essentialist model of race as something immutable, definitive, and grounded in biological reality.

Many other religions around the world have also shown strong evidence of beginning with the belief in One Benevolent Creator God, who instituted humane laws of moral conduct, followed by a rapid slide into the belief in many cruel gods who demanded human sacrifice and other inhumane practices. This was true in Polynesia. The Bible clearly shows that God knew of this pattern, Romans 1:18-23 says “For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who hold the truth in unrighteousness; Because that which may be known of God is manifest in them; for God hath shewed it unto them. For the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and godhead; so that they are without excuse: because that, when they knew God, they glorified him not as God, neither were thankful; but became vain in their imaginations, and their foolish heart was darkened. Professing themselves to be wise, they became fools, And changed the glory of the uncorruptible God into an image made like to corruptible man, and to birds, and fourfooted beasts, and creeping things.” (author’s emphasis)

When the Hawaiians arrived in Hawai‘i, they created places of refuge called Pu‘uhonua that were similar to the Cities of Refuge mentioned in the book of Numbers in the Bible. The Cities of Refuge of the Israelites and the Places of Refuge of the Polynesians (Places of Refuge are found throughout Polynesia) served the same function. They were places a person could flee to and, whether guilty or innocent, be safe from any harm. Some other similarities they shared were: 1. The areas of refuge were specifically designated as such. 2. The Cities of Refuge of the Israelites were designated in specific districts and were large enough for a man to live his entire life. Kamakau says that in ancient times, places of refuge were large divisions of land cut out from a district.37 They corresponded to an ahupua‘a subdistrict. The ahupua‘a was a pie-shaped portion of land that extended from the mountain to the sea. It was large enough and contained all that was necessary for a man to live his entire life. 3. The safety of the refugee extended only to the boundaries of the designated area. 4. The safety of the refugee was guaranteed not by earthly powers but by spiritual powers and authority. 5. In the Hebrew refuge, safety from harm was only extended until the accused person could receive a fair trial by his peers. If he were guilty, he was killed. (Deuteronomy 19:1-13) In Polynesia, there is some evidence that this was also the case.

There is another reason little is known about ‘Io; the name of this God of the Polynesians was too sacred to be mentioned openly. This was also true of the Israelites’ God, Yahweh. This is why the Israelites also called their God by periphrases, like Elohim (God Almighty) or Adonai (Lord). This is not unusual. The ancient name of the One True God of Aneityum (New Hebrides), Nigeria, the Yezidis (Turkey), the Incas, the Navaho and other ancient cultures also were not openly mentioned.16 The priests of Polynesia were under oath not to tell of the most sacred things, and the penalty for breaking this oath was death. The Polynesian authority, E. Handy, says that it is doubtful that the common folk were even allowed to know the true name of the Supreme Being.17 This was not an unusual situation. In ancient Babylon at one time, the priests were monotheistic and the people were polytheistic as it was in Polynesia.18 This was also the situation with the ancient Chinese, Nigerians, Incas, and other peoples. It is easy then to understand why there is only a vague knowledge of the Supreme God in Hawaii.

Kāne (Tāne in most of Polynesia, Atea in the Marquesas) was the aspect of the supreme being who was, in a sense, representative of the supreme being. He was the creator of all living things. Kāne was the heavenly father of all men and the creator of men. In this sense, the Kāne aspect of the triune God of Polynesia, corresponds to the Son aspect of God in the Bible. Many primitive Supreme Gods also relegated the task of creation to a subordinate being who was usually called the First Father or Creator.

There are many accounts in Polynesia of the creation of man. Some of them state that the supreme triune God made the heavens and the earth in six days and rested on the seventh day. This is exactly as stated in the book of Genesis. The legends also say that, last of all on the sixth day, the triune God created man in the likeness of Kāne. Hence, man is also called Kāne. (In the Marquesas, the first man is called Atea after the creator of men, Atea) The body of the man was made of red earth and his head of whitish clay mixed with the spittle of the gods. When the clay image of Kāne was ready, the three gods breathed into its nose and it became a living being.1 Genesis 2:7 says, “And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils and man became a living soul.

The next in-depth historical account, in both the Hebrew and Polynesian traditions, is the story of the Great Flood. The hero of the Great Flood in Polynesia was called Nu‘u and his wife, Lili-Noe. The name, Nu‘u, is very similar to the Hebrew and Arabic names for this man, Nuh or Noah.

1. These legends have similar counterparts not only in Polynesia but from every part of the world. The Hawaiian legends could be traced back for generations, and were known to various persons residing on different islands who had no communication with each other. Also, both the narrations and songs were best known by the very oldest of the people; those who never learned to read and whose education and training were under the ancient system. These legends were told to the missionaries by the Hawaiians before the Bible was translated into the Hawaiian tongue and before the Hawaiians knew much of the Bible. The Hawaiian who helped in translating the history of Joseph was amazed by its similarity to their ancient tradition.

My family, the Alderidge family, is one of the major four syndicates that specializes professionally in what some might call “criminal activity.” We never leave enough evidence to get caught, and we never fail a mission. If you are born in the family, you work for the family, and you never go against the family. With members all over the world, we have our hand in everything from elections and assassinations to bank robberies and jewelry heists. That is how it has been for hundreds of years. I, however, am praying I get stationed in Paris with my Aunt Magdalena who makes personnel files on everyone from presidents in Polynesia to your average pancake flipper in Memphis. You never know who you might need to blackmail, bribe, or break to complete a mission. You may fear Big Brother spying on you, but the person you should truly fear getting your personal information is my Aunt Magdalena.

French Polynesia embraces a vast ocean area strewn with faraway outer islands, each with a mystique of its own. The 118 islands and atolls are scattered over an expanse of water 18 times the size of California, though in dry land terms the territory is only slightly bigger than Rhode Island. The distance from one end of the island groups to another is four times further than from San Francisco to Los Angeles. Every oceanic island type is represented in these sprawling archipelagoes positioned midway between California and New Zealand. The coral atolls of the Tuamotus are so low they’re threatened by rising sea levels, while volcanic Tahiti soars to 2,241 meters. Bora Bora and Maupiti, also high volcanic islands, rise from the lagoons of what would otherwise be atolls.

As the number of oral cultures in the world has diminished, interest in them has grown, and one of the most intriguing questions is whether there might be such a thing as an ‘oral way of seeing’, a worldview common to oral peoples that might be different in some generalizable way from the worldview of people in cultures with writing.

There is a reason the remote Pacific was the last place on Earth to be settled by humans: it was the most difficult, more daunting even than the deserts or the ice.

the

Modern travel has given infectious disease new ways to spread. Bubonic plague in the fourteenth century traveled from Central Asia to the Levant and Europe by horse, camel, and boat; the Zika virus in the twenty-first century jumped from Yap Island in Micronesia to French Polynesia, Brazil, the Caribbean, and Central America by 2015, all by plane.

A friend who lives in Micronesia told me that the inhabitants of one of the islands of Polynesia were given refrigerators by a group of visiting, well-intentioned missionaries. They had noticed that the locals, who were subsistence fishermen, had to fish every day because any excess catch spoiled in the tropical heat. The missionaries thought it would be a blessing if excess fish could be refrigerated, allowing the fishermen to put their attention to other wealth-generating activities. On a return visit a year later, the missionaries noticed that there was no trace of the refrigerators in the community. Their inquiries informed them that the elders had ordered all the equipment dumped in the ocean. The reason? Refrigerating excess fish meant that surplus was no longer given to the elderly or infirm, as had been their custom for a thousand years. It was unacceptable to the tribe that "progress" resulted in more wealth for some and hunger for others.

You need to define your community,” he told them, “and community is never about what separates you from each other—your race or your culture—it’s about what binds you together.

By the state I mean centralised political authority, usually a king, supported by tribute and taxes, and with a monopoly of armed force. Although it has been estimated that only about 20% of tribal societies in Africa, the Americas, Polynesia, New Guinea, and many parts of Asia actually developed the state, the state was almost as important a revolution in human history as agriculture itself, because of all the further developments it made possible, and a large literature on the process of state formation has developed

The flood myth motif is widespread among many cultures, as seen in Mesopotamian flood stories, the Puranas (ancient Hindu texts), in the Greek Deucalion mythology, the lore of the K'iche' and Maya peoples of Central America, as well as the Muisca people of present day Colombia in South America. In fact, there are oral traidition stories pertaining to this concept from antiquity, from cultures of Sumeria, Babylonia, Germany, Ireland, Finland, the Maasai of Africa, Egypt, India, Turkestan, China, Korea, Malaysia, Lao, Australia, Polynesia, and Native people of North America, Mesoamerica and South America... to name just a handful.

Ghyben-Herzberg lens. This is a layer of fresh water which floats on top of the seawater that infiltrates the porous coral rock.

Atolls are home to more than a quarter of the world’s marine fish species, a mind-boggling array of angelfish, clown fish, batfish, parrotfish, snappers, puffers, emperors, jacks, rays, wrasses, barracudas, and sharks. And that’s without even mentioning all the other sea creatures—the turtles, lobsters, porpoises, squid, snails, clams, crabs, urchins, oysters, and the whole exotic understory of the corals themselves. Atolls are also an obvious haven for birds, both those that range over the ocean by day and return to the islands at night and those that migrate thousands of miles, summering in places like Alaska and wintering over in the tropics.

Tasman christened the place Murderers Bay and made no further attempts to land in New Zealand.

Interestingly, these double-hulled vessels sound a lot like canoes observed by seventeenth-century Europeans in other parts of Polynesia, but by the time the next European reached New Zealand, more than a century later, they were few and far between

Terra Australis Incognita was one of the great follies of European geography, an idea that made sense in the abstract but for which there was never any actual proof. It was based on a bit of Ptolemaic logic handed down from the ancient Greeks, which held that there must be an equal weight of continental matter in the Northern and Southern Hemispheres, or else the world would topple over and, as the great mapmaker Gerardus Mercator envisioned it, “fall to destruction among the stars.

In what sense can a land that is already inhabited be discovered?

for by the time the Spanish finally departed, they had killed more than two hundred people, many, according to Quirós, for no reason at all.

Some interpreted their shouts and gestures as an invitation to land, others as an exhortation to depart, but, as “both sides were in the dark as to each other’s mind,” it was difficult to know for sure.

Census taking proved almost impossible, because some portion of the population was always “away,” hunting turtles or collecting birds’ eggs or gathering coconuts or visiting in some other corner of the archipelago.

The main obstacle between the Indian and Pacific Oceans is the continent of Australia, and the earliest Dutch discoveries in the seventeenth century were off Australia’s west coast. But Tasman’s route took him so far south that he missed the Australian mainland altogether, and the first body of land he met with after leaving Mauritius was the island, later named in his honor, of Tasmania. Continuing on to the east, he crossed what is now the Tasman Sea, and about a week later he sighted a “groot hooch verheven landt”—“a large land, uplifted high.” It can be difficult to tell how large a body of land is from the sea—European explorers were constantly mistaking islands for continents—but this time it was unmistakable. The land before them was dark and rugged, with ranks of serried mountains receding deep into an interior overhung with clouds. A heavy sea beat upon the rocky coast, “rolling towards it in huge billows and swells,” offering no obvious place to go ashore. So Tasman turned and followed the land as it stretched away to the northeast. For

This apparent evolution in canoe design is a salutary reminder that cultures are not static and that there is a logic to their transformations. If the Māori stopped making double-hulled oceangoing canoes, it must have been because they were no longer sailing across the ocean. But Tasman’s evidence suggests that as late as the mid-seventeenth century, at least in the South Island, the inhabitants of New Zealand were still using vessels of a type that linked them to the rest of Polynesia and to the tradition of long-distance ocean travel.

Tonga lies a few hundred miles from Samoa, at the western edge of the Polynesian Triangle. Together they constitute the western gateway to Polynesia; here are the oldest Polynesian languages, the longest settlement histories, the deepest Polynesian roots.

The island of Tahiti, famous name, the heart of Polynesia.” Tahiti is the largest of a group of high islands known collectively as the Society Islands. They are located in the very center of the Polynesian Triangle and consist of two clusters: a windward group, which includes Tahiti and Mo‘orea, and a leeward group, which includes Ra‘iatea and Bora Bora. While not objectively large, they are large for islands in this part of the sea; Tahiti itself, though less than forty miles long, is the largest landmass for a thousand miles in any direction. To the modern eye, the Society Islands are perhaps the most striking omission on early maps of the Pacific—the islands it is hardest to believe no one had yet found.

In fact, Magellan, Mendaña, Quirós, Schouten and Le Maire, and Byron had all sailed right past them, sometimes at a distance of less than a hundred miles. Roggeveen even caught sight of the peaks of Bora Bora, assumed it was an island discovered by someone else, and inexplicably sailed on.

also made intuitive sense to Europeans, who, coming from a hemisphere crowded with land, found it difficult to imagine that the southern reaches of the planet might be as empty as they really are.

When Mendaña’s ships finally sailed away, the Marquesas were lost again to the European world for nearly two hundred years. They had been none too securely plotted to begin with, and their location was further suppressed by the Spanish in order to forestall competition in the search for Terra Australis Incognita.

Because it was part of old Gondwana and because it is insular and was isolated for tens of millions of years, New Zealand has a quirky evolutionary history. There seems to have been no mammalian stock from which to evolve on the Gondwanan fragment, and so, until the arrival of humans, there were no terrestrial mammals, nor were there any of the curious marsupials of nearby Australia—no wombats or koalas or kangaroos, no rodents or ruminants, no wild cats or dogs. The only mammals that could reach New Zealand were those that could swim (like seals) or fly (like bats), and even then there are questions about how the bats got there. Two of New Zealand’s three bat species are apparently descended from a South American bat, which, it is imagined, must have been blown across the Pacific in a giant prehistoric storm. Among New Zealand’s indigenous plants and animals are a number of curious relics, including a truly enormous conifer and a lizard-like creature that is the world’s only surviving representative of an order so ancient it predates many dinosaurs. But the really odd thing about New Zealand is what happened to the birds. In the absence of predators and competitors, birds evolved to fill all the major ecological niches, becoming the “ecological equivalent of giraffes, kangaroos, sheep, striped possums, long-beaked echidnas and tigers.” Many of these birds were flightless, and some were huge. The largest species of moa—a now extinct flightless giant related to the ostrich, the emu, and the rhea—stood nearly twelve feet tall and weighed more than five hundred pounds. The moa was an herbivore, but there were also predators among these prehistoric birds, including a giant eagle with claws like a panther’s. There were grass-eating parrots and flightless ducks and birds that grazed like sheep in alpine meadows, as well as a little wren-like bird that scampered about the underbrush like a mouse. None of these creatures were seen by the first Europeans to reach New Zealand, for two very simple reasons. The first is that many of them were already extinct. Although known to have survived long enough to coexist with humans, all twelve species of moa, the Haast’s eagle, two species of adzebills, and many others had vanished by the mid-seventeenth century, when Europeans arrived. The second is that, even if there had still been moas lumbering about the woods, the European discoverers of New Zealand would have missed them because they never actually set foot on shore.

The Dutch East India Company, which was headquartered in Batavia (now the Indonesian capital of Jakarta), was the great mercantile engine of the seventeenth century, and all the major geographic discoveries in the Pacific during this period were made by Dutch captains in search of new markets and new goods for trade. One of these was a commander named Abel Janszoon Tasman, who, in 1642, set out with a pair of ships bound for the southern Pacific Ocean. Tasman followed what looks, on the face of it, like the most unlikely route imaginable. Departing from the island of Java, he sailed west across the Indian Ocean to Mauritius, a small island off the coast of Madagascar, which itself is a large island off the coast of southeastern Africa. There, he turned south and continued until he reached the band of powerful westerlies that would sweep him back eastward, all the way across the Indian Ocean, until he finally reached the Pacific. Tasman followed this lengthy and unintuitive route—sailing nearly ten thousand miles to reach an ocean that was less than twenty-five hundred miles from where he had begun—because the winds and currents in the Indian Ocean operate the same way they do in the Pacific, circling counterclockwise in a similar gyre.

From there they could see fires burning on shore and several canoes, two of which came out to meet them in the gloom. When they had come within hailing distance, the islanders called out in “a rough loud voice,” but the Dutch could not understand them. They had been equipped at Batavia with a vocabulary, almost surely the word list assembled twenty-five years earlier by the explorers Willem Schouten and Jacob Le Maire, but the language spoken by these people did not seem to match it.

But before the ink was even dry on this resolution, a fleet of seven canoes set out from shore. Two of these took up positions nearby, and when a small boat ferrying men from one of the Dutch ships to the other passed between them, they attacked it, ramming the boat, boarding it, stabbing and clubbing the men, and throwing the bodies overboard.

He never grasped that the bay in which he had been attacked (now known as Golden Bay) lay at the opening of the large strait that separates the North and South Islands of New Zealand, or that the “continent” he had discovered was in fact two large islands. Thinking that he might have chanced upon some corner of Terra Australis Incognita, he named it Staten Landt and proposed that it might be connected to the Staten Landt named in 1616 by Schouten and Le Maire. This, however, was unlikely, as Schouten and Le Maire’s Staten Landt was an island off the tip of South America, more than five thousand watery miles away.

What later eighteenth- and nineteenth-century visitors to New Zealand commonly reported were the great waka taua: enormous single-hulled war canoes—up to a hundred feet long, with a breadth of five or six feet—which could carry as many as seventy or eighty men. Nowhere else in Polynesia were single-hulled vessels of such prodigious dimensions ever seen, for the simple reason that nowhere else in Polynesia did trees grow to this size. Carved, whenever possible, from a single trunk, they were designed as coastal and river vessels and were never intended for transoceanic travel.

Missionary attempts to translate The Pilgrim’s Progress into Tahitian were similarly confounded. The Tahitians described it as “a very dark book,” not because of its emphasis on the wages of sin but because it “did not relate to any person but was entirely a ‘parau faau,’ figurative account. That is, a tale without foundation.

ability of Tahitian vessels. Interestingly, Cook seems not to have considered a sailing rate of 120 miles a day overly optimistic for a Tahitian pahi, noting that these large canoes could sail much faster than a European ship.

Other scholars would see links with Hesiod’s Theogony, the Sanskrit Rigveda, and even the Norse sagas, where the world is said to have sprung from the great abyss Ginungagap, which, like Te Pō, is without form and void.

Modern suggestions include the idea that themes of this kind are archetypal, a reflection of some psychological condition that all human beings share.

Another intriguing proposition is that such similarities are evidence of a truly ancient mythological substrate, a “Laurasian” mythology, spanning the cultures of Eurasia, North Africa, Oceania, and the Americas and going back far beyond the traceable beginnings of either Polynesian or Indo-European culture, as far back perhaps as twenty thousand years.

Richard Taylor envisioned Polynesians as a tribe of wandering nomads who had made their way from the eastern Mediterranean, across what is today Iraq, Iran, Pakistan, India, Bangladesh, Myanmar, Thailand, and Malaysia, “until in the lapse of ages they reached the sea, and thence, still preserving their wandering character, from island to island driven by winds and currents, and various causes, they finally reached New Zealand.

Richard Taylor envisioned Polynesians as a tribe of wandering nomads who had made their way from the eastern Mediterranean, across what is today Iraq, Iran, Pakistan, India, Bangladesh, Myanmar, Thailand, and Malaysia, “until in the lapse of ages they reached the sea, and thence, still preserving their wandering character, from island to island driven by winds and currents, and various causes, they finally reached New Zealand.” But the idea that ultimately gained traction among nineteenth-century Europeans was that Polynesians were neither Semites, Egyptians, nor ancient Greeks, but that they were Aryans.

IT IS IMPORTANT to recognize that the term “Aryan” did not mean in the mid-nineteenth century what it means to us today. It had nothing to do with Teutons or fair-haired Nordic types but referred first and foremost to a group of Sanskrit-speaking herders and horsemen who are thought to have migrated from the Iranian Plateau into what is now northern India in the second millennium B.C. These people, who referred to themselves using the Sanskrit word ārya (meaning “noble”) were known to nineteenth-century Europeans as “Indo-Aryans,” or just plain “Aryans.” At the time, Sanskrit was the oldest known language in the Indo-European family (older languages have since been discovered), and the Sanskrit-speaking Aryans were presumed to be the people from whom all the other Indo-Europeans—Greeks, Romans, Celts, Slavs, and so on—had sprung. Thus, “Aryan,” originally a fairly narrow designation of a particular Indic tribe, became synonymous in the nineteenth century with “the mother of modern civilization.

In whaling stories of the nineteenth century, the harpooner is a man of unusual strength and daring who is often depicted as an outsider, set apart from the rest of the crew by the danger and difficulty of his job. The four pagan harpooners in Moby-Dick are good examples of the type: Daggoo the giant African, Tashtego the Indian from Gay Head, Fedallah the Zoroastrian, and, of course, Queequeg the tattooed South Sea Islander.

Fornander, who was tall and broad-chested, could almost have been a character in one of Melville’s books, as the two men actually crossed paths in the spring of 1843, the one shipping out of the port of Lahaina just as the other arrived.

Inhabitants of isolated or remote regions where there has been little or no contact with the outside world are often described as “epidemiologically naive.” What this means is that they have limited immunity to diseases like influenza and measles that are endemic in other parts of the world, and when exposed to them they often suffer high rates of death. One of the best-known examples comes from the pandemic of 1918, in which certain populations, notably indigenous Alaskans and Pacific Islanders, died at rates that were four, five, and in some cases even ten times those of other populations. The pandemic is thought to have killed between 3 and 6 percent of the global population; in Western Samoa, 20 percent of the population died. In the nineteenth-century Pacific, this scenario played itself out over and over.

As early as the 1830s, missionaries in the Society Islands were already beginning to speak of depopulation. There were major epidemics in Tahiti of smallpox in 1841, dysentery in 1843, scarlet fever in 1847, measles in 1854. Much the same story can be told of Hawai‘i, which was also subject to wave after wave of imported disease. In 1848 and 1849, when Pinao was pregnant with her first child, a series of devastating epidemics struck the Hawaiian Islands. Measles, arriving from Mexico on an American frigate, and whooping cough, on a ship from California, hit at the same time, killing an estimated ten thousand people. Whole villages were prostrate, wrote one observer, “there not being persons enough in health to prepare food for the sick,” while “a large portion of the infants born in the Islands in 1848, even as large a proportion as nine-tenths in some parts, are supposed to be already in their graves.” No doubt there were other diseases in the mix as well; mumps, which had been in the islands some years earlier, was reported again, as were “pleurisy,” “bilious fever,” and something that was probably dysentery. The combined assault was especially hard upon the very young and the very old. “The aged,” wrote one observer, “have almost all disappeared from among us.

From a high of something like 250,000 at the beginning of the nineteenth century, the population of the Hawaiian Islands had been reduced to less than 40,000 by the century’s end. In New Zealand, the Māori population declined by nearly two-thirds over the same period. And in the Marquesas, where estimates put the number of inhabitants before contact with Europeans at approximately 50,000, the population crashed so completely that by 1926 there were just 2,225 Marquesans left.

Faced with what looked to them like traces of their own most ancient traditions, nineteenth-century Europeans concluded that Polynesian and European mythologies had sprung from the same roots and that the ancestors of the Polynesians and their own forebears must therefore be related. It was not immediately obvious just where in history—or geography—this connection was to be found. Some argued that Polynesian origins could be traced to the ancient Greeks, others that they were to be found somewhere in Egypt, among the pharaohs and their tombs. An idea popular among the early missionaries was that the inhabitants of Polynesia were descended from a lost tribe of Jews.

bêche-de-mer

kahu o te rangi (sometimes translated as “cloak of heaven”)

In the Māori word kahurangi, meaning “wandering” or “unsettled,

In kahupapa, meaning “bridge,

In kauruki, meaning “smoke,

In kauhoa, meaning a “litter” or “stretcher,” he discovered “cow-friend”; and in mata-kautete, meaning “sharp teeth of flint lashed to a piece of wood,” he astonished the reader by deciphering “cow-titty,” a reference, presumably, to the implement’s shape.

In order to prove that words in different languages are related, correspondences between them must be consistent and predictable. If p in one language becomes f in another under certain circumstances, it must do so in all comparable cases. This principle of regularity of sound change is considered the foundation of the method and the one unbreakable rule.

History, as Fornander understood it, required “sequence, precision, and clarity,” none of which was particularly characteristic of Polynesian oral traditions, which were densely poetic, elliptical, evocative, and occasionally obscure even to those who could recite them.

Before they depart, Ru looks about him and names the directions: “The east he called Te-hitia-o-te-ra (The-rising-of-the-sun), the west Te-tooa-o-te-ra (The-setting-of-the-sun), the south he named Apato‘a, and the north Apatoerau”—terms we have encountered before, in the margins of Tupaia’s chart. Then, sailing from the west toward the Society Islands, Ru and Hina draw their canoe to each of the islands in turn, naming them in their proper geographic order: first Maupiti, then Bora Bora, then Taha‘a, then Ra‘iatea. A similar sequence occurs in the well-known Hawaiian story of the volcano goddess Pele, who sets out from her home in Kahiki in a canoe belonging to her brother Whirlwind, with Tide and Current as paddlers. Approaching the Hawaiian Islands from the northwest, she reaches first Ni‘ihau, then Kaua‘i, then O‘ahu, then each of the others in turn—following the correct geographic sequence—until, finally, she settles in a crater on the island of Hawai‘i.

In one version, the voyage is recounted, as in the stories of Pele and Ru, as a series of island stops within the Marquesan archipelago. But in another it is described as a series of legs, each defined by the appearance of a star in the sky who challenges the voyagers with a question about their identity. Only when they give the correct answer—“We are Pepeu and Utunui, Mahaitivi’s boys, like the wind, like the wind we glide behind the sky, our hair darts into the air, we go to Aotona”—does the star permit them to move on. This idea of sailing under a series of stars perfectly matches the concept of a star path—a sequence of stars rising at roughly the same point on the horizon, each of which is used, in turn, to maintain a constant heading—one of the presumed techniques of ancient Polynesian navigation.

Ideas of infinity and eternity denote limitlessness in space and time, which does not seem to me to be a category of ancient Māori thought; instead, the abundance of multitude is always stressed, and this is characteristic of the concreteness of Māori thinking.

Before the ocean and the earth appeared— Before the skies had overspread them all— The face of Nature in a vast expanse Was naught but Chaos uniformly waste.

parsimonious

but that they had answered him by flourishing their weapons and breaking into a war dance. This—the famous Māori haka—was vividly described by Lieutenant John Gore: About an hundred of the Natives all Arm’d . . . drew themselves up in lines. Then with a Regular Jump from Left to Right and the Reverse, They brandish’d Their Weapons, distort’d their Mouths, Lolling out their Tongues and Turn’d up the Whites of their Eyes Accompanied with a strong hoarse song.

Tupaia stepped forward and addressed the warriors in fluent Tahitian and, to the surprise of everyone present, he was immediately understood.

One old man told Tupaia that “he knew of no other great land than that we had been upon,” but that his ancestors had come “originaly from Heawye . . . which lay to the Northward where were many lands.” This was a reference to Hawaiki, the mythic ancestral homeland recognized by islanders throughout the eastern Pacific.

There remains,” he wrote, “little doubt that they came originaly from the same source: but where that Source is future experience may teach us.

By 1778 he had effectively seen it all—the entire Polynesian Triangle—and had fully grasped the scope of the Polynesian

It is extraordinary,” he wrote, “that the same Nation should have spread themselves over all the isles in this Vast Ocean . . . which is almost a fourth part of the circumference of the Globe.

When he wrote these words, Cook had just completed an eight-thousand-mile passage across the southern Pacific Ocean, steering a zigzagging course from New Zealand to Easter Island. If anyone understood just how far apart these islands were, it was him.

No one at the time would have known it, but this actually makes good linguistic sense, as Tongan is both the earliest branch of the Polynesian language family and one of the most conservative, linguistically speaking.

This insight led ultimately to the recognition of what is known as the Indo-European language family, a group of hundreds of historically related languages, both living and dead, covering a geographic range that stretches from the Indian subcontinent to Iceland. It had, of course, long been understood that there were relationships among languages. Latin and Greek show many similarities; the Romance languages are obviously a group; Dutch, German, and the Scandinavian languages are all clearly related. But the idea that linguistic relationships might go far beyond this and include languages that seem, on the surface, to have no family resemblance whatsoever—Bengali, Manx, and Armenian, for example—was truly electrifying, as was the idea of a single protolanguage from which this great diversity might have sprung. In Europe, this hypothetical ancestral language, known as Proto-Indo-European, was reconstructed during a period of intense linguistic activity in the nineteenth century by scholars in England, Denmark, France, and Germany (among the field’s early pioneers was one of the fairy-tale-collecting Brothers Grimm), using a methodology that is still practiced today.

Numbers, as it happens, are one of the very best tests for relatedness among different languages.

Greek dúō, Vedic dvá(u), Latin duo, Welsh dau, Old Church Slavonic dŭva, and so on. Banks’s chart is similarly persuasive: two is given as rua in Tahitian, loua in the language of the Cocos Islands, roa in New Guinea, rove in Madagascar. Seven is hetu in Tahitian, fitou in the Cocos, fita in New Guinea, fruto in Madagascar. Even allowing for errors, the overall effect is to suggest strongly that the languages in Banks’s set are related.

From Tahiti to the islands of northern Tonga is a distance of about sixteen hundred miles; from Tahiti to New Ireland is more than four thousand miles. So we are already looking at a startling geographic range. But what made the whole thing almost too hard to credit was the idea that a version of this same language might also be spoken on the island of Madagascar. Madagascar is not even in the Pacific Ocean. It is an island off the southeastern coast of Africa in the Indian Ocean, nearly ten thousand miles from Tahiti by the shortest possible sea route. Banks himself was astonished by these results. “That the people who inhabit this numerous range of Isles should have originaly come from one and the same place and brought with the[m] the same numbers and Language,” he wrote, “is in my opinion not at all past beleif, but that the Numbers of the Island of Madagascar should be the same as all these is almost if not quite incredible.

Incredible maybe, but also, as it happens, true. Banks had stumbled upon one of the most remarkable facts about the peopling of the Pacific, which is that all the languages of Polynesia, Micronesia, Fiji, New Caledonia, Vanuatu, and the Philippines, as well as almost all the languages of Indonesia and the Solomon Islands and some of the languages of Malaysia, New Guinea, Madagascar, and Taiwan, belong to a single language family known as Austronesian. Today there are believed to be more than a thousand languages in the Austronesian family, with more than three hundred million speakers worldwide, making it one of the largest language families on the planet.

Still, what did emerge from these voyages was significant: first, the realization that all the islanders of the remote Pacific formed a single, identifiable cultural group and, second, the suggestion that they could be linked, linguistically at least, with people far to the west of them.

The result is a kind of cosmic genealogy, or family tree, in which any given individual can trace his or her descent not just back to a pair of founding ancestors but to the rocks and trees and corals and fish, all the way back through the physical matter of the world to the very fiber of the universe itself.

Although it is pottery that has come to define them, the crowning technological achievement of the Lapita people must have been their canoes. Almost all the islands in the one-thousand-mile chain that begins in the Bismarcks and ends in the Solomons are intervisible, with water gaps generally smaller than forty miles. But from there to the next group of islands, the distance is 250 miles, and it’s 500 miles from there to the group after that. No one has ever uncovered even a scrap of a Lapita canoe—it has been too long, the materials are too perishable, the atmosphere too damp—but words for sail, outrigger, boom, washstrake, rib, caulking, paddle, bailing, and cargo can all be reconstructed in Proto-Oceanic, a hypothetical language (like Proto-Indo-European) that is associated with the Lapita expansion.

Humans will eat whatever they find and will do whatever it takes to make their environment more habitable; the biologist Tim Flannery famously describes the species—our species—as “Future Eaters.” It should therefore come as no surprise to learn that the Lapita peoples ate not only the birds but the turtles, lizards, mollusks, fish, and even the large land crocodile of New Caledonia, thereby irrevocably altering every one of the environments they encountered. One can look at these facts from one of two points of view.

But one can also think about what it took to be so successful, to be able to wreak this kind of havoc in so many places, so far apart. Nothing about this stupendous migration—over thousands of miles of water to islands that no one could have known existed—was either obvious or, seemingly, necessary.

That night when Heyerdahl went to bed, the stories of Tiki and his ancient homeland swirled in his mind, “accompanied by the muffled roar of the surf in the distance,” sounding, he thought, “like a voice from far-off times which . . . had something it wanted to tell.” Suddenly it struck him that the sculptures he had seen up in the forest, “the huge stone figures of Tiki,” as he called them, were “remarkably like the gigantic monoliths which are relics of extinct civilizations in South America.” And so, he wrote, “the whole thing began.

The unsolved mysteries of the South Seas had fascinated me . . . and I had made my objective the identification of the legendary hero Tiki.” According to the ethnologist Edward Handy, Tiki was one of many gods in the Marquesan pantheon. He was a trickster figure who was also known as the first ancestor of men, whom he created through his union with a heap of sand. The word tiki was also used generically in the Marquesas, as it is in other parts of Polynesia, to mean figures carved in human or animal form that depict deified ancestors or family gods.

THE QUESTION OF who Polynesians were—in a biological sense—was of particular interest to one of the period’s leading anthropologists, a man who went by the names of both Peter H. Buck and Te Rangi Hiroa.

But Polynesians, too, had their own systems of ranking and classification. Te Rangi Hiroa described “Melanesian” physical characteristics as conflicting with “the Polynesian idea of beauty” and wrote that among Māori, “a fair skin was admired,” while those at the darker end of the spectrum had “to put up with the humorously disparaging remarks of their lighter tinted friends.

Curiously enough, Forster, way back in the 1770s, had proposed what would prove to be a strangely prescient idea. He hypothesized that the darker-skinned peoples of the western Pacific, many of whom lived in the mountainous interiors of the larger islands, were “the more antient inhabitants,” while the lighter-skinned coastal peoples, who were related, he thought, “to the various tribes of Malays,” had arrived in the region more recently. No one would be able to prove it for nearly two centuries, but there was actually something to this idea.

They also carried a whole host of other life forms: weeds, mollusks, insects, microbes—the entire “portmanteau biota,” to use Alfred Crosby’s charming formulation, that colonists take with them wherever they go, intentionally or not.

The portmanteau biota of the Lapita peoples included not just their valued dogs, pigs, chickens, taro, breadfruit, sugarcane, and banana, but a little brown stowaway known as Rattus exulans (the Pacific rat) and an assortment of geckos, skinks, and snails.

One account of the extirpation of land birds in Polynesia describes it as perhaps “the most extreme example of late Quaternary vertebrate extinction.

As one anthropologist put it, the original settlers of New Zealand, whose journey constitutes the final chapter in this great migration, “would have been heirs to perhaps 3,000 years of successful Austronesian expansion”—three thousand years of founder tales “stacked one upon the other.” Under such circumstances, what “ambitious young man of a junior line” would not seek to become a founder himself by setting off in search of his own island, no matter how far away?

THE DISCOVERY OF the Lapita peoples yoked Polynesian prehistory firmly to the western Pacific and thus, ultimately, to Asia. But it could not entirely put to rest a competing notion that there was a link between Polynesia and the continent on the other side, namely South America. It had been popular in the nineteenth century to argue that the strength and prevalence of the easterly winds “most preposterously” conflicted with the idea of anyone sailing eastward across the Pacific and that the inhabitants of Polynesia must therefore be “descended from the aborigines of Chili and Peru.” This notion continued to percolate in the early twentieth century, and in the 1930s and ’40s it attracted the attention of the Norwegian adventurer and anthropologist Thor Heyerdahl.

It’s queer,” said Liv, “but there are never breakers like this on the other side of the island.” “No,” Heyerdahl replied, “but this is the windward side, there’s always a sea running on this side.” This prompted him to begin thinking about the geography: how the sea was always “rolling in from eastward, eastward, eastward” and how the “eternal east wind” was always pushing it up over the horizon to the islands. The first men who reached these islands knew well enough that this was so. . . . And we knew ourselves that far, far below the horizon to eastward, where the clouds came up, lay the open coast of South America. It was 4,300 sea miles away, and there was nothing but sea between. An old Marquesan who was sitting with them then offered this tidbit of information: “Tiki,” he said, “was both god and chief. It was Tiki who brought my ancestors to these islands where we live now. Before that we lived in a big country beyond the sea.

From the perspective of the twenty-first century, a lot of this work looks creepy, and for good reason. Physical anthropology in the early twentieth century was closely associated with eugenics and with attempts to legitimize racist claims using scientific methodologies.

There are not now, as Forster suggested, two great varieties of people in the Pacific: there is one quite homogeneous group in the central and eastern Pacific (Polynesians), and, thanks to the incredibly long time they have had to diversify, a hugely complex and heterogeneous mix of peoples and cultures in the Melanesian islands to the west.

One index of this complexity was actually recognized by both Forster and d’Urville, though neither of them understood it at the time. This was the extraordinary proliferation of languages in Melanesia. It had been the similarity of languages across the islands of Polynesia that had first led to the idea of a single Polynesian “nation,” but no such unity exists in the islands to the west. Even today on New Caledonia—an island roughly the size of New Jersey—between thirty and forty languages are spoken. One hundred and ten languages have been recorded in the islands of Vanuatu. And in New Guinea, which is famous for being the most linguistically diverse place on earth, there are more than 950 languages belonging to a still unknown number of language families. To a linguist, what such extreme diversity indicates is depth of time. Languages are always changing—splitting and morphing and turning into new languages—and the more time they have in which to do this, the more languages there are. Consider the changes that have occurred in English just since Chaucer’s day, and then imagine what might happen if this process were to continue for, say, forty thousand years.

But this is not to say that the whole project was irredeemably flawed. Later scientists, using better tools and larger data sets, would succeed in deriving statistically meaningful information from biometric information, and with the sequencing of the human genome, the role of biological evidence in the search for answers about human history would leap to the fore.

We now know that the islands of western Melanesia (New Guinea and the Bismarck and Solomon Islands) have been occupied for tens of thousands of years—ages and ages longer than the islands of Polynesia. Modern archaeological evidence reveals that New Guinea and Australia, which were joined by a land bridge when sea levels were much lower, were settled at least forty thousand years ago, by people who then managed to spread themselves right out to the end of the Solomons. So there is an ancient substrate to this population. But forty thousand years is a long time, and it is quite inaccurate to suggest that the modern inhabitants of Melanesia can simply be equated with this very ancient population.

One of the central problems for European interpreters of Polynesian voyaging traditions was the location of a place known in the lore as Hawaiki. In stories from the central and eastern Pacific, Hawaiki, or one of its cognates—Havaiki, Havai‘i, Avaiki—is the name of the land from which the great voyagers depart. It is often described as an ancestral homeland, but in many cases it is much more than that. In cosmogonies from the Society Islands, it is the first land to be created: “Havai‘i, the birthplace of lands, Havai‘i, the birthplace of gods, Havai‘i the birthplace of kings, Havai‘i the birthplace of men.

There are some very important notions, however, that can be traced back almost to the dawn of Oceanic time: the word for land, as in “not sea” but also “inhabited territory”; the word for canoe, meaning a large sailing vessel for going on the open sea; the word for star, along with terms for rising and descending; and a word for sky or heavens that, once you get out into the remote islands of Polynesia, doubles as the name of a primordial god.

Over the next few years, Heyerdahl assembled a theory about the settlement of Oceania based on a mix of his Marquesan insights, observations about the weather, some not very good linguistics, nineteenth-century theories about the diffusion of knowledge, and some dubious Spanish conquistador lore.

For the next three months, they lived in a small, self-contained world consisting of six men and a parrot, their raft, and the creatures that surrounded them in the sea.

The trade winds blew steadily and they were never becalmed, though about halfway through the voyage they were hit by two ferocious storms, during one of which the parrot was lost overboard.

Heyerdahl became a worldwide celebrity, but this did not necessarily translate into academic respectability.

One of the first to pooh-pooh the significance of the voyage was Te Rangi Hiroa. “A nice adventure,” he was quoted as saying. “But you don’t expect anyone to call that a scientific expedition. Now do you?

This was really all the general public cared about, but among anthropologists, the larger question was whether the theory behind the voyage made sense.

And the answer, at least for the majority, was no. As one critic put it: Heyerdahl’s arguments could not be supported “chronologically, archaeologically, botanically, racially, linguistically, or culturally.” Heyerdahl always insisted that the academy was arrayed against him, but many of his key points were indefensible, and those that were not were often unacceptably stretched.

Many of the things Heyerdahl claimed were simply not true. Polynesians were not sun worshippers; the Tahitian word pahi did not translate as “raft”; the moai of Easter Island were not identical, or even very similar, to the megalithic sculptures of Tiwanaku; the languages of the Pacific Northwest were not related to those of Polynesia. And then there was the cringe-making problem of the “white god” Kon-Tiki. Much of Heyerdahl’s argument rested on the need, as he saw it, to explain the presence of sophisticated megalithic masonry and sculpture on the islands of eastern Polynesia. His solution—the arrival of a mysterious white civilization that then inexplicably vanishes, leaving behind evidence of its superior know-how and taste—is a familiar European fantasy trope of the 1920s and ’30s. Among professional anthropologists of the 1950s, it was impossible to take seriously, and a few were prepared to concede what is now obvious: that it was difficult “to avoid reading racism from this work.

There was, however, one piece of evidence that no one could argue with, and that was the presence in central and eastern Polynesia of a key American food crop: the sweet potato. This sweet, starchy, nutritious member of the morning glory family, officially known as Ipomoea batatas, was first cultivated by indigenous peoples in the Americas and was already widely established there by the time Europeans arrived. The first European reference to the plant is, in fact, from Christopher Columbus, who brought back a sample for Queen Isabella as an example of the products of the New World.

A century or two later, when they began reaching the islands of Polynesia, European observers found that the sweet potato was an important staple in many of the islands of the central and eastern Pacific. At Easter Island in 1722, Jacob Roggeveen was offered sweet potatoes in trade; in Hawai‘i, one of Cook’s officers reported that they were so plentiful “the poorest natives would throw them into our Ships for Nothing”; and in New Zealand, where many traditional Polynesian food crops would not grow because of the climate, visitors found extensive sweet potato plantations. Indeed, the first “absolute botanical proof” of the plant’s presence in Polynesia—proof that these early observers were not conflating it with the visually similar but botanically distinct yam—is an herbarium specimen collected in New Zealand in 1769 by Joseph Banks.

None of this would be in any way remarkable were it not for the fact that every other Polynesian food crop comes from the opposite side of the Pacific. Assuming that Polynesians carried all their most important plants—bananas, breadfruit, taro, sugarcane, yam, and so on—into the Pacific from Asia, how did they come to be growing the American sweet potato? How, in other words, did the sweet potato get to Polynesia?

Some somatological studies were purely descriptive—studies of the angle of the elbow, for instance, or the comparative growth rates of girls and boys. But many were driven by sociological questions: attempts, for example, to establish links between physical attributes (like stature or head shape) and mental states (like insanity) or social conditions (like poverty or being firstborn) or cultural customs (like nomadism). The idea that complex questions about the human condition could be answered by measuring people’s bodies was not new.

One of the many pernicious aspects of this research was the way it was used to classify human “races.” In biology and anthropology, race has long been abandoned as a meaningful category; indeed, although the term has been in use since the seventeenth century, it has never been precisely defined.

There has never been any agreement about the number of human races, or what the definitive characteristics of a race might be: skin color, hair type, head shape, etc. Genetic research in the twentieth century has shown that there are no genes that correspond to racial types and that the range of variation within so-called races is greater than the variation across them.

But scientists in the early 1920s were working with an essentialist model of race as something immutable, definitive, and grounded in biological reality.

The framework within which the anthropologists of the Bayard Dominick Expedition operated was that there existed a certain number of “pure” human races. The minimum was generally considered to be three: Caucasoid, Mongoloid, and Negroid. But many of the world’s peoples did not fit clearly into any of these categories, and scientists frequently invented additional racial types—Malayan, Indonesian, Austronesian, Negrito—or argued that these unclassifiable people represented populations that were “racially mixed.” Polynesians (along with Native Americans, Melanesians, and Australian Aborigines) were one of the ambiguous groups, and one goal of the Bayard Dominick Expedition was to ascertain, using anthropometric data, what unique medley of existing races had “combined to make the Polynesian physical types.

(It is worth noting that Tongans were considered one of the “purest” Polynesian populations. Tonga, which is the only island nation in the Pacific never to have been ruled by outsiders, had a population in 1920 of more than 23,000 Tongans and only 347 Europeans. Compare this with the 1920 census for Hawai‘i, which lists 41,000 Hawaiians, 54,000 Europeans, and more than 150,000 combined Filipino, Japanese, and Chinese.)

He believed that theorizing should begin with evidence, and that the best evidence was material.

This idea of two distinct varieties of people (which quickly hardened into a Polynesian/Melanesian divide) turns what is, in fact, a spectrum of skin tones and peoples across the Pacific into a more or less binary division between black and white. With this binary came a tangle of other ideas about morality, intelligence, temperament, beauty, social and political complexity, even depth of time. Melanesians were routinely described by Europeans as not just dark-skinned, but “primitive” in their political, economic, and social structures. In eighteenth- and nineteenth-century accounts, they are depicted as small, dark, and mistrustful, the women “ill-favoured” and “ugly,” the men “despotic” and cruel. Banded together in small, autonomous groups, they appeared to Europeans to lack any form of law, government, or organized religion and compared unfavorably with their larger, fairer-skinned, more hierarchical neighbors the Polynesians, differing from them, in one unforgettable formulation, “as the wolf from the dog.” The term “Melanesian” had thus long served in European discourse as a marker for otherness and inferiority, and in the racially charged climate of the early twentieth century, Te Rangi Hiroa could hardly fail to be aware of this. When the anatomist J. H. Scott (the probable author of the Otago Medical School notice offering to buy Māori skeletons) asserted, “We know the Maoris to be . . . the result of the mingling of a Polynesian and a Melanesian strain,” or when Sullivan argued for a “Melanesian element” in his Tongan or Samoan data sets, Te Rangi Hiroa would certainly have recognized the subtext. And in his own early somatological studies, which were written explicitly with the work of these other men in mind, you can see him struggling with the problem.

As he put it to Ngata, “the Pakeha [European] attitude towards the native races is on the whole saturated with the deepest hypocrisy. . . . Even in ethnology, I doubt whether a native people is really regarded as other than a project to give the white writer a job and a chance for fame.

Fornander’s history demanded dates, but there are no dates in Polynesian traditions. There is no absolute system of time beginning at some specified moment and proceeding at regular intervals. There are cyclical calendars tied to the seasons and the phases of the moon, but there is nothing like the term “1850” or any kind of conceptual system that might generate such a term.

But Polynesians cared enormously about their lineages and scrupulously maintained information about who was descended from whom, making their genealogies extremely valuable as historical sources. The only problem was that, as they went back in time, Polynesian genealogies moved seamlessly from what we might consider the “historical” through the “legendary” to the “mythological.” Some of the genealogies Fornander used ran to as many as ninety-nine generations, which meant a span of nearly three thousand years. Even the much more common twenty- or thirty-generation genealogies that were routinely used to date Polynesian events span periods of six hundred to nine hundred years—three or four times the conventionally accepted time frame for accurate transmission of oral information.

In the past, Handy believed, the word had likely meant “a figure or design representing a procreating human progenitor, referring back always to the ultimate origin of man.” Heyerdahl, however, became convinced that Tiki was a historical figure.

The “waves and fish and sun and stars came and went,” and as he floated across the Pacific, Heyerdahl returned to one of his favorite themes. “The closer we came into contact with the sea,” he wrote, “the more at home we ourselves felt.” They were learning “to respect the old primitive peoples who lived in close converse with the Pacific and therefore knew it from a standpoint quite different from our own.” And the conclusion Heyerdahl reached was that “the picture primitive peoples had of the sea was a truer one than ours.” It was much the same view of paradise lost that had inspired him to go to the Marquesas and seek out an untrammeled world, the same mistrust of modernity, the same hunger for a “truer,” more elemental way of life. No doubt the horror of two world wars had something to do with this, inspiring a deep, atavistic longing for some earlier, more innocent time. “Life,” wrote Heyerdahl rather sadly, “had been fuller and richer for men before the technological age.

When I reached the sunny sand beach, I slipped off my shoes and thrust my bare toes down into the warm, bone-dry sand. . . . Soon the palm-tops closed over my head, and I went on, right in towards the centre of the tiny island. Green coconuts hung under the palm-tufts, and some luxuriant bushes were thickly covered with snow-white blossoms, which smelt so sweet and seductive that I felt quite faint. . . . I was completely overwhelmed. I sank down on my knees and thrust my fingers deep down into the dry warm sand.

In a story from Manihiki, the hero Maui brings back fire from Havaiki; in tales from the Marquesas, men follow their dead wives to Hawaiki or travel there in search of lost sons. A homeland and a source, it is both a paradisal land of plenty and, like Te Pō, a land of spirits and of generations waiting to be born. In

In a story from Manihiki, the hero Maui brings back fire from Havaiki; in tales from the Marquesas, men follow their dead wives to Hawaiki or travel there in search of lost sons. A homeland and a source, it is both a paradisal land of plenty and, like Te Pō, a land of spirits and of generations waiting to be born. In most stories, Hawaiki is described as lying somewhere in the west—the direction associated in Polynesia with the passage of the dead to their last resting place—though sometimes it is said to be in the east or in the sky, or even underground. But there are also a number of real islands in the Pacific that go by the name of Hawaiki (or one of its cognates), most obviously the Big Island of Hawai‘i and the Samoan island of Savai‘i, but also the island of Ra‘iatea, in the Society Islands, which was formerly known as Havai‘i.

recorded in 1865, of two eminent East Coast tohunga. It begins in the year A.D. 925 in the ancient homeland of Hawaiki and concerns a man named Kupe, who becomes embroiled in an argument about an octopus. The octopus—a giant with eyes like abalone shells and arms “five fathoms long”—is interfering with Kupe’s fishing grounds and Kupe decides that he will have to kill it. So he prepares a great canoe and tells his men to gather plenty of provisions. When everything is ready, he embarks with his wife and his friend Ngahue. Out at sea, Kupe spies the octopus, which he knows by the reddening of the ripples on the water, but as soon as the canoe draws near, the monster swims away—so straight and fast that Kupe knows it is leading them to some strange country. Eventually, when they have been at sea for quite some time, Kupe’s wife catches sight of land, “like a cloud on the horizon.” Thus the name Aotearoa, which Smith interprets as “the long white cloud.” (Other interpretations include “the cloud hanging over a body of land discovered at the end of a long journey” and “the distant land to windward

He makes an exploratory circuit of the islands, and when this is done he sails back to Hawaiki and reports what he has found. There he lives out his life, for, according to the story, Kupe never returns to Aotearoa. Thus the rhetorical question E hoki Kupe? (Will Kupe return?), which is an ironical proverb signifying that one has no intention of revisiting a place.

the Great Fleet is a cherished piece of modern New Zealand mythology. It recounts the arrival of an armada of seven great voyaging canoes carrying men, women, and children—as many as seventy to a vessel—with all their gods, plants, animals, food, water, implements, and tools. The canoes, which arrive more or less together, separate once they reach Aotearoa, each one traveling to a different part of the coast, where the occupants alight and settle, thereby establishing the land rights and lineages of people who would later trace their descent from these founding figures. For most of the twentieth century, the arrival of the Great Fleet was considered to be “the most famous event in Māori history because,” as one eminent Māori scholar put it, “all tribes trace their aristocratic lineages back to the chiefs of the voyaging canoes.” It was also the capstone of the Polynesian migration story and the end of the great voyaging era. New Zealand was the last of the Polynesian islands to be settled; following the arrival of the Great Fleet, in the words of a Māori proverb, “The tapu sea to Hawaiki is cut off.

Oral narratives (one can think here of the Iliad or the Odyssey) are famously non-chronological, beginning in the middle of an action and unfolding in a zigzag fashion, frequently detouring from the main events to fill in background or explain important information. Traditional Māori narratives were similar, and when they were edited by Europeans (with a European audience in mind), many of these structural kinks were ironed out. The effect was to turn “terse, cryptic and audience-centred originals” into smooth, exegetical narratives, making them more like history and less like myth.

The case of Ballantyne's The Coral Island is instructive, for the author had never seen a coral island, or, indeed, a palm tree, or a coconut, and his novel is a construction out of his reading of other books, some of which are pillaged to the point of plagarism. The textual bricolage is matched by the ironic presentation of the imperial values which it is generally assumed the book exists to promote: a pirate by the name of 'Bloody Bill' is allowed to articulate how useful religion is to the advancement of trade (and plunder).

The only place among the southern islands where a ship can put in and get what it wants in comfort is where the Gospel has been sent to. For my part, I don't know and I don't care what the Gospel does to them, but I know that when any o' the islands chance to get it, trade goes smooth and easy.

tidal wave

ur-eyewitness,

They are

four different parts of the Polynesian Triangle: