Thursday, February 23, 2017

Reclusive, and a genius?

There are few things more intriguing than a reclusive literary genius: somebody who sends out a flow of captivating words, and fills the shelves of bookshops and libraries with volume after volume, but refuses to participate in the rituals of celebrity - refuses to appear at book festivals, to read in bookshops, to sign books for fans, and even to be photographed and put on dust jackets.

New Zealand has been short of reclusive geniuses. We have had no Thomas Pynchon, no JD Salinger. It is true that Frank Sargeson worked for decades in isolation, behind the buffer of his overgrown vegetable garden, but he never cherished obscurity, and was happy to become a celebrity in the last decade of his life. Janet Frame was intensely shy, but she struggled through interviews, and never turned away a photographer.

Now, though, Brett Cross, the boss of Titus Books and its offshoot Atuanui Books, claims to have discovered a reclusive genius living and writing in Auckland. Brett has a manuscript and a global publishing deal to support his claim. He has written about his discovery at The Spinoff.

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Shocked by slavery

I'm grateful to Sarah Hayward of Booksellers.co.nz for this review of The Stolen Island.

Friday, February 17, 2017

Snatching and killing

 [I wrote this article for a magazine editor who wanted something based on my book about the nineteenth century slave raids in Tonga. When I sent it through the editor in question demurred, complaining that my text didn't, in fact, relate very obviously to The Stolen Island. My excuse is that my mind is drifting this year away from Tonga and towards Melanesia, where most of the Pacific slave trade took place, and where a vast amount of research remains to be done.]

Snatching and killing

Few histories of New Zealand rugby mention the first international fixture played in this country. The game in question took place in June 1870, on an uneven, muddy paddock that is now central Auckland’s Albert Park. A group of locals took on a team picked from the crew of the British warship HMS Rosario. The British brought the ball, and also the goalposts. We don’t know whether they won the game.

The Rosario had stopped in Auckland to stuff its hold with hard biscuits and potatoes. By the winter of 1870 the ship was a year and a half into an impossible commission. The faraway British government had instructed the Rosario to end the Pacific slave trade.

In 1870 the law abolishing slavery in Britain was more than three and a half decades old, and the blacks of America’s south had been free for five years. But scores of ships were crossing the Pacific with shackled islanders in their holds. 

The Pacific slave trade had begun in 1862, when the Peruvian government had invited ships to collect ‘colonists’ from the Pacific Islands, and to sell these captives at the port of Callao. 

Opportunistic captains soon raided almost every island society from Rapa Nui in the east to Kiribati in the west of the Pacific. In the middle of 1863 the Peruvians responded to international condemnation and rescinded their law; by that time more than three thousand islanders had vanished into Callao, a place they nicknamed ‘the jaws of hell’. Only a couple of hundred islanders returned, but they carried, to their already decimated homelands, the gifts of civilisation: smallpox, dysentery, and tuberculosis.

Lincoln’s war on the Confederate States of America may have emancipated the slaves of that nation, but it invigorated the Pacific labour trade. As Lincoln’s army burned the crops and mansions of southern plantation owners, it made cotton a scarce and valuable commodity, and also made inevitable a diaspora of ruined and unrepentantly racist Confederates.

Confederate refugees landed in the South Seas, where they bought or stole land, planted cotton, sugar, and tobacco, and sought a new supply of slaves. The men who gave Peru its slaves had provoked European powers by raiding islands under colonial control. The slavers of the late 1860s were cannier: they targeted Melanesia, a region not yet digested by empires.

The planters paid well for slaves. An adult male could fetch nine pounds; women and children could change hands for six pounds. Slaving became popularly known as blackbirding; slavers were blackbirders. Soon Queensland was being nicknamed ‘the second Louisiana’, because of its sugar plantations where blacks toiled, and Confederate planters on Fiji were founding a branch of the Ku Klux Klan to terrorise locals unwilling to pick cotton for free. 
The Rosario was a fast, modern vessel. A steam engine complemented its sails, and its mechanised cannons were efficiently deadly. But the Rosario was working alone, against an industry.

Even when the British intercepted a ship, unsympathetic colonial governments and courts could undo their work.

In June 1869 the Rosario’s Captain George Palmer boarded a Queensland schooner called Daphne, and found more than one hundred ni-Vanuatu men in its small hold. Palmer freed these slaves, and brought Daphne’s captain to Sydney for trial; the chief justice of New South Wales threw the case out, explaining that Britain’s anti-slavery laws did not apply in the Pacific.

*

Slavers may not have had much to fear from the British navy, but they soon began to dread the warriors of Melanesia. The young men of the New Hebrides and the Solomons learned to withdraw from the beach when tall ships appeared. They hid in trees or behind stones beside the steep and muddy paths that led to the interiors of their islands, and waited with bows and spears and darts for exhausted white men.

Sometimes Melanesians pretended to be eager to sail away from their islands. Smiling, they climbed aboard the small boats that slavers sent through reefs and estuaries. On the decks of the big ships they pulled tomahawks from under their skirts and blankets.

Some stretches of coast, like the eastern edge of the large island of Malaita, became notorious. It was off eastern Malaita that several canoeloads of islanders stormed Kenneth McKenzie’s slave ship the Borealis. McKenzie was one of several sailors from the Scottish settlement of Waipu who had profited by shipping Melanesians to Queensland and Fiji in the 1860s and ‘70s. He was on a small boat, headed for the coast of Malaita, when warriors began to leap from their canoes and climb the steep sides of the Borealis. McKenzie fled from his ship, leaving half a dozen members of his crew, including his son Willie, to face the attackers.

After reaching a group of other slave ships a few miles up the coast and holding a ‘council of war’, Kenneth McKenzie returned to the Borealis with reinforcements. He found the ship deserted. There was ‘blood all over the deck’ and brain fluid was ‘scattered on the windlass’; there were ‘axe marks all over the bulwarks’. The Malaitans had withdrawn to their island, and taken the bodies of Willie and his fellow sailors with them.

Melanesian resistance forced slavers to improvise new tactics. Some ships, like the Dunedin-based screw steamer Wainui, began to hunt in open seas, away from the lagoons and jungles that had become so dangerous. The Anglican mariner John Jacob described the Wainui ploughing into a group of small canoes in deep water off the island of Savo. The canoes spilt their paddlers and passengers; the Wainui’s crew pulled the islanders to safety, then made them into slaves. 

Other slavers began to outsource the most dangerous parts of their jobs. Melanesia was a region of small-scale, decentralised societies, whose language groups and clans and lineages made and broke alliances with one another as their circumstances and interests changed. Some blackbirders learned to play one group of Melanesians off against another.

In certain parts of Melanesia, like New Georgia and Makira, chiefs collected the heads of their enemies, and built special houses where, arranged one after another along rafters and on shelves, these trophies could be admired and mocked. Soon white men were also becoming enthusiastic headhunters. 

In 1870 two Anglican missionaries in the Nggela Islands saw a group of local men go out in a canoe to trade with a vessel that had anchored offshore. The ship was called the Water Lily; its crew were, at first, friendly towards the islanders, and seemed keen to trade. Suddenly, though, one of the white men jumped into the canoe, and others reached down with long oars and began to beat its riders. One of the five islanders leapt overboard and swam to safety. Before he had reached shore, though, he had seen his four friends beheaded with tomahawks in the bloody hollow of their canoe.

Melanesians began to talk about ‘kill kill’ as well as ‘snatch snatch’ ships. Blackbirders had discovered that the chiefs of New Georgia and other regions would supply labour parties for Queensland, in return for the heads of their traditional enemies.

*

Some slavers fearful of showers of arrows began to impersonate the only white man who was widely liked in Melanesia. They would anchor off islands that had been visited by John Coleridge Patteson, the first Anglican Bishop of Melanesia, don black garments, hold Bibles aloft on the decks of their ships, and wait for locals to paddle or swim towards them. 

For sixteen years Patteson landed on Pacific beaches. By 1871, the great-nephew of Samuel Taylor Coleridge could preach in twenty-three of Melanesia's thousand languages. On island after island, the bishop left Bibles and medicines and sailed away with young men, who learned to read and pray at Anglican schools on Norfolk Island and in Auckland.

After hearing about his imitators, the Bishop of Melanesia became a meticulous opponent of the slave trade. He collected stories of raids, chains, and whippings, and wrote long memoranda to the governments of Australasia and Britain.

In September 1871 Bishop Patteson landed on Nukapu, one of the Reef Islands in the northern Solomons. Nukapu covers nearly three quarters of a square kilometre, and is surrounded by a teardrop-shaped lagoon and a reef. In the months before the Southern Cross' visit, the island had been repeatedly raided by blackbirders. Nukapuans were not happy to see another exotic ship. 

Patteson crossed Nukapu’s reef in a Melanesian canoe given to him by some of his students. Hours later he drifted back towards the Southern Cross on the same vessel. There were arrows and axe marks in his torso, and the right side of his face had collapsed. The bishop had become Nukapu's message to the white world.

Patteson became the first Pacific martyr of the Anglican church. Today his certificate of ordination is displayed as a sacred relic at Auckland's Anglican cathedral. On a window in a church in a Surrey village called Kingswood there is a portrait of the martyr serenely contemplating his Bible while two copper-coloured savages carrying clubs approach him. 

In a letter published in many Australasian newspapers Captain Jacobs, who had brought Patteson to Nukapu, blamed the bishop’s death on blackbirding. Memorial meetings in the towns of New Zealand and the Australian colonies agreed. A gathering in Auckland’s Choral Hall unanimously urged the British and Australasian governments to place ‘the so-called labour trade…under effective control’. But after the slaying of Patteson, the Rosario’s mission changed. The ship had first been charged with stopping the Pacific slave trade: now it was ordered to take vengeance on the victims of that trade.

On November the 29th, 1871, nearly three months after the slaying of Bishop Patteson, the Rosario anchored outside Nukapu’s lagoon, and sent four small boats through its reef wall. Scores of men began what George Palmer described as a ‘war dance’ on the distant beach, then fired arrows in the direction of the small boats. The Rosario’s canons opened up, and the men in the small boats added ‘hundreds of rounds’ of rifle and pistol fire, until the Nukapuans retreated into the coconut groves beyond their beach. The invaders followed them, and found, in a clearing near the centre of the island, a village whose wooden huts had been fortified with slabs of beachrock. They shot their way through the village, set each of its dwellings ablaze, and withdrew over the lagoon and through the reef to the Rosario, where they continued to snipe at the islanders.

A corporal surnamed Marcus was one of several men wounded on Nukapu; he had been crossing the island’s beach when an arrow had grazed his arm. Back on the Rosario Marcus seemed to have recovered from his injury. His captain remembered him doing ‘some capital shooting’ at the remnants of the Nukapuan force. When Marcus noticed five natives gathering ‘on a point of their land with their canoes’ he ‘lodged a shell in the midst of them’, causing ‘most terrible havoc’. But Marcus’ recovery was illusory. The arrow that had cut him was tipped with poison. The corporal would die three and a half weeks after the raid on Nukapu. 
As the Rosario steamed away from Nukapu, the ‘natives were seen at work trying to extinguish the fire that covered their island. Despite their efforts, Palmer reported, the shadows of flames ‘could be seen for three hours’ as the Rosario travelled south.  George Palmer estimated that ‘twenty to thirty natives’ had been killed by his men. A ship that had been charged with protecting Pacific islanders had devastated the island of Nukapu.

*

In the tropical Pacific the days of slavery have not been forgotten. When I was researching my book The Stolen Island, which describes the slave raids on two Tongan islands and their aftermath, I sat around kava bowls and heard men talk about the nineteenth century as though it were our own. 

When I visited Vanuatu last year I noticed how closely that nation’s identity is connected to blackbirding. Vanuatu’s national language is Bislama, a creole brought back from the sugar fields of Queensland; the government organises ceremonies to remember the theft of so many ni-Vanuatu, and demands an apology from Australia.

Australia is yet to apologise to Vanuatu, but it has recognised the South Sea Islander community, whose twelve thousand members are the descendants of ‘sugar slaves’ who never returned to their homelands, as a distinct ethnic community, and some New South Wales and Queensland schools now teach the history of blackbirding.

In New Zealand, though, the memory of the Pacific slave trade has been almost successfully repressed.

Our government has belatedly created an annual day of remembrance for the Land Wars of the nineteenth century. Perhaps we also need a day to remember the Pacific slave trade, and the warfare that the trade brought to islands like Nukapu.

[Posted by Scott Hamilton]

Monday, February 13, 2017

Roasting Von Tempsky

[Paul Janman, Ian Powell, and I are holding an exhibition about the Great South Road - or, as we increasingly call it, Ghost South Road - in the middle of this year, an exhibition which will include panel discussions and theatrical performances as well as art. Paul has set up a facebook group for the actors rehearsing for the exhibition; I left this message there last week.]
I commented here recently about theatrical performances that took place during the Waikato War. But there was an intriguing play that was performed for the first time at the beginning of the 1870s, and which presented, in a very dubious way, one of the most famous parts of the New Zealand Wars - the death of Gustavus Von Tempsky, the brilliant and brutal commander of the Forest Rangers, the colonial army's counter-insurgency unit, during the battle of Te Ngutu o te Manu in Taranaki.
Launcelot Booth was a Durham-born immigrant to the antipodes who became involved with Auckland's fledgling theatre scene soon after arriving in the city in 1870. In February 1871 a review of Booth's play Crime in the Clouds appeared in both the New Zealand Herald and the Daily Southern Cross. The anonymous reviewer explained that the play had attracted a large audience to Auckland's Theatre Royal. The reviewer praised Crime in the Clouds for 'providing some very good scenery', and was particularly impressed by the 'view of Fort Britomart and the North Shore'.
Later in the 1870s Booth would bring Crime in the Clouds to Christchurch, and a newspaper report suggests that in 1898, decades after he had left New Zealand for Australia, he was performing the play in Sydney.
The reviewer for the New Zealand Herald and the Daily Southern Cross promised to provide a 'synopsis' of Booth's play in a later article, but never obliged. His review does give us a rough idea of how the play unfolded. All but one of the play's acts were set in England. In the first act a passenger in a balloon is murdered high above Buckinghamshire; in the third act the action moved to Taranaki, and Booth portrayed the death of Von Tempsky, who was shot while hacking furiously at the undergrowth of the Taranaki bush during the rout of his men by the army of Titokowaru. Booth's play featured 'real Maoris' and a 'real war dance'.
Crime in the Clouds seems never to have been published. In 1888, though, the Hawkes Bay Herald published a memoir by someone named JF Graham, who had helped to run a theatre troupe in 1870s Christchurch. Graham's reminiscences are quite well written, if you can forgive his casual racism and the orotund prose style that was common in the nineteenth century, and they give a good deal of information about Crime in the Clouds. Graham explains how he and his colleagues created a 'large transparency' for Booth, and how they tried to simulate the flight of a balloon against it.
If Graham's memoir is to be believed, then Booth's portrayal of the death of Von Tempsky was ludicrously and luridly inaccurate. Graham says that a group of 'aboriginals' from Banks Peninsula were persuaded to take part in the play in return for whisky, and that they were obliged to tie the actor playing Von Tempsky up, and dangle him over a fire, as if they were about to cook him. According to Graham, the 'aboriginals' got too enthusiastic, and Von Tempsky got burnt. Here's a link to Graham's text.

[Posted by Scott Hamilton]

Tuesday, February 07, 2017

The loneliness of Donald Trump

President Trump's first fortnight in power has taught us three lessons.

The first lesson is that Trump is an economic nationalist. He was serious when he talked, on the campaign trail, about scrapping free trade deals and keeping American companies from migrating to Mexico and Asia. He was serious about building new infrastructure, like roads and bridges and his notorious border wall, that will create jobs and stimulate the economy.

Last year Boris Kagarlitsky argued that Trump represented the declining manufacturing sector of the American capitalist class, and was opposed by the financial sector of the country's capitalist class, as well by new high tech industries. Trump's first fortnight in power suggests that Kagarlitsky was right.

Wall Street, which had hoped Trump's denunciations of neo-liberal capitalism were unserious, has begun to admit it was wrong. The financial sector and high tech sectors benefit from the relatively free movement of labour as well as capital; they have been unimpressed by Trump's talk of tariffs, and also by his attempts to ban the citizens of seven mainly Muslim nations from entering America. It is no coincidence that tech companies are joining forces to challenge Trump's ban.

Trump's economic nationalism makes him careless about alienating traditional allies like Australia, and reckless in his dealings with China.

The second lesson Trump has taught us is that he wants to conquer and reshape the American state.

Before Trump was elected, observers disagreed over whether or not he would be content to govern within the limits the American constitution traditionally gives to presidents, or whether he was interested in ending the separation of powers between congress, the courts, and the presidency and concentrating power in the White House. We can now see that Trump is keen to control the innermost parts of the American state, and contemptuous of the limits that have traditionally been placed on presidential power.

Trump has pushed members of his family and his political advisers into parts of the 'deep state', like the National Security Council, that have traditionally been off limits to political appointees. He has sacked an Attorney General who questioned the legality of his ban on visitors from seven Muslim majority nations, and has condemned a federal judge who considered the ban unconstitutional. He has attacked congressmen like John McCain, after they queried his authoritarian style.

Some critics of Trump's reach for power point at Stephen Bannon, the former boss of Breitbart News who has been making himself comfortable in the White House over the last fortnight. Bannon's politics have been characterised as fascist, but he isn't necessarily responsible for Trump's authoritarianism. America's new president has spent his life as a corporate dictator, sacking staff and buying and selling companies at will; it is perhaps not surprising that he is still acting like a dictator.
The third lesson Trump has taught us, albeit unwittingly, is that he is isolated, and unlikely, given the present balance of forces, to succeed in turning America towards economic nationalism and in conquering the state. Trump's chthonic nationalism and his contempt for the rule of law have convinced many observers that he is a fascist. But Trump lacks the support of the most powerful parts of America's capitalist class, and he lacks the organised and menacing street army that has traditionally helped fascists take and consolidate power.

In capitalist countries, the ruling class traditionally only turns to fascism when it sees its own power threatened by another class. The German capitalists turned to Hitler because they were traumatised by the Great Depression and terrified that the country's massive Communist Party would take power and seize their factories in the name of the working class.

America is not suffering a Great Depression, although isolated parts of the country, like the Trump-voting coal counties of Kentucky, are suffering an apparently endless economic decline, and no mass radical movement threatens the assets of its elite. A large majority of Republican lawmakers will baulk at Trump's economic nationalism, and will be unimpressed by his attempts to undermine the powers of congress and the courts.

Trump could try to overcome the opposition of the courts and of mainstream Republicans if he had a streetfighting army behind him. If he had such an army he might call on its members to intimidate judges who defy him, to flood airports and make sure that his ban on Muslims is maintained, and to blockade any state legislature that opposes him.

But although Trump won millions of devoted supporters during his election campaign, he has not tried to turn these supporters into brownshirts. He may fulminate against 'so-called judges' and other enemies in his tweets, and his followers may angrily retweet him, but indignation is no substitute for force. It is Trump's opponents who have created, in an extraordinarily brief time, a large and impressively mobile protest movement. Trump is, at present, a lonely figure: a general without an army.

[Posted by Scott Hamilton]

Saturday, February 04, 2017

About that trilithon

I know that parents are the very worst art critics when they are viewing the work of their offspring, but I was quite impressed with the painting that my oldest son did at kindy the day before we jointly showed some slides of the Ha'amonga a Maui and other Tongan landmarks associated with the demigod and anti-hero of Moana. Let me go completely hyperbolic and suggest that there's a Rothko-like quality to those rectangular slabs of paint.

I recently ran into 'Opeti Taliai, my old boss at the 'Atenisi Institute, at Auckland hospital. I was there to pick up a new-fangled drug; he was getting his new liver tested. We'd lost touch, and got to talking about his recent efforts to develop his PhD thesis, which is called The Legitimation of Economic and Political Power in Tonga, into a book. I mentioned that I'd raided the thesis when I was reviewing the Tongan New Zealand artist Sione Faletau's remarkable flesh and blood reconstruction of the trilithon for EyeContact.

Ha'amonga a Maui translates approximately as burden of Maui, and 'Opeti links the structure with the centralisation of power in Tonga, and the extraction of a regular 'inasi, or tribute, from farmers. He suggests that the trilithon, which stood beside Heketa, Tonga's earliest capital, might have been designed as a gateway through which commoners had to bring their 'gifts' to a nascent monarchy.

'Opeti Taliai's explanation for the Ha'amonga is surely more plausible than the late King Tupou IV's claim that the monument was designed as a sort of open-air observatory, or Gavin Menzies' theory that it was raised by Chinese interlopers.

You can read 'Opeti's thesis here.

Thursday, February 02, 2017

In defence of Maui


Morgan Godfery has written a long and fascinating  review of Moana, Disney's blockbusting excursion into Polynesian history and myth.

Godfery talks about how he, like many other Polynesians, grew up hearing two versions of his people's history.

The first version, which came from whanau, described the heroic and skilful settlement of the Pacific, and the development of complex cultures on often inhospitable islands.

The second version, which was broadcast in classrooms and through televisions and other media, insisted that Polynesians drifted desperately across the Pacific, were wrecked on random islands, and established primitive ways of life that were rendered obsolete by the arrival of Europeans.

Some reviewers of Moana have praised the film for making its heroes Polynesians, and for showing off Polynesian tattooing and vaka. The film's eponymous protagonist is a sixteen year old girl with an appetite and aptitude for adventure; she has been acclaimed as an 'anti-princess' and therefore a feminist hero.

Godfery, though, finds himself unable to join the chorus of praise for Moana. He points out that Moana is an invented character, not a part of Polynesian mythology, and that the supposedly feminist movie debases a real feminist hero of Pacific folklore, the fire goddess Pele, by portraying her as Te Fiti, a wretched 'lava witch'.

And like Jenny Salesa, the Tongan New Zealand MP for Manukau East, Morgan Godfery is upset by the depiction of the demigod and hero Maui in Moana. Stories about Maui's strength, cunning, and imagination have been told for many centuries in almost all of Polynesia's thirty or so cultures, from Rapa Nui to Tonga to Tikopia. When tales are told in marae, or beside a campfire, or around a kava bowl, it is Maui who is credited with pulling islands from the sea, with holding up the world, with stealing fire and sharing it with mortals.

In Moana, though, the legendary Maui is turned into what Godfery calls 'an American jerk'. Maui is obese, obnoxious, ignorant, a comic sidekick to the film's teenage hero.

Last week the kids at my oldest son's kindergarten watched Moana, and loved the film. My son came home from kindy laughing about Maui, and acting out some of his scenes.

I didn't want to detract from the kids' enjoyment of the film, but I thought I could broaden their appreciation of Maui by showing some images of the demigod's exploits in Tonga. This morning I put on my tupenu and ta'ovala and headed down to kindy.
When the kids saw the bulky mat tied around my waist with coconut fibre they were intrigued; one of them decided that I was wearing a 'Maui skirt'. I described how Tongans make ta'ovala by taking the bark off paper mulberry trees, soaking it in the sea, then beating and weaving it, and explained that on formal occasions in Tonga everyone must wear a mat.

I showed a series of pictures of sites associated with Maui on a laptop. My son, who was wearing his own tupenu, had visited all of the landmarks, and added his own commentary on them.

Even as I talked to my audience of three and four year olds, I realised how much I was simplifying the tangled network of tales that are told about Maui in the Friendly Islands. Some stories, for example, attribute Maui's deeds to a family, rather than the individual I described. Maui fusi-fonua, or Maui the puller of land, brought islands out of the sea; his nephew Maui Kisikisi was the thief of fire. A 1921 article by EEV Collocott introduced English-language readers to some of the Tongan stories about Maui.
The Ha'amonga a Maui, or burden of Maui, stands near the ruins of Heketa, Tonga's first capital, in the far east of the island of Tongatapu. Some stories say that Maui, with his prodigous strength, quarried the monument's three slabs of beachrock, dragged them to Heketa, and forced them together. In an essay for the art journal EyeContact I looked at other theories and versions of the Ha'amonga a Maui.
Scientists say that the boulder that stands near the village of Kala'au, in the west of Tongatapu, was ripped from coral rock and thrown inland by an immense tsunami about ten thousand years ago. But old stories speak of a giant chicken that was terrorising the island of 'Eua, which lies twenty or so kilometres from Kala'au across a deep and stormy Tongatapu Channel. Maui ran the chicken down and threw it across the water, away from 'Eua. When the bird landed on Tongatapu it turned to stone.
Maui's boulder almost qualifies as a mountain on an island as flat as Tongatapu, and during the wars that divided the island early in the nineteenth century the rock was used as a lookout.
A sign in the middle of Kala'au directs curious palangi to Maui's boulders, and to some of the other historic sites that cluster around the village.
It was hard work throwing a giant chicken across the sea, and as he struggled with the bird Maui sunk one of his feet into the porous earth of 'Eua. Maui's footprint is a giant sinkhole, and a favourite destination of the hikers who explore the 'Euan highland.
Lianga Huao a Maui, or Maui's archway, is found at the southern end of 'Eua, and is considered a monument to the demigod's mischievousness. After his mother forced him out of bed and into his kava plantation, and gave him a stick to dig with, Maui rebelled. He stamped his foot; the ground shook. His exasperated mother, who had as much strength as her son, grabbed the digging stick and threw it away: it stuck into a cliff. When Maui pulled the tool free, it left a hole that tourists like to photograph.

My oldest son's classmates seemed to enjoy seeing Maui's handiwork, and hearing about his feats. I hope that they now find the 'American jerk' of Moana more complicated, and interesting.

[Posted by Scott Hamilton]