122 
Off on a Malanga in Samoa* 
_ Hospitality is one of the primitive virtues of savage 
life. That means that in Samoa it becomes a fixed cere- 
mony, for the Samoan Islander lives in a rigid casing of 
rules and regulations fixed and unchangeable. Samoan 
hospitality is not only a duty, with regulations binding on 
host and guest, it is a function, a form, a ceremony. 
From the welcoming of the coming to the speeding of 
the parting guest there is a complexity of speeches to be 
spoken, gifts to 'be presented, things to be done. It 
never is diiiferent from one village to the next; having 
seen the performance in one place, one has seen what it 
will be in all. This is known in the Samoan speech as 
a ''malanga." It is classed as one of the pleasures of 
island life. That the pleasure is not entirely unadulter- 
ated appears in one verb of the language; the word 
means to go away. It is applied to one who runs away 
to the bush when he sees a pleasure party approaching. 
This is evidence of the fact that hospitality may be irk- 
some, and that duties may be dodged even in savagei-y. 
Sooner or later in a residence in Samoa one is impelled 
to go on a malanga. Either the unchanging dullness of 
Apia calls in loud tones for a change of scene, or there 
is a moA'ement of the common feeling that because you 
are uncomfortable in one set of surroundings you will 
find less discomfort in another set, or else some'Samoan 
town has sent a pressing invitation. Whatever may be 
the reason, the malanga is determined on. 
The first thing to do is to send on word ahead that the 
malanga will start on a certain day; this to give the hosts 
time to make preparations for the entertainment of the 
coming guests. A provision of food in savage superflu- 
ity is as miich a part of all Samoan ceremonies as are the 
speeches. 
The transportation department of Samoan life is the 
rowboat for distances large or small. It is astonishing to 
contemplate the smallness of the boats in which people 
gaily undertake long voyages in Samoan waters; actual 
sea trips in the ocean itself in a 30ft. rowboat are com- 
mon. There is no danger, there is a minimum of com- 
fort in such craft. Into such a boat must be crowded a 
crew of four, at least as many of the after-guard in the 
stern sheets, a cargo of kegs of beef and tins of biscuit 
and such bulky provision of gifts and rations. With these 
the boat is crowded, it appears quite the reverse of safe 
for a trip out on the unsheltered waters of the Pacific. 
Local conditions of the wind determine the time of 
making the start. If the destination lies down to the 
westward, the start is made in the morning after 8 o'clock, 
when the trade wind has set in for the day, and it is 
possible to hoist a rag of sail and voyage without toil. 
If the destination lies eastward, the trip begins by night, 
for in the trade-wind season the nights are calm and 
there is nothing to retard the boat when the rowers bend 
their baeks to the oars for mile after mile of sea. 
Take the case of a malanga to the town of Falefa, 
which well serve as an example of all such trips. The 
town has invited its white friends to pay a visit. There 
is some motive, of course, but what that is will not ap- 
pear until it is slyly developed in the course of the visit. 
The town has determined that its white friends shall be 
its guests; it has all been settled in town council, which 
has also established the share of each of the people in 
the event. Some one of the chiefs brings the invitation, 
either written or by word of mouth. Commonly it is 
both, for the Samoan dearly loves to write a letter, and 
the only way of finding out the meaning of a Samoan let- 
ter is to ask the bearer what the writer meant to say. 
By such means the invitation is conveyed. It is accepted 
for some indeterminate date in the future; it is not con- 
sidered good form to apprise the bearer of the exact day 
on which the guests may be expected. That is to be 
delivered by your own messenger to the town, preceding 
you b}'^ a few days. Those who are wise in the way in 
which time is ordered for the Samoans time the malan- 
gas so as to arrive on Tuesdays whenever it is possible, 
'it being desirable to avoid spending Sunday as the guests 
of a town, and as Friday and Saturday are wholly used 
by the islanders in preparing food for Sunday, they are 
more content if they have no other duties to bother 
them. 
In this case, the trip being to windward, the .start is 
made from Valala by night. The Samoan crew are dec- 
orated in honor of the event, their hair has been freshly 
limed and oiled with the fragrance of the "moso'oi," the 
ylang-ylang. Every man wears a necklace of the red 
fruit of the pandanus, with a string of sweet-scented 
leaves. Each has stuck in his hair or over his ear a 
flower, either the framing hibiscus or the gold and white 
of the frangipanni. In their degree the rowers are a 
part of the pleasure party, and the people to whom the 
visit is addressed have no idea of anything servile in the 
relation. Therefore they decorate themselves and the 
boat; the}' have a supply of necklaces for the after-guard. 
Failing such a supply, one or another of the crew plucks 
ofif his own necklace and offers it; it may be fairly drip- 
ping with the surplus oil which glistens on his bare back 
and breast, but one gets used to such trifles in the islands. 
When the moon is well up and the tide is right, the 
boat is carried down to the beach and set afloat. The 
boat captain takes a last tally of the cargo as it is being 
stowed, for it would be a fatal error to leave anything be- 
hind on parting from the vicinity of shops where things 
may be bought. With a triumphant song the oarsmen 
begin to row and the boat is off. There are two or three 
miles of still water; the coral reef a mile off shore has 
made a still lagoon. But as it is shallow with sand and 
with gardens of coral, care is needed in steering. Along 
the shore gleam the lights of a string of Samoan towns, 
and the villagers, attracted by the boat songs, draw down 
to the beaches to see what boat it is that is going by, if 
close enough to shout out in question as to the destina- 
tion. Gradually the water is found to be deeper, the 
watching of the channel becomes less taxing, there is not 
so much coral in the way. After rounding the point on 
which glisten the lights of the German plantation, the 
swell of the ocean begins to be felt, and close to a moun- 
tain cape the boat passes out from the lagoon into the 
long course of the roJUng waves of the sea. There are 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
several miles ahead of the course with not a danger of 
reefs to look out for, and the boys settle down to a long 
sweep of the oars which develops good speed. The sing- 
ing continues, old songs of the race, songs of the last 
war or of the next to come, hymns of the new religion; 
it is all one to a Samoan crew, so long as they are sing- 
ing something. After two hours ot this progress, easy 
progress if one is a seasoned sailor, and not affected by 
the epidemic malady of the sea, the crew begin to look 
out seaward as tliough seeking to find, some place or 
thing in the waste of waters. There is a dangerous reef 
off shore somewhere near by. the "Fale aitu," or House 
of the God,'s. and until that has been sighted there is need 
of care. It is not easy to find it in the dark, for it is in 
deep water and breaks only at intervals; still the sea is 
so tumultuous about it that no mere boat could live. 
When this has been safely passed, Saluafata is near by, 
and there must be search for the channel between its 
reefs. Thence onward for the two or three miles yet re- 
maining the way lies in still waters within the reef, past 
Saluafata town, out in the sands, which jut out from 
Lufilufi, the old rebel capital, where the tomb of Tania- 
se?e stands boldly forth glistening white in the moon- 
light, past Faleapuna and around a point to the bay on 
which Falefa is built. 
The destination is reached in the middle of the cool and 
calm Samoan night, the town sleeps, every house shows 
the dim glimmer of the lamp which keeps the evil spirits 
away, and without which no Samoan can sleep in peace. 
The boys drive the bow of the boat into the glistening 
sand of the beach, with a loud hoot merging out of the 
last notes of their rowing song. A Samoan community is 
used to being aroused by such shouts at any hour of the 
night. The sleepers awake and come down to the sand 
to welcome the newcomers. This party being expected, 
there has been some one left on watch, and the chiefs 
have gathered in the great guest house as soon as the 
boat has been sighted at the corner of Faleapuna poim, 
The common people of the crowd upon the shore lead 
the visitors to the guest house, where a fire is burning 
briskly, a source of light with no heat. The white peo- 
ple come into the liouse at its front, the crew bring up 
the cargo of the boat and stow it and themselves behind 
the central posts in the inferior station. 
On entering, the taupou, the village maiden, stands 
ready to greet her guests with the foreign handshake, 
which has almost wholly displaced the salutation of nose 
laid to nose of earlier and strictly native custom. At 
one end of the house sit the chiefs of the town, speech- 
less and somewhat solemn in their assumption of dignity. 
The newly arrived visitors find mats spread for them at 
the other end of the house and follow the example of 
their entertainers in sitting cross-legged in silence. The 
house is decorated for the occasion, a tasteful use is made 
of simple materials. At every side-post is a single leaf. 
The collection transforms the house into a bower; that is 
the advantage of having cocoanuts; one leaf is a large 
affair when used for decoration. The central posts and 
the beams overhead are wreathed in ropes of flowers 
and fragrance. It is not everywhere that one could count 
on such a reception when coming into a town with 
shouts and hoots at 2 in the morning. Samoans look 
upon it as quite in the proper order of things. 
There has been a wait; the people are probably glad 
to see the visitors, but as yet no word of welcome has 
been said. The wait is governed by rigid courtesy; it 
is a style of honor — the longer the wait the greater the 
honor is displayed. But it is broken by a soft voice 
from the other end of the house. The bright flickering 
light from the cocoanut leaflets blazing in the fire poc 
shows that one of the party is speaking. The fly flapper 
which he hangs over his shoulder shows him to be ora- 
tor of the town, whose duty it is to make the speeches 
which are the greatest factor in Samoan life. His soft 
undertone is part of his art; he delicately conveys thereby 
the impression that he is overcome by the high rank of 
those whom he addresses. His speech is a routine per- 
formance, a reiteration of the names of the guests, a 
repetition of the names of the chiefs of Falefa, a most 
fulsome expression of the solemn joy and the delight and 
the pleasure and the happiness and the glee and the 
gladness Avith which each chief sees the visitors before 
him. There are four chiefs in the town, and there are 
four in the visiting party; that means that there are just 
sixteen repetitions of this statement of their complicated 
joy. One of the guests is an American tourist who 
knows no word of Samoan. He is keen to know what all 
this talk is about; he is the only one who can awaken in- 
terest over a Samoan fonnal speech. He has been in- 
structed in the etiquette of the occasion, and he listens 
intently to catch the words "Malo tele," for he 
has been told that in speaking of "the great government" 
America is . being complimented, and he is very prompt 
to say "malie," which is the proper aclcnowledgment of 
the compliment. Then, at the end of this speech, is an- 
other long wait, and the orator of the visiting party tells 
how glad each one of the visitors is to see each one of 
the chiefs. That means another set of sixteen paragraphs 
of long compliment, and the chiefs take their turn in 
murmuring "malie" when their names are mentioned. 
Then the town orator has his innings again, Falefa is 
desperately poor, according to his statement; it is alto- 
gether a worthless outfit, and they are bowed down with 
shame that they are so unworthy of such a high visit, 
and that they are not able to provide proper entertain- 
ment; but they have managed to scrape together a little 
kava for our drink. A huge root of the dried pepper 
bush is then laid on the mats in front of the visitors. The 
other orator enters on an equally long and complicated 
speech, and offers the kava which the visitors have 
brought. With many speeches and the employment of 
some two hours of the night, the bowl of kava has been 
mixed and the drinks have gone the rounds, the chiefs 
say a sudden good night, and there is a chance to sleep. 
Short of a seizure of illness, there is no way of abbreviat- 
ing all this- ceremony. 
With the break of day the taupou is at hand to pilot 
the way to the pool for a bath, for sharp on sunrise the 
ceremonies beg^in. The chiefs arrive with their orator for 
the morning bowl of kava, and an hour is occupied in 
that function and the slight collation of baked bananas 
and cold baked fish which the kava ceremony is expected 
to include. Shortly after this the morning meal is car- 
ried in and the village maid eats with her guests. This 
meal is only for the purpose of supporting life; there is 
[Feb. 18, i8gg. 
as nearly an absence of ceremony as it is possible for the 
formal Samoan to attain. 
In the afternoon comes the great ceremony of the 
visit. The chiefs and rulers of the town call. Like New 
England wsmen, they bring their work; every one has 
a hank of fibers of cocoanut husk, which he industriously 
plaits into sennit. There are more speeches back and 
forth; all the speeches of the night are repeated and am- 
plified; they take time to include every possible detail. 
It is not at all uncommon to take anywhere from one to 
four-hours over the purely formal part of the speeches, 
formulas repeated over and over again and bandied back 
and forth between the orators of the two parties. Then 
there is more kava, with its set of speeches. By this time 
the space about the house has filled up AVith the people of 
no rank, who may not enter the house, but who have 
the freedom of the town green, absolute freedom and 
rigid regard for fixed rank going hand in hand. While 
the cup of kava is being served a procession moves across 
the green and up to the guest hoitse, each person carrjang 
food. It is thrown down on the grass in plain sight and the 
town complains once more of its poverty and its inability 
to care for its guests as they should be cared for. One of 
the crew goes to the heap of food and makes a careful 
count of each article, which he reports to the orator of 
the malanga. He makes a speech of thanks, in which he 
enumerates the exact number of pigs, of fowl, of fish, o'f 
every single item which has been presented. Then he re- 
counts the extreme poverty of the great government of 
America, how it suffers for want of the very necessities 
of life, and is filled with shame at its inabiUty to honor 
Falefa as it deserves, but there is a keg of beef and there 
is a tin of hard tack, which is a feeble offering. Then 
there is another speech — Samoan life is altogether vocal 
with oratory — and the chiefs get up and go. The orator 
of the malanga now stands in front of the house and 
shouts to the world the full tale of the food presented and 
proclaims that the visitors will eat. At night there is an- 
other drinking of kava, and that is followed by a siva, 
the native concerted dancing of the taupou and 'aualuma, 
maid of the village and train of her attendant girls. At 
the end of the dancing, which may last for hours, there 
is more work for the orators. The malanga makes a 
present to the taupou, a bolt of calico, a dozen bottles 
of scent, an assortment of gaudy trifles. ■ The village 
maid has her orator, the old woman who is her duenna, 
pipe out a formal reply. 
Such is the skeleton outline of the fir.st day of the 
visit. The others arfi a repetition of the same elements, 
talk, food and da'nee. The malanga is expected to stay 
three days; to leave before that time is a disrespect to 
the town and can be excused only by urgent business an- 
nounced beforehand, so that there shall be no mistake; 
to prolong the stay is equally improper, and the only ex- 
cuse is a dangerous gale, which would make saihng un- 
safe.. The presents to be given by the malanga are such 
as custom has decreed for the white people; to give less 
would be niggardly, to add to the collection would be to 
no purpose. The cost of such a trip to a party up to 
half a dozen amounts to about $30, covering all expenses 
of boat and presents. 
Llewella Pierce Churchill. 
In Old Virginia. 
Part Four. 
Fox hunting has become very popular of late years 
among the residents of the Old Dominion. More cor- 
rectly speaking, it has been revived. You can find de- 
votees of this sport in almost every county, and many 
packs of very good dogs are kept. The owners of many 
dogs can give you the pedigree of their packs as glibly 
as they can their own; and a Virginian without a pedi- 
gree concealed about his person, and set with a hair trig- 
ger that will enfilade from "Ego" to Lord Something- 
or-other down through the F. F. Vs., don't exist. 
My observation led me to conclude that to the real 
genuinely enthusiastic fox hunters there was no other 
sport. Other so-called sport did not rise above the class of 
pastimes with them. Real sport was running a fox with 
good dogs, with any kind of mount that could carry a 
saddle and go, a good horse to be preferred. 
They do not ride to hounds a-la the British aristocracy, 
taking all obstacles and hurting something or some- 
body every run, but in a wild, irregular, take-short-cut-s- 
and-dodge-around-obstacles sort of way that is to them 
the acme of human sport. It is not that they do not ride 
well, for the Virginians are the best of horsemen, but it 
is owing to the terribly rough and broken country, and 
the fact that breaking a good horse's back, even occa- 
sionally, is an extravagance that but few can afford to 
indulge, that they pursue the sport with some degree of 
caution and moderation. I had never lived in a section 
of the country where fox hunting was one of the sports, 
and had always looked upon the fox as a member of the 
"varmint" tribe, to be summarily disposed of by a load 
of shot whenever the opportunity offered. This fact 
caused me to be guilty of a breach of sporting etiquette 
that all but lost me the good opinion of my hostess on 
one occasion. We were strolling through the woods one 
afternoon, for the air and exercise, and had carried a gun, 
thinking it possible that "Jeff Davis," the dog that had 
an ancestor with a nose, might tree us a squirrel, when in 
the distance we heard a pack of hounds in full cry. 
They were coming in our general direction, and my 
companion said they were running a fox. I suggested 
that we walk out toward an opening in the woods in 
the direction they seemed heading. To this she agreed, 
and hurried along with much more enthusiastic haste 
than the occasion seemed to me to warrant. Arrived at 
a good point of observation, I slipped out the light shells 
from my gun, replacing them by some loaded with heavy 
shot that I happened to have, remarking that I would 
proceed to stop "sly reynard" if he came our way. 
She looked at me in surprise for a moment and then 
said: "You don't mean you would shoot the fox should 
he come this way, do you?" 
"Why, certainly," I replied. 
Looking at me a moment, as thougli doubting either 
' my seriousness or sanity, she turned back toward the 
woods, requesting me to follow. Somewhat puzzled, but 
desiring to be accommodating, I followed obediently, 
trusting that an explanation would soon be forthcoming. 
