We Rode By The Mouth Of Typee Valley And Gazed
Down Upon The Beach From Which Melville Escaped.
There was where
the whale-boat lay on its oars close in to the surf; and there was
where Karakoee, the taboo Kanaka, stood in the water and trafficked
for the sailor's life.
There, surely, was where Melville gave
Fayaway the parting embrace ere he dashed for the boat. And there
was the point of land from which Mehevi and Mow-mow and their
following swam off to intercept the boat, only to have their wrists
gashed by sheath-knives when they laid hold of the gunwale, though
it was reserved for Mow-mow to receive the boat-hook full in the
throat from Melville's hands.
We rode on to Ho-o-u-mi. So closely was Melville guarded that he
never dreamed of the existence of this valley, though he must
continually have met its inhabitants, for they belonged to Typee.
We rode through the same abandoned pae-paes, but as we neared the
sea we found a profusion of cocoanuts, breadfruit trees and taro
patches, and fully a dozen grass dwellings. In one of these we
arranged to pass the night, and preparations were immediately put on
foot for a feast. A young pig was promptly despatched, and while he
was being roasted among hot stones, and while chickens were stewing
in cocoanut milk, I persuaded one of the cooks to climb an unusually
tall cocoanut palm. The cluster of nuts at the top was fully one
hundred and twenty-five feet from the ground, but that native strode
up to the tree, seized it in both hands, jack-knived at the waist so
that the soles of his feet rested flatly against the trunk, and then
he walked right straight up without stopping. There were no notches
in the tree. He had no ropes to help him. He merely walked up the
tree, one hundred and twenty-five feet in the air, and cast down the
nuts from the summit. Not every man there had the physical stamina
for such a feat, or the lungs, rather, for most of them were
coughing their lives away. Some of the women kept up a ceaseless
moaning and groaning, so badly were their lungs wasted. Very few of
either sex were full-blooded Marquesans. They were mostly half-
breeds and three-quarter-breeds of French, English, Danish, and
Chinese extraction. At the best, these infusions of fresh blood
merely delayed the passing, and the results led one to wonder
whether it was worth while.
The feast was served on a broad pae-pae, the rear portion of which
was occupied by the house in which we were to sleep. The first
course was raw fish and poi-poi, the latter sharp and more acrid of
taste than the poi of Hawaii, which is made from taro. The poi-poi
of the Marquesas is made from breadfruit. The ripe fruit, after the
core is removed, is placed in a calabash and pounded with a stone
pestle into a stiff, sticky paste. In this stage of the process,
wrapped in leaves, it can be buried in the ground, where it will
keep for years. Before it can be eaten, however, further processes
are necessary. A leaf-covered package is placed among hot stones,
like the pig, and thoroughly baked. After that it is mixed with
cold water and thinned out - not thin enough to run, but thin enough
to be eaten by sticking one's first and second fingers into it. On
close acquaintance it proves a pleasant and most healthful food.
And breadfruit, ripe and well boiled or roasted! It is delicious.
Breadfruit and taro are kingly vegetables, the pair of them, though
the former is patently a misnomer and more resembles a sweet potato
than anything else, though it is not mealy like a sweet potato, nor
is it so sweet.
The feast ended, we watched the moon rise over Typee. The air was
like balm, faintly scented with the breath of flowers. It was a
magic night, deathly still, without the slightest breeze to stir the
foliage; and one caught one's breath and felt the pang that is
almost hurt, so exquisite was the beauty of it. Faint and far could
be heard the thin thunder of the surf upon the beach. There were no
beds; and we drowsed and slept wherever we thought the floor
softest. Near by, a woman panted and moaned in her sleep, and all
about us the dying islanders coughed in the night.
CHAPTER XI - THE NATURE MAN
I first met him on Market Street in San Francisco. It was a wet and
drizzly afternoon, and he was striding along, clad solely in a pair
of abbreviated knee-trousers and an abbreviated shirt, his bare feet
going slick-slick through the pavement-slush. At his heels trooped
a score of excited gamins. Every head - and there were thousands -
turned to glance curiously at him as he went by. And I turned, too.
Never had I seen such lovely sunburn. He was all sunburn, of the
sort a blond takes on when his skin does not peel. His long yellow
hair was burnt, so was his beard, which sprang from a soil
unploughed by any razor. He was a tawny man, a golden-tawny man,
all glowing and radiant with the sun. Another prophet, thought I,
come up to town with a message that will save the world.
A few weeks later I was with some friends in their bungalow in the
Piedmont hills overlooking San Francisco Bay. "We've got him, we've
got him," they barked. "We caught him up a tree; but he's all right
now, he'll feed from the hand. Come on and see him." So I
accompanied them up a dizzy hill, and in a rickety shack in the
midst of a eucalyptus grove found my sunburned prophet of the city
pavements.
He hastened to meet us, arriving in the whirl and blur of a
handspring.
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