All posts by yumiwantok

Melanesia and Western Colonialism

Melanesia is a region of the southwestern Pacific Ocean and forms, together with Micronesia and Polynesia, one of the three cultural areas of Oceania. Melanesia includes New Guinea, the Torres Strait Islands of northern Australia, the Solomon Islands, Vanuatu, New Caledonia, and the Fiji Islands. The name Melanesia derives from Greek words meaning black islands and refers to the dark complexions of the indigenous inhabitants.

Human beings have inhabited Melanesia for at least 40,000 years, and Melanesians were among the first peoples to develop agriculture, about 10,000 years ago. Scattered islands and rugged terrain led to the formation of small cultural groups, often isolated from each other, and over 1,000 indigenous languages are spoken in the region. Traditional Melanesian society was not based on a system of hereditary chiefs; instead, individuals became politically powerful through their own actions.

Although the coast of New Guinea was reached by the Portuguese possibly as early as 1512, most historians consider the Spanish expedition of Alvaro de Mendaiia (1541-1595) as the first European contact. Mendana reached what he called the Solomon Islands in 1568. Despite naming the islands after a legendary king of great wealth, the Spanish found no gold and consequently the islands held little interest for them. The Dutch arrived later and landed in Fiji and New Guinea in 1643. English explorers, including Captain James Cook (1728-1779), visited the New Guinea area in the 1770s at about the same time the French visited Vanuatu and the Solomon Islands.

Western colonization did not really begin until the nineteenth century, and even then was limited by the presence of tropical diseases and the resistance of the indigenous population. Missionaries started arriving around 1839, and by the 1850s the Dutch, British, French, and Germans began claiming parts of Melanesia. The Dutch claimed the western half of New Guinea, whereas the eastern half was divided between Germany and Britain. These countries also split the Solomon Islands, with the British taking Fiji as well. France claimed New Caledonia, Vanuatu, then the New Hebrides, which was jointly ruled by Britain and France. Britain later transferred its holdings in New Guinea to Australia, and after Germany’s defeat in World War I (1914-1918), Australia acquired German New Guinea.

European colonialism united disparate ethnic groups under one administration, and imposed European languages, religion, economy, and political systems on top of the indigenous ones. Europeans introduced agricultural plantations using indigenous labor, and some Melanesians were brought to Australia in a form of slavery known as blackbirding. The British also brought laborers from India to Fiji.

Independence came late to Melanesia. Fiji became independent in 1974. The Australian territories in New Guinea became independent as Papua New Guinea in 1975, followed by the independence of the Solomon Islands in 1978 and Vanuatu in 1980. New Caledonia remains a French colony, and the western part of New Guinea is part of independent Indonesia, despite independence movements among the indigenous population. Postcolonial Melanesia has been troubled by ethnic conflicts, such as the recent coups in Fiji and secessionist movements in Papua New Guinea, Vanuatu, and the Solomon Islands.

Pacific islanders may carry the DNA of an unknown human species: Genetic study reveals ancient Melanesians interbred with a mysterious hominid

Pacific islanders may carry the DNA of an unknown human species: Genetic study reveals ancient Melanesians interbred with a mysterious hominid

Islanders in the Pacific Ocean may be may be carrying traces of a long lost human species locked up in their DNA.

Today, modern humans inherit a small chunk of our genes from Neanderthals, with evidence that some of us carry the genetic remnants of a lesser known sister group, called the Denisovans.

But genetic analysis of people living in modern Melanesia suggests they carry traces of a third, as yet unidentified prehistoric relative distinct from the others.

The island groups of Melanesia – which includes Papua New Guinea, Fiji and the Solomon Islands and others – are geographically cut off by the Pacific Ocean, with their DNA providing a unique window into how human ancestors spread across the region.

The latest research, presented at a meeting of the American Society for Human Genetics in Vancouver, bolsters previous findings that there may be another strand to the story of modern humans, with multiple groups of prehistoric human interbreeding.

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-3866832/Pacific-islanders-carry-DNA-unknown-human-species-Genetic-study-reveals-ancient-Melanesians-interbred-mysterious-hominid.html#ixzz5GCJo7Bcs
Follow us: @MailOnline on Twitter | DailyMail on Facebook

Rank and Status in Polynesia and Melanesia: Introduction

Introduction

Jean Guiart

FULL TEXT

1Douglas Oliver m’est arrivé à Nouméa, un jour de la fin de 1949 si je ne m’abuse, alors que je peinais dans le démarrage d’une carrière scientifique à partir d’une formation reçue à une époque fertile en orages. Après Radcliffe-Brown vu à Paris en 1947, c’était le deuxième anthropologue anglo-saxon avec lequel j’entrai en contact. Nous sortions de la guerre, et Douglas Oliver, qui avait servi de conseiller politique à l’Amiral Halsey, en Nouvelle-Calédonie, était un homme puissant.

2La simplicité de son contact, et la matérialité des problèmes auxquels il savait s’intéresser – quel meilleur instrument trouver pour éviter la peine des hommes, par rapport à la noix de coco, ou à la plantation des tubercules d’ignames – me le rendirent sympathique et nous n’avons cessé d’être liés depuis, au travers des tragédies personnelles dont fut traversée sa vie.

3Formé à l’anthropologie aux Etats-Unis, mais aussi à Vienne en Autriche, Douglas Oliver échoppait de façon rafraichissante aux modalités habituelles de la compétition universitaire américaine. Il apparaissait mû essentiellement par une volonté d’objectivité scientifique et par la recherche de lois qui puissent être mises en évidence comme gouvernant les sociétés humaines. La sincérité de cette recherche me fascinait en même temps qu’elle m’inquiétait, les manipulations de la psychologie collective subies au cours de la guerre m’ayant rendu sceptique sur la capacité des intellectuels à embrasser le problème dans sa complexité, et craintif quant aux conséquences politiques, sinon quant aux tragédies humaines, qui pourraient découler d’idées aussi séduisantes que mal fondées.

4La lecture des travaux de Douglas Oliver devait me rassurer pleinement. Leur scrupuleuse honnêteté intellectuelle était rare. L’information était là, ce que l’ethnographe avait vu, ce qu’on lui avait dit, comment il arrivait à certaines conclusions. Tout le dossier était présent pour être compris, disséqué, critiqué. Seul à l’époque, Raymond Firth fournissait, dans un autre genre, en plus volumineux et parfois moins facile à décrypter, un ensemble tout aussi satisfaisant. Moi qui émergeait d’une révolte à lire les écrits de Margaret Mead, où la réalité décrite, de toute évidence biaisée en faveur d’une thèse pré-existante, n’est jamais justifiée, je reprenais confiance en l’anthropologie américaine. Quelques livres bien choisis, que Douglas Oliver me fit envoyer, achevèrent d’équilibrer mon jugement.

5Je crois d’ailleurs que D. Oliver est celui qui m’a le plus influencé, après Maurice Leenhardt. J’ai constamment erré d’un modèle à l’autre, essayant d’en combiner les leçons, sans être bien sûr d’être parvenu à une forme originale d’expression scientifique.

6Plus tard nous avons collaboré à l’organisation et à l’application d’un programme de travail établi sans fanfares pour la Polynésie Française, réalisé avec persistance, et où pour la première fois les rapports des chercheurs ont été disponibles pour leurs collègues, et pour les pouvoirs publics locaux, avant la publication. Moyennant quoi il y eut beaucoup d’harmonie et fort peu de froissements, ce qui est rare. Un des résultats de tout ce travail, l’ouvrage monumental de Douglas Oliver sur Tahiti, est non seulement d’un anthropologue de qualité, qui à tout moment dit ce qu’il sait et avoue ce qu’il ne sait pas, mais aussi d’un historien répugnant aux attaques inutiles et au règlement de comptes artificiellement réchauffés.

7Cependant Siuai, à Bougainville aux Salomons du Nord (Papouasie Nouvelle Guinée) restera sa contribution principale à l’avancement de la connaissance. Malgré une première tentative de Gregory Bateson, qui tourna court du fait de l’indifférence du milieu scientifique d’alors, Douglas Oliver sera le premier à établir une corrélation structurelle entre la perception et l’appropriation de l’espace, c’est-à-dire l’habitat, les cultures, la tenure foncière et le système des symboles sociaux et religieux de la culture étudiée. Son étude monographique sur les mumi, reste pour longtemps la seule analyse sérieuse et approfondie de l’institution abusivement résumée par d’autres sous le nom de “big-man”, reprenant un des termes méprisants introduit par la colonisation, et une analyse aussi simpliste que celle des quelques trafiquants et voyageurs européens du siècle dernier. Le travail de Douglas Oliver a pour moi d’énormes implications théoriques, en particulier pour comprendre l’origine et l’évolution des systèmes de grades aux Nouvelles-Hébrides (namanggi).

8C’est à partir de l’expérience reçue des Siuai que Douglas Oliver devait aborder Tahiti. L’entreprise était une gageure, tant tout ce qui a pu être publié à ce jour est teinté d’exagérations romantiques, le Polynésien s’assurant par là qu’il ne tomberait pas sous le coup du mépris racial qui créerait plus tard les conditions de l’esclavage des Mélanésiens, et le Blanc y trouvant la justification de l’existence – passée – d’utopies sociales qui le consolaient d’un présent européen peu fait de tolérance, ou la bonne conscience compensant une activité locale trop mercantile.

9On dépouille peut-être un peu moins ceux pour qui on professe quelque admiration. Quoi qu’il en soit la population tahitienne a survécu dans des conditions moins dramatiques que ses frères d’Hawaii. Mais les conditions psychologiques spécifiques de cette forme de survie de la cohérence d’une société n’étaient pas faites pour faciliter une enquête scientifique qu’au fond personne n’avait encore tenté.

10L’écriture tranquille, jamais affirmative sans justifications, apporte cependant une révolution : la reconnaissance de ce que la plus grande partie de ce que l’on croyait savoir sur Tahiti consistait en la répétition indéfinie des mêmes affirmations par des auteurs différents. De la critique de détail de chaque information, confrontée à toutes les autres, naît une image constituée de plus de questions que de certitudes. Pas plus de trente mille habitants à l’arrivée des premiers navigateurs, un habitat dispersé avec quelques points forts, des systèmes d’alliance fluctuants, une insertion technologiquement appropriée dans l’environnement naturel, une société stratifiée traversée de courants par moments très fort, l’image romantique de la Tahiti ancienne se transforme, à partir d’un langage sans prétentions et d’une analyse critique aigüe, en une description à multiples facettes beaucoup plus riche que ce que l’on croyait savoir jusqu’alors. La société maohi résume en quelque sorte, parce qu’on y retrouve les mêmes fondements, la société océanienne tout entière. Il suffit de pousser dans un sens pour obtenir tel résultat apparent, ou tel autre, mais au fond c’est la même société d’agriculteurs et de pêcheurs un peu cueilleurs quand ils peuvent se permettre cette forme d’insouciance. Les solutions choisies par la société tahitienne ne sont pas celles que ses sœurs ont préférées, dans d’autres circonstances.

11Le meurtre rituel et la mise à mort des enfants de mère de rang inférieur avaient la même fonction de contrôle de la démographie qu’ailleurs la chasse aux têtes. La société aristocratique tahitienne fonctionnait de façon différente des sociétés polynésiennes ou mélanésiennes, qui permettaient le mariage entre catégories sociales de rangs inégaux avec des conséquences fort variables. Aux îles Loyalty, une femme de rang élevé élève son consort à son rang, alors qu’à Tonga elle assure à ses enfants un rang supérieur à celui de leur père, mais si elle est de rang inférieur, elle les entraîne vers le bas. Les subtilités de l’hypergamie et de l’hypogamie n’étaient pas de règle à Tahiti dont le système social et politique était loin d’être aussi centralisé et hiérarchisé que celui de Tonga – plus on est loin généalogiquement du Tui Tonga, plus on est bas dans l’échelle sociale.

12Malgré les oppositions flagrantes entre sociétés océaniennes, il apparaît des tendances générales. A mon expérience Oliver a raison de penser que le terme d’Ali’i s’appliquait à tous les enfants de parents ayant droit chacun à cette qualification, et que le terme n’était plus de saison dès qu’une certaine distance généalogique était atteinte. Des références à certaines fonctions des dignitaires des cours loyaltiennes (atesi sine haze) permettaient d’éclairer le fonctionnement de l’institution du Iatoai, dont les responsabilités se trouvent partagées entre plusieurs dignitaires au Centre des Nouvelles-Hébrides. Bien des sociétés océaniennes usent d’un même lexique social fondamental, mais en font des combinaisons différentes, par suite d’un jeu logique et intellectuel qui dépasse nos facultés d’imagination.

13Douglas Oliver est le premier auteur moderne à avoir attiré l’attention sur l’importance de l’étude de la tenure foncière pour l’analyse des relations sociales et je puis témoigner ici que toutes les études de ce type ont été réalisées depuis pour l’accomplissement de son propre désir. Son jugement que la tenure en indivision, si mal jugée par les spécialistes occidentaux de l’agriculture, était le plus grand facteur d’équilibre de la société tahitienne moderne, s’est constamment vérifié. Son point de vue reste donc valable, que l’indivision était non seulement le résultat d’un processus d’adaptation, mais aussi un facteur dynamique transféré de la tradition ancienne à l’état de chose actuel. Etant donné l’importance du problème, et les conséquences de toute politique mal inspirée sur ce point, on est en droit de juger que Douglas Oliver a rendu là un service signalé à la nation tahitienne. Ainsi rejoignait-il une de ses préoccupations constantes, ne pas être inutile.

AUTHOR

© Société des Océanistes, 1978

Terms of use: http://www.openedition.org/6540

Tahitian Words for Race and Class

Paul Kay

FULL TEXT

1The system of meanings underlying Tahitian words for racial/social categories is examined and compared to the results of similar studies on the corresponding lexical domain in the Portuguese of Brazil. The principal theoretical conclusion is that, while a distinctive feature (or componential analysis) model of lexical structure does not fit these data, a semantic model which countenances continuous quantities and functions does fit the data. The more general conclusion is drawn that “almost any sort of structure that is easily and naturally apprehended by the mind may perhaps serve as the underlying schema for a lexical domain”. Exemplification for the general view is given in terms of several nondiscrete cognitive schemata underlying the meanings of terms in diverse lexical domains drawn from a variety of languages.

2Le système de significations qui sert de base pour les mots tahitiens désignant les catégories raciales et sociales est examiné et comparé aux résultats d’études semblables dans le domaine lexical correspondant chez les Portugais du Brésil. La principale conclusion théorique est que, tandis qu’un modèle d’une caractéristique distinctive (ou analyse de composantes) d’une structure lexicologique ne s’accorde pas avec ces données, un modèle sémantique qui approuve des quantités et des fonctions continues s’accorde avec elles. La conclusion plus générale est que “presque toute sorte de structure qui est facilement et naturellement saisie par l’esprit pourrait peut-être servir de schéma fondamental pour un domaine lexical. La démonstration pour un aperçu général est donnée en fonction de plusieurs schémas cognitifs continus qui servent de base pour les significations de termes en divers domaines lexicaux tirés d’une variété de langues.

I. INTRODUCTION

3It is a pleasure to contribute to this volume, honoring Douglas Oliver some data and tentative conclusions regarding Tahitians’ conceptions of major social categories as reflected in their use of language. The field work on which this essay was based was conducted under the guidance of Professor Oliver in 1959 and 1960 in Papeete and a rural district of Tahiti, and the main body of the essay, Section II, appeared in essentially its present form in a Ph D thesis (Kay 1963) also done under the direction of Professor Oliver. The data reported as well as the theoretical framework employed in Section II are thus a decade and a half old. I cannot therefore vouch for the contemporary ethnographic accuracy of the account given therein. I would hope, nevertheless, that apart from any vestigial ethnographic value, conclusions reached in 1960 regarding Tahitians’ conceptions of major social categories may have some application to other ethnographic investigations in the Pacific and other areas, and perhaps also to some more general semantic questions. in this hope I have added Section III, which attempts to relate the data and model discussed in Section II to some more recent research by anthropologists on racial/social categories and Section IV, which considers some recent linguistic work on other sets of words whose meanings seem to imply underlying notions of quantity and statistical distribution. Section IV also presents some more general proposals for semantic theory : 1 – that the semantic values of linguistic forms are better understood in terms of indices to cognitive schemata than in terms of sets of features (C. Fillmore 1975), 2 – that virtually any sort of formal structure that is readily apprehended by the human mind may serve as such a cognitive schema and 3 – that in particular such schemata may, and often do, involve quantitative continua.

II. THE SEMANTICS OF RACE IN TAHITIAN AND TAHITIAN FRENCH

4The major terms used for racial classification by native speakers of Tahitian, whether or not they are also native speakers of French, are listed below (page 71 ) with French equivalents and English glosses. The Tahitian and French forms are, in my opinion, practically identical semantically. This assertion is sufficiently novel to require substantiation. Since I formed the hypothesis only after returning from the field, such evidence as can be adduced in support of it will have to be argumentative and anecdotal rather than systematic and factual.

5The semantics of French, as spoken by Tahitians, tends to differ from metropolitan French in key areas, particularly with regard to social roles and behavior patterns, so as to furnish a word for word isomorphism with Tahitian conceptualization of these areas. For example, usage by Tahitians, when speaking French, of the words honte and pitié frequently strikes a metropolitan Frenchman as inappropriate. I would contend that for Tahitians in the semantic contexts where the substitutions are made, these words mean exactly the same things as the Tahitian words haama and arofa, although no one who learned French in France would use honte and pitié in these ways. Haama and arofa are frequently used words in Tahitian. In glossing them, one is inclined to emphasize their “orientation to action” or “attitude to alter” aspect much more than their aspect of expression of an internal state. The Tahitian words describe modalities of social behavior while the roughly corresponding French words are concerned with internal states of individual persons. However, when Tahitians speak French, it is clear–albeit intuitively–that in the vast majority of cases it is the Tahitian meaning which is intended rather than the French. When asked in French why he does not take action to collect a debt owed him, a Tahitian will often reply “Ça fait honte”. I think it is fair to represent the way this utterance strikes a Frenchman by the gloss : ‘That is/would be shameful’. However, an appropriate gloss for the corresponding Tahitian “E haama”, might be, “That is/would be thoroughly improper”. There is doubtless some overlap in the meanings, but they are not identical. The French word is used, not to signify its usual meaning in metropolitan French, but the meaning of haama.

6This formulation accounts for an otherwise puzzling fact. For a long time in Tahiti I was perplexed by the assertion of some metropolitan French people that even Tahitians who appear to speak French fluently and elegantly, “do not really understand the meaning of the words”. The statement is perplexing because it is difficult to imagine how a large number of individuals can learn a language well on the plane of expression and yet each independently learn it poorly on the plane of meaning. However, in terms of the argument of the preceding paragraph, the observation is easy enough to account for. The differences between the French spoken by Frenchmen and by Tahitians are due only partially to imperfect learning on the part of individual Tahitians. More generally, there exists in Tahiti a dialect of French which differs systematically from metropolitan French in some semantic areas (and in some phonetic details) while differing hardly at all morphologically and syntactically.

  • 1 Among Tahitians a reliable shibboleth of speakers of the metropolitan semantic dialect of French i (…)

7There are, of course, a few Tahitians, particularly those educated in France, who speak the standard semantic dialect just as there are a great many who speak no dialect of French at all1. These facts do not affect the hypothesis that a local semantic dialect exists. The characteristic fact about this local dialect is that in certain areas of meaning, especially those dealing with common social roles and social behaviors, many French words are used as if they were perfect translations of certain Tahitian words. Hence, when a Tahitian discusses social behavior in French, his semantics, and hence the cognitive schemata implicit in his discourse, are apt to remain largely Tahitian.

  • 2 The English glosses ore quite deceiving if taken os translation. They refer only to the biological (…)

MAJOR CATEGORIES OF RACIAL CLASSIFICATION IN PAPEETE2

MAJOR CATEGORIES OF RACIAL CLASSIFICATION IN PAPEETE2

8The list of terms given in the preceding table is not exhaustive. However, a model which takes the five columns of the table as exhaustive of the universe of categories of racial classification is an adequate representation of the native conceptualization of race. (From this point on, I am concerned only with categories I, II and III. For discussion of Chinese and part- Chinese, see Moench 1963).

9However, the model is not simply a list of these categories, as the list can be and is applied in two different ways. First and most obvious, the three categories are sometimes used in an ordinary way to refer to empirical classes of individual people. informants generally agree about the defining attributes of Tahitians, mixed-bloods and Europeans. Theoretically, although not in fact, any two informants will agree about the classification of a mutual acquaintance. (For discussion of informant agreement about diagnostic criteria and disagreement on specific diagnoses see Frake : 1961). However, I have often found inter-in-formant agreement on specific assignments of individuals to categories which run counter to the explicit criteria of classification. For example, although pure Polynesian ancestry is an explicit criterion for the designation Tahitian, I found very few speakers who would classify a poor and uneducated individual living “Tahitian style” as anything but Tahitian, despite an almost pure caucasoid appearance. in this respect, the situation is quite different from what Frake describes for Subanun diseases, as speakers are clearly not making individual judgments on the basis of the simple presence-absence variables (e.g. rich vs. poor, educated vs. uneducated, racially “pure” vs. racially mixed) they claim to be using.

  • 3 Cliff’s theory was tested on a sample of nine English adverbs of intensity (e. g., somewhat, very, (…)

10The psycholinguistic work of N. Cliff proposes a semantic theory which offers a plausible explanation for this situation3. The aspect of Cliff’s work that is suggestive in the present context is the general notion that the variables defining semantic schemata may be quantitative, in the usual sense of having some of the nontrivial properties of the real numbers, and that these variables may be combined in ordinary algebric formulae to define the semantic values of lexical categories. With regard to the first kind of racial classification in Tahiti, the inference would be that what Tahitian informants present as discrete, presence-absence type diagnostic criteria for racial classification (such as rich vs. poor) may in fact be continuous variables.

11As previously noted, Tahitian informants can assign individual persons to racial categories in such a way as to produce a high degree of agreement among informants, despite the fact that the assignments are acknowledged to violate one or more of the explicit criteria of classification. It is possible that in addition to using continuous variables as the basis of their judgments, in contrast to the dichotomous variables they profess to be using, speakers are using some particular, but at present unknown, algebraic combination of these scale values, in producing judgements. This combination would constitute a continuum of Tahitianess-Europeaness along with individuals placed on the basis of an algebraic combination of a number of quantitatively perceived properties of the individual. The lexical categories Tahitian, mixed-blood, European would then index regions on this continuum. Of course, this does not mean that speakers are aware of using such a schema any more than Cliff’s subjects were aware that by “very bad” they meant something just about exactly one and one half times as unfavorable as “bad”.

12Evidence was not systematically collected to substantiate this hypothesis as it was formulated only after field work was completed. Nevertheless, I can think of no alternative hypothesis which will account adequately for the following incidentally gathered facts and observations :

  1. Informants agree on the criteria for racial classification.
  2. These criteria are presented as dichotomous variables, but they are all readily, and perhaps more naturally, conceivable as continuous variables (e.g. rich vs. poor, educated vs. uneducated, pure Polynesian ancestry vs. mixed ancestry).
  3. The conscious model for racial classification presented by many informants is empirically inoperable as it : 1 – claims to be able to classify any individual and 2 – defines the classes in terms of a proper subset of the set of logical possibilities of presence and absence of the diagnostic criteria. Hence it cannot classify those individuals whose description in terms of these criteria falls outside the set of descriptions which are assigned to a racial category. Reconsidering the example given above, there is no theoretical classification for a person who is poor, uneducated, and follows a typically Tahitian pattern of economic consumption but is at the same time of largely European ancestry. However, such individuals definitely exist.
  4. There is considerable agreement among informants on certain individual classifications which are impossible by the conscious model. So far, I have discussed only one of the ways the racial classification dimension is used in Papeete. I have perhaps over-emphasized certain speculations about the mathematical details of this way of classifying people. Whatever validity these speculations may contain, the general nature or “purpose” of the classification deserves more emphasis. This usage, like most classification schemes we are familiar with, assigns every object to one and only one class. It partitions a set of objects4. Used in this way, the racial dimension has three regions to one and only one of which every person may be assigned once and for all. According to this usage of the racial dimension, at a given time there exist in the non-Chinese population of Papeete three distinct collections of individuals : one Tahitian, one mixed-blood, and one European. Each collection is felt to have its own membership, customs, attitudes, typical style of life, etc.

13However, this is not the only way the racial dimension is used. It is also true that speakers, at different times and in different social or conversational contexts, assign the same person to different racial categories. The form this phenomenon most often takes is for the speaker to contrast the same individual (often but always himself) at one time with “the Tahitians” and at another with “the mixed-bloods”. Generally this occurs when some derogatory aspect of the stereotype of the group in question is prominent in the discussion. For example, I have heard many Papeete residents at one time contrast themselves with the “uneducated natives” and at another with the “avaricious mixed-bloods”. In effect, a speaker appears to locate the same person, including himself, in different regions of the racial dimension on different occasions. Used in this way the racial dimensions does not determine membership in a set of fixed classes of people.

14The question naturally arises of the relation between the two apparently conflicting uses of the racial dimension. Do they operate independently of one another ; is the usage to be employed by a given person at a certain time determined randomly or according to some decision function of which even the arguments are unknown ? Or is one of these usages basic and the other an alternative which operates only under certain specifiable conditions ? I would incline toward the latter view. Here again the data are only anecdotal, but they are better accounted for by the second explanation.

15An approximation to the unconscious model of social classification employed by Tahitians might be something like this : in general, an individual is assigned to the social category corresponding to his position on the racial dimension as determined by the perceptions of the classifier of his measures on the appropriate scales. However, there are only two cutting points on the dimension, determining three lexical categories. A situation may, therefore, arise in which the speaker wishes to distinguish the degree of nativeness-Europeanness of two individuals both of whom he would usually place in the same region. Since both individuals belong by definition to the same absolute racial category (as they are in the same region of the scale), one or the other must be assigned to a category other than his usual one.

  • 5 Stephen Palmer has suggested to me that apparently inconsistent classification of a given individu (…)

16As far as may be judged, this hypothesis is substantiated by the data. Every case I recorded of a surprising racial designation turns out upon later consideration to involve contrast of two actors in a diadic interaction situation usually involving economic competition. The general pattern is to attribute the behavior of the actor whose part the speaker is not taking to some unpleasant aspect of the stereotype of the racial category to which that actor is assigned. The rule determining which actor is assigned to a category other than his usual one does not appear to be connected with whose side the speaker is on. Evidently if the two actors being classified are both in either the lowest or the highest region, there can only be one choice for the unusual classification ; the actor nearest the boundary of the middle region is displaced to that region. If both actors are in the middle region, one might suspect that the choice for unusual classification is made on the basis of which actor is closest to a boundary ; in a sense, the choice is made which requires the least “stretching” of the racial dimension5.

17The following anecdote will illustrate the kind of data relevant to the general hypothesis governing alternative usages of the racial dimension. One informant, with whom I had many conversations, explicitly classified himself as a mixed-blood. Also in normal conversation he implicitly and naturally assigned himself to this category in explaining to me the style of life of the “aborigines” in contrast to his own. Subsequently an unpleasant situation arose between this man and a European tenant of his concerning a rented property. Throughout the rather long and acrimonious dispute the informant reported each development to me, invariably putting a low value on the conduct of his tenant and attributing the tenant’s immoral behavior to his race. So far, no individual’s absolute racial classification had necessarily been overriden.

18However, later the same informant became involved in a somewhat similar situation with an individual he classified as a mixed-blood. In this case, my informant did not hesitate to classfy himself as a Tahitian, in contrast to his mixed-blood antagonist, and explain the other’s behavior in terms of the avariciousness and immorality of “the mixed-bloods”.

19Tahitian words for race and class appear to take their meaning from a quantitative dimension cut into three regions, each of which determines a racial category. By and large, individuals agree on the boundaries of the categories, but the exact extent and possible patterning of individual variation with respect to the placing of boundaries could only be determined by direct investigation specifically designed for that purpose. Since this model was constructed after the field work was concluded, no attempt was made to design or perform such an investigation. There probably exists variation among individual Tahitians with respect to the particular boundary points between regions of the racial continuum and perhaps with respect to other details of racial classification. The general framework presented here seems, however, to be widely shared.

III. WORDS FOR RACE AND CLASS IN BRAZILIAN PORTUGUESE

20M. Harris has studied the words for race and class in Brazilian Portuguese and reported his findings in an article entitled “Referential Ambiguity in the Calculus of Brazilian Racial Identity” (Harris 1970). The title expresses Harris’s conclusion that Brazilian Portuguese words such as branco, preto, negro, mulato, etc. are ambiguous. By “ambiguous” Harris does not mean what is usually meant by that term. Rather what Harris wishes to demonstrate is that these words are either (a) vague, (b) subject to wide interpersonal variation in meaning or (c) both. The distinction between (a), (b) and (c) is not important to Harris as he is not interested in language as a psychological phenomenon. His interests are purely social and he wishes only to show that words designating racial/social types in Brazilian Portuguese do not constitute a shared semantic system which permits native speakers of this language to communicate effectively in this domain. in his concluding paragraph Harris speculates “… there may be a positive, conservative structural reason for maintaining and maximizing the noise and ambiguity (in this semantic domain)… Objectively, there is a correspondence between class and race in Brazil… ; the more negroid the phenotype the lower the class. Prevention of the development of racial ideology may very well be a reflex of the conditions which control the development of class confrontations… in Brazil racism and caste formation would unite the lower class” (Harris 1970 : 12). Harris seems to be saying that since clear talk about race and class might lead to class consciousness on the part of the oppressed black majority (and thence perhaps to revolution), the society or someone or something creates in the language a systematically confused semantic system regarding race and class that prevents such clear talk. Harris does not speculate on the agent or the process that might act upon the language acquisition process of each Brazilian child to bring about the unusual situation he claims to have discovered.

21Surprisingly, such peculiar situations, in which certain social actors achieve a deliberate vagueness in language, are not entirely unknown. I. Zaretsky (1969) has demonstrated that systematic vagueness exists in the argot of Spiritualist churches :

22“A particularly interesting example of an ethnosemantic analysis… of unquestionable sociological significance is that performed by Irving Zaretsky on the religious argot of San Francisco Spiritualist Churches (Zaretsky 1969). Zaretsky found that many common English words were being used in ways that were clearly not the normal meanings of those words. An ethnosemantic analysis of all such words revealed a subset with the following interesting properties. Words belonging to this set have unmistakable although vague connotations of supernatural “spirit forces” at work in the world, and in particular through the agency of the medium. However, the referential meanings of these forms are extremely nebulous. This is not a question of the investigator’s being unable to discover the referential meanings but rather that Zaretsky has shown through detailed comparison of the contexts in which these expressions are employed that the referential meanings are in fact very vague. He then goes on to show two important ways in which the very referential vagueness of these words contributes to the perpetuation of the social organization in which they are employed. First, referential vagueness permits the medium to transmit acceptable messages from the spirits to a parishioner who has written down a specific question that the medium has not seen. For example, Ethnographer : Can you recall any message you received in church recently ? Informant : Well, let’s see… She told me I was going to get drafted… Ethnographer : Did she actually come right out and tell you you will get drafted, just like that ? Informant : Well, not exactly. She kept muttering about how I have upset conditions around me and how she saw the color green in my vibration…She just went on like that for a while…Well, I know what she was talking about because I waited to hear from my draft board all this time…But I certainly didn’t want her to tell me that I will be drafted… Ethnographer : How did you know what she meant by condition, vibration, environment ? informant : Well I didn’t… No, actually it was obvious…I guess she could tell psychically what bothered me…Well, I don’t know, but I think it was pretty obvious what she meant…” (Zaretsky 1969 : 124). This referential vagueness of the terms employed permits the ardent parishioner to endow them with whatever particular referential interpretation he wishes on each occasion of use. Secondly, this same referential vagueness protects the medium from the possible legal charge that she is engaged in the illicit activity of forecasting specific future events for money (Kay 1970 : 25f).

23In the case of the Spiritualist churches it is clear who is causing the pathological linguistic vagueness and how they are doing it. The Spiritualist argot is essentially the property of the mediums and they teach it to neophyte parishioners. But who or what is teaching each little Brazilian child to use words for race and class in ways that are (a) excessively vague, or (b) different one from the other, or (c) both ? Granting for the sake of argument that if such vagueness in fact existed in Brazilian racial terms it might in some sense support the political status quo, by what plausible mechanism could it have been brought about ? The ruling classes, who are the ones Harris suggests are the beneficiaries of this alleged vagueness of language, are not in charge of the process of language acquisition of the black peasants and workers.

24In short, lacking any mechanism that might bring about such a peculiar linguistic condition, Harris’s assertion that systematic vagueness and/or uncontrolled interpersonal variation is the rule amongst Brazilian Portuguese terms for racial types is implausible and leads one to examine the method he used to arrive at such a startling conclusion. Harris’s procedure was first to make “a deck of 72 full face drawings constructed out of the combination of three skin tones, three hair forms, two lip, two nose, and two sex types” (p. 2). Each subject was exposed to the thirty-six picture of his or her own sex, and was required to give the qualidade, typo, raca, or cor of the fictional person depicted. No indication is given of who thought up the stimuli nor of whether any checks were made to determine if the subjects thought the pictures looked like people. Of the eight examples reproduced in Harris’s article some look to me, speakingly strictly intuitively, more like real people than others. It is clearly Harris’s intention that each series of thirty-six pictures give some sort of representation of the diversity of Brazilian physiognomic types, but there is no evidence or argument that they in fact do so. in short, the stimuli lack face validity (in every sense) and Harris seems unaware that in studies of this type, where proxy stimuli are used–in this case artifically constructed pictures alleged to represent the domain of racial types rather than a careful selection of real persons or pictures of real persons–it is generally expected that a demonstration be given that the stimuli really are from the subjects’ point of view proxies for what the investigator wishes to sc interpret them.

25One might guess the next step would be to elicit the words for racial types without using the pictures and then ask subjects which picture (s) best represent each word. Such was not the case. Rather Harris presented all the pictures to each subject and required the subject to assign a racial-type name to the picture. So if, as appears to be the case, many of the stimulus pictures are not even convincing renderings of Homo sapiens, much less good exemplars of any particular Portuguese racial word, the subjects are forced to assign them a racial word anyway.

26Under these conditions, it is not surprising that subjects were less than unanimous is naming the pictures. It is precisely the lack of agreement among subjects in this picture naming task, however, that leads Harris to conclude that the Brazilian Portuguese words for racial types are “ambiguous” and spurs him on to the socio-political speculations mentioned above.

27So far we have considered only the extent to which Harris’s stimuli represent real phenotypic diversity in the Brazilian population. But even if we were to grant for the sake of argument–and against plausability–that these stimuli do in fact satisfy this criterion, the study suffers from a more serious conceptual defect. Harris himself is aware intuitively that the meanings of the words in question have something to do with physical appearance but also a lot to do with socio-economic status. Harris says, “Many observers have pointed out the partial subordination of ‘racial’ to class identity in Brazil exemplified by the tendency for individuals of approximately equal socioeconomic rank to be categorized by similar “racial” terms regardless of phenotypic contrasts and by the adage, ‘money whitens'” (1970 : 1). But of course if the semantic domain in question contains a complex combination of factors regarding physiognomy, motor habits, facial expression, dress, income, speech, etc. and the stimulus materials provide information only on the first factor, it is distressingly easy to see why the subjects cannot apply the words more consistently to the stimuli than they do, and of course this lack of interspeaker agreement in classifying such impoverished stimuli allows no conclusion regarding vagueness or ambiguity in the words under study.

28The study contains several other errors of method and interpretation, not all of which need be considered here. One of these is pointed out by R. Sanjek (1971) who performed a follow up study using the same stimulus materials but supplemented by some other procedures. A student of Harris’s, Sanjek, while courteosly citing Harris’s conclusion of inherent “ambiguity”, found that inter-speaker variability was dramatically reduced when speakers from a single speech community were studied by the same technique. Harris has pooled the data of subjects from the states of Bahia, Alagoas, Pernambuco, Ceara, Brasilia, and Sao Paulo, in itself an explanation for the lack of intersubject agreement. Sanjek comments with commendable caution :

29“I am reluctant to claim that my analysis extends beyond my sample or, at most, beyond Sitio. Studies within the state of Bahia report terms which I did not find at all (Kottak 1963 ; Hutchinson 1957), even though I asked deliberately several informants if they knew them. The term mulato, which has both low salience and low level of agreement in Sitio, is no doubt of high salience in other parts of Brazil as Harris’ data (1970) and a few tests I conducted with the picture set in Salvador and Rio de Janeiro suggest. I should add that several informants in Sitio mentioned in conversations a term which is used for preto in Vila do Conde, the nearest community, but which, they said, ‘we do not use in Sitio’ ” (Sanjek 1971 : 1139).

30On the whole, the data Sanjek presents on Brazilian racial terms are consonant with the kind of model proposed above for comparable terms in Tahiti, although Sanjek does not reach this conclusion. There appears to be a racial-social semantic continuum whose end points might be roughly glossed “Black/poor/uneducated” and “white/rich/educated”. A particular individual’s position on this continum is calculated by means of a complex function taking a series of physical appearance variables and social variables – some discrete valued and some continuous – onto the continuum, which then represents some weighted average, loosely speaking, of all the constituent variables. I would suggest that this is the basic situation reflected by the common Brazilian metaphor “money whitens”. “Racial” terms represent regions on this continuum, and they are no more ambiguous or vague than other words.

31There is, moreover, evidence in the Sanjek article that Brazilian Portuguese contains the same kind of double barreled usage of race terms as Tahitian. That is, these words may be used not only to designate a member of the class of people having a value within a certain range on the continuum corresponding to that word but also to indicate a contrast between two individuals whose absolute values fall within the same region :

32“In presenting a cognitive map which I claim is shared in a modal sense (by at least five-sixths of my informants), I want to be clear that such competence does not have a one-to-one correspondence with verbal behavior. I believe rather that the expression of the cognitive classificationis altered by environmental (situational, sociological) variables which areessential for an understanding of why any term is actually uttered . Such variables would include at least the economic class, the dress, personality, education and relation of the referrant (sic) to the speaker ; the presence of other actors and their relations to the speaker and referrant (sic) ; and contexts of speech, such as gossip, insult, joking, showing affection, maintenance of equality or of differential social status, or pointing out the referrant (sic) in a group.” (Sanjek 1971 : 1128, italics added).

33And Sanjek continues directly in a footnote : “In terms of this last context, on the basis of her fieldwork in Chile where a similar but less complex system obtains, Sister Jennifer Oberg has pointed out to me that identifying one actor as, say, moreno, may indicate merely that he is more “moreno” in appearance than others.” (Sanjek 1971 : 1142).

34It appears that the model posited for the Tahitian data may apply in some degree to Brazilian words for race and class and possibly in the semantics of comparable domains in other languages as well. It would not be surprising if the model constructed for the Tahitian data did not apply point for point in the Brazilian situation, however. in particular, it is apparent that Brazilian Portuguese, even if one takes a single speech community at a time, has a much larger number of racial terms than Tahitian. One possible difference in the underlying semantic model is that there may be more involved than a single race-class continuum. Nevertheless several of Sanjek’s observations suggest that central to this semantic domain is such a continuum’and that an individual’s value on this continuous semantic variable is a function of a number of other variables, some physical, some socio-economic, and some probably cultural, e.g., style of dress, manner of speaking, paralinguistics, body motion, and so on. It also seems clear that racial terms are used sometimes to locate a person on this continuum and at other times to express the relative position of two people on the continuum, leading to apparentinconsistencies in application of the terms. I do not deny the possibility that there tray be some terms whose significance is more purely a matter of physical type than others, but I suggest that further empirical research on Brazilian terms for race and class might well be informed by this sort of model. in general in doing semantics we are not forced to choose between comportential analysis on the one hand and on the other a claim that the domain contains a lot of referential ambiguity, whatever that may mean. There are probably many ways for a language to structure a semantic domain. Almost any sort of structure that is easily and naturally apprehended by the mind may perhaps serve as the underlying schema for a lexical domain. This hypothesis will be developed in the next section, particularly with regard to schemata that involve continuous quantities.

IV. IMPLICATIONS FOR SEMANTIC THEORY

35The model developed in Section II to explicate the meanings of Tahitian words for race and class represents an approach to the semantics of words that differs from the standard, struc tural one. The standard approach to semantics characterizes the meaning of a word as a set of semantic features. This approach is exemplified in Bloomfieldian structural linguistics by Lounsbury (1964) and in generative linguistics by Katz and Fodor (1963). The set of semantic features comprising the meaning of a word is usually interpreted as a set of necessary and sufficient conditions on the application of the word. (For a critical but generally favorable appraisal of the standard feature method, also known as componential analysis, see Lyons 1969. For a negative appraisal see Fillmore 1975).

  • 6 Less detail was given about the rules, but it was indicated that such rules may utilize pragmatic (…)

36The explication given to the meanings of the Tahitian words discussed in Section II does not correspond to a set of semantic features. Rather what was presented was 1 – a cognitive schema for conceptually organizing some part of the real world, i.e., the conceptual continuum of “race” in Tahiti, constructed from a weighted average of values on a variety of physical, social, and cultural dimensions, 2 – a set of lexical categories, ‘Tahitian’, ‘mixed-blood’, ‘European’, and 3 – a body of rules saying how the lexical categories may be applied to various parts of the schema6. Explication of word meanings in terms of schemata, sets of lexical categories, and rules for applying the latter to the former is quite distinct from the traditional semantic feature theory.

37One may ask whether the analytical device adopted in the case of Tahitian words for race and class is merely an ad hoc convenience or whether it exemplifies a general approach that constitutes a serious alternative to the feature theory. I believe the latter is the case, that the cognitive-schema-plus-lexical-set-plusrules-of-application model is a generally preferable alternative to the feature model. I will not, however, argue the issue in its broadest terms here, as those arguments have been made by others (principally Fillmore 1974a, b, and particularly 1975 and the references cited there ; also D’Andrade 1971 and H. Gladwin 1971) . I will rather assume a framework in which a semantic account of a conceptual domain consists of 1 – a cognitive schema 2 – a set of lexical categories and 3 – a body of rules specifying the conditions for felicitous application of the latter to the former.

  • 7 L. Bloom, P. Lightbown and L. Hood (1975 : 22ff.) find a notion of schema essentially the same as (…)

38Fillmore, to whom I am chiefly indebted for this view, uses the term ‘scene’ in roughly the way I am using ‘schema’. The difference in terminological choice apparently has to do with the fact that Fillmore has in mind as paradigm examples the mental representations of prototypical actionsequences, e.g., a commercial transaction, while the examples I have considered in detail–color kinship, ethno-biological categories–tare based on schemata that lack the narrative quality that is connoted by ‘scene’. I would propose ‘schema’ as the more general term, apt both for designating dynamic schemata, ‘scenes’, and non-dynamic schemata of the kind considered in this paper7.

39Fillmore uses the term ‘frame’ for the set of lexical categories, emphasizing that these categories are related, not only to the schema that they index, but also to each other by virtue of the fact that use of any one of them activates the entire schema. Thus, for example, as soon as I mention a purchase, the prototypical commercial transaction schema is activated and questions or comments regarding the price, buyer, seller, etc. are in in order.

40I will retain Fillmore’s use of ‘frame’. Frames, on this view, constitute the relevant sets of lexical categories for semantic analysis. in some cases they will correspond to ‘lexical domains’ or ‘semantic domains’ as specified under the feature theory and in some cases they will not. For example, the kinship frame constitutes a semantic domain under the feature theory since its members may be thought of as sharing a features of meaning (Lounsbury 1964 ; 1073), but the writing frame, containing as it does lexical terms like pencil, paper, language, message would not constitute a semantic domain under, say, Lounsbury’s definition (cf. Fillmore 1975 : 125-6) unless one were to invent an entirely ad hoc feature like ‘involved in the writing schema’.

41Within this assumed framework I would like to address a more particular question : may a cognitive schema on which lexical meanings are based contain continuous quantities or scales ? That is, may continuous quantities play a role in the meanings of words ? I think there is evidence available from a variety of conceptual domains indicating an answer in the affirmative.

42We turn now to some examples of quantitatively based schemata underlying the meanings of words. The first example is from T. Gladwin’s interesting study of navigation on Puluwat in the Central Carolines (T. Gladwin 1970). One particularly important schema employed by these sophisticated navigators is represented in Figure 1 and is based on the local star compass, which in turn is based on the rising and setting positions of sixteen prominent stars distributed at unequal distances around the celestial horizon. One of the words defined by this schema is etak, a unit of distance of a sea voyage. in a particular voyage, a reference island is chosen sc that lines of sight from the rising or setting positions of compass stars through the reference island to the boat’s position will subtend roughly equal intervals on the line of the voyage. Each such interval is called an etak. Since the stars are not equally spaced around the celestial horizon and since it is in general not possible to find a reference island equidistant from the point of departure and the destination, all etakare not equal in miles for a given voyage, and the etak of different voyages are not comparable to one another at all.

43Figure 1, although it conveniently represents the content of etak in Western terms, does not correspond to the image Puluwatese navigators describe in explaining the meaning of etak to their native apprentices. Whereas in our image, the stars and islands are stationary and the boat moves, according to T. Gladwin (1970 : 181-9) the Puluwatese describe a related schema in which the stars and boat are stationary and the islands move. Gladwin assures us that the Puluwatese do not really think the islands move, but it appears more natural to them to represent the situation in terms of the imaginary movement of the islands than in terms of the real movement of the boat. Gladwin does not speculate on why this is the case.

44In Figure 2, I have drawn a picture that I believe accords better with the description in Gladwin’s text of the Puluwatese schema underlying etak. Note that in this schema, with moving islands, the destination island has to move faster than the reference island. Gladwin does not say whether or not he interrogated Puluwatese navigators on this point. etak so calculated are fractions (though not equal fractions) of a voyage, in this case unequal “eighths”. This seems sufficient to satisfy the Puluwatese conceptually and from other things Gladwin has to say about how the Puluwatese think about etak in particular and navigation in general it seems possible that the question whether the reference and destination islands move at different speeds may never have occured to them. Gladwin emphasizes the abstractness of this schema, which he calls a cognitive map, unifying several abstract concepts of the navigational system of this preliterate people. It is clearly a quantitatively based semantic schema.

45Examples of quantitative schemata underlying lexical frames need not be sought in exotic languages. J.R. Ross (1970) has pointed out that implicitly comparative English adjectives such as great, large, big, tall, wide, thick, many, much, often, fast, and so on imply not only the underlying notion of a continuum but also the notion of a distribution over that continuum about some standard, perhaps mean, value and having a known measure of dispersion, perhaps variance or standard deviation. For example, if it takes me on the average thirty minutes to bicycle from my home to the university with a standard deviation of one minute, ninety-nine percent of the time I will make the trip in twenty-seven to thirty-three minutes (assuming the distribution of times is normal, which is not a matter of substance here). in any case, if I make the trip one day in twenty-five minutes, I am surely justified in saying, “I did it fast today”. If on the other hand a teenage boy takes anything between five seconds and an hour on the phone to work up to asking a girl for a date, averaging thirty minutes (and with, say, a standard deviation of twenty minutes), and one evening he accomplishes this feat in twenty-five minutes, I am not justified in saying, “He did it fast tonight”. As Ross says, “The point is that such words (e.g., fast) presuppose a knowledge of the scattering around the mean” (1970 : 365). in our terms, the lexical frames in which such words participate index cognitive schemata which contain not only the notion of an underlying continuum but also a distribution over this continuum with parameters of central tendency and dispersion specified.

46The use of this schema in common talk about ambient temperature furnishes a nice illustration of the frequently elusive distinction between semantic information (that which constitutes the meaning of linguistic expressions) and factual information about the nature of the world (see, for example, Fillmore 1974a : IV-5). This contrast is sometimes stated as the distinction between those items of information that should appear in the dictionary and those which should appear only in an encyclopaedic ethnography. The distinction is also roughly equivalent to what is expressed in semantic feature theory, misleadingly I think, as that between criterial and non-criterial features.

47It has been my experience in living in places that differ not only in mean ambient temperature but in the variances of those distributions that the number of complaints one hears about the weather in these places is about the same. For example, upon moving from Berkeley to Honolulu I was at first struck by what seemed to me unjustified claims of the form “It’s hot today” or “It’s cold today” when the temperature seemed to me not sufficiently extreme to justify such comment. After living in Hawaii for a while, I apparently learned unconsciously the factual information about the variance to be expected in daily temperatures so that I could accurately predict when people would complain about heat or cold and, if I wished, myself complain in a way that would not elicit contradiction from permanent residents. I would suggest an explanation along these lines. The use of hot in “It’s hot today” means roughly ‘more than some numbers of standard deviations above the mean temperature of days in this place at this time of year’. (The precise number of standard deviations is not of course germane to the argument). When I learned to complain about the heat in the way local residents of Hawaii do, I had not learned new semantics for hot and cold but had learned new information about the world. The semantics of hot and cold in the relevant contexts specify deviations from the mean in terms of numbers of standard deviations (or something comparable), but not in terms of absolute distance. To apply the words to the world correctly we have to know the relevant facts about the world, for example the number of degrees of the standard deviation of temperatures, but information about the numerical value of any particular standard deviation of temperatures is not part of the meaning of hot. As the seasons change or we move from place to place the meanings of the words hot, cold, warm, cool do not change ; they remain defined in terms of the degree of variance from the mean of the relevant distribution. What changes is our factual knowledge about the relevant distributions.

Fig. 1. – A Western Version of the Schema Underlying, the Puluwat Concept etak.
Source : T. Gladwin (1970 : 185)

Fig. 2. – A Putatively More Puluwatese Version of the Schema. Underlying the Puluwat Concept etak.
Do,…, Dn represent successive posistions of the moving destination. Ro,…,Rnrepresent successive positions of the moving reference island.

48In the above account I have oversimplified somewhat, but I think the oversimplification does not invalidate the argument. It is probably true that people complain more about heat in the summer and about cold in the winter. Assuming, as is probably the case, that this does not reflect an asymmetry of daily temperatures about their seasonal means, it cannot be that the reference point about which variation is judged is simply the mean temperature for the relevant time and place. Similarly it is quite possible to say felicitously, “Well it’s hot again today, just like every day”, if for example we are in Panama City. Clearly such a locution does not mean that the temperature is several standard deviations above the mean daily temperature for Panama City in Panama City every day. Probably what is meant in these cases is either that it is hot today relative to some point of ideal comfort rather than relative to the mean temperature, or that it is hot relative to some distribution of temperatures over a wider range of places and seasons, or some combination of the two. The point is that in each way in which the original model of temperature distribution, with its reference point and measure of dispersion is defective, the remedy is to propose some other distribution of temperatures as the contextually appropriate one. So the point remains that hot (or cold) are defined in terms of a schema that locates the temperature in question on a continuum of temperatures as further above (or below) a reference point than a certain number of standard deviations. Which is the relevant distribution is to be determined by the hearer from the context. That hearers are not always certain of the contextually appropriate distribution is evidenced by the following sort of dialoque, in which I have participated more than once. “Boy, it’s cold today ” ! “Do you mean it’s cold for Berkeley in the summer or just that we have cold summers ” ? The second speaker is asking implicitly for the correct distribution in which to interpret the word cold, yielding further evidence that it is in terms of a schema involving a statistical distribution that the meaning of hot, cold, warm, cool must be interpreted.

49A third example of a quantitative schema underlying a lexical frame is words for colors. It has been argued in detail (Kay and McDaniel 1975) that the meanings of color words are best represented as functions that map points of a three dimensional space of hue, brightness and saturation into the real interval (O, 1). This mapping is interpreted as a fuzzy set (Zadeh 1965, 1971a, 1971b). Thus a word like green is a fuzzy set, and the higher the number a percept is assigned by the relevant function, the better example of green that percept is. Figure 3 depicts schematically the green function and parts of the adjoining blue and yellow functions, where for convenience brightness and saturation are held constant. This model is supported by the available neurological evidence (De Valois et al. 1966 ; De Valois and Jacobs 1968) and psychophysical evidence ; Kay and McDaniel 1975 ; McDaniel 1972, 1974, forthcoming ; Sternheim and Boynton 1966).

50A fourth example of a group of words defined in terms of underlying quantitative schemata are hedges and intensifiers such as kind of, sort of, somewhat, very, extremely, and so on (Zadeh 1972 ; G. Lakoff 1972). Zadeh and Lakoff treat hedges and intensifiers as predicate modifiers which operate on a fuzzy set changing the shape of the function. For example, the predicate modifier corresponding to the word very “squeezes” the function, as exemplified in Figure 4.

51We have considered several examples of quantitative schemata underlying lexical frames. The examples considered, although few in number, came from both exotic and familiar languages (Tahitian, Puluwatese, Brazilian Portuguese, English) and represent lexical domains that are both perceptual (color words) and highly conceptual (words for race/class). I have not argued here for the schema and frame theory of semantics as such, but only that the relevant schemata may in some cases involve continuous quantities. But if the examples I have given are correct even in their general outlines, then the feature theory, which is based on the presumption that basic semantic units are always discrete, cannot deal successfully with the lexical domains considered here.

Degree of Membership

Degree of Membership

Fig. 3. – Wavelength in Nanometers
Note : 1. The detailed shape of the curves are not intended literally. Only the maxima and minima of the curves as drawn here correspond to established psychophysical parameters.
2. The only pure green sensation (s) are those having a dominant wavelength of ca. 510 nm.
3. Any sensation of dominant wavelength greater than 475 nm. (unique blue) and less than 575 nm. (unique yellow) is to some positive degree green.
Green

Degree of Membership

Degree of Membership

Fig. 4. – Wavelength in Nanometers
Green and Very Green

BIBLIOGRAPHY

DOI are automaticaly added to references by Bilbo, OpenEdition’s Bibliographic Annotation Tool.
Users of institutions which have subscribed to one of OpenEdition freemium programs can download references for which Bilbo found a DOI in standard formats using the buttons available on the right.

REFERENCES

BLOOM, LOIS, Patsy LIGHTBOWN and Lois HOOD, 1975. Structure and Variation in Child Language. ms. 58 pp.

CLIFF, N., 1959. “Adverbs as Multipliers”, PsychologicalReview, V. 66.
DOI : 10.1037/h0045660

CodeCivil, 1959. Paris. Dalloz.

D’ANDRADE, ROY G., 1971. Modifications of the Feature Model. Paper read at the Annual Meeting of the American Anthropological Association. New York.

DE VALOIS, R.L., I. ABRAMOV and G.H. JACOBS. 1966. Analysis of Response Patterns of LGN cells. JournaloftheOpticalSocietyofiAmerica56 : 966-977.
DOI : 10.1364/JOSA.56.000966

DE VALOIS, R.L. and G.H. JACOBS. 1968. Primate Color Vision. Science. 162 : 533 – 40.

FILLMORE, Charles. 1974a. The Future of Semantics. in C. Fillmore, G. Lakoff, R. Lakoff (eds.) BerkeleyStudiesinSyntax andSemantics. Dept. of Linguistics and Institute of Human Learning. Berkeley. 1974b. Pragmatics and the Description of Discourse. In C. Fillmore, G. Lakoff, R. Lakoff (eds.) BerkeleyStudiesinSyntaxandSemantics. Dept, of Linguistics and institute of Human Learning. Berkeley. 1975. An Alternative to Checklist Theories of Meaning. In C. Cogan, H. Thompson, G. Thurgood, K. Whistler, T. Wright (eds.). ProceedingsoftheFirstAnnualMeetingoftheBerkeleyLinguisticSociety. Berkeley.

FRAKE, C. 1961. “The Diagnosis of Disease among the Subanun of Mindanao”, AmericanAnthropologist. 63, 1-
DOI : 10.1525/aa.1961.63.1.02a00070

GLADWIN, Hugh. 1971. Semantics, Schemata, and Kinship. Paper read at Annual Meeting of American Anthropological Association. New York.

GLADWIN,-Thomas. 1970. EastisaBigBird. Harvard. Cambridge, Mass.

HARRIS, Marvin. 1970. “Referential Ambiguity in the Calculus of Brazilian Racial Identity” SouthwesternJournalofAnthropology. 36 : 1-14.
DOI : 10.1086/soutjanth.26.1.3629265

HUTCHINSON, Harry N. 1957. VillageandPlantationLifein NortheasternBrazil. University of Washington Press, Seattle.
DOI : 10.1097/00010694-195801000-00019

KATZ, Gerald and Jerry FODOR. 1963. The Structure of a Semantic Theory. Language. 39 : 19-29.
DOI : 10.2307/411200

KAY, Paul. 1963. SomeAspectsofSocialStructureinManuhoe. Unpublished Ph. D. Dissertation. Harvard.

1970. “Some Theoretical Implications of Ethnographic Semantics”.

CurrentDirectionsinAnthropology(BulletinsoftheAmericanAnthropologicalAssociation. Vol. 3, No. 3, part 2).

KAY, Paul and Chad. McDANIEL. 1975. Color Categories as Fuzzy Sets. ms.

KOTTAK, Courad. 1963. Race Relations in Arembepe. Colombia-Cornell-Harvard-Illinois Summer Field Studies Program. Mimeo.

LAKOFF, G. 1972. Hedges, A Study in Meaning Criteria and the Logic of Fuzzy Concepts. PapersfromtheEightghRegionalMeetingChicagoLinguisticSociety(ed.) P.M. Permanteau, J.N. Fevi, G.C. Phares. Chicago.

LAUNSBURY, Floyd. 1964. The Structural Analysis of Kinship Semantics. in H.G.

Lundt (ed.) ProceedingsoftheNinthinternationalCongressofLinguists. The Hague. Mouton.

MOENCH, R. 1963. EconomicRelationsofthe ChineseintheSocietyIslands. Cambridge, Mass. : Unpublished Ph.D. Thesis (Harvard).

ROSS, John R. 1970. “A Note on Implicit Comparatives” Linguisticinquiry. 1 : 363-660.

SANJEK, Roger. 1971. “Brazilian Racial Terms : Some Aspects of Meaning and Learning” AmericanAnthropologist. 73 : 1126-43.
DOI : 10.1525/aa.1971.73.5.02a00120

STERNHEIM, C.E. and R.M. BOYNTON.

1966. Uniqueness of Perceived Hues investigated with a Continuous Judgemental Technique. JournalofExperimentalPsychology. 72 : 770-76.

ZADEH, L.A. 1965. Fuzzy Sets. informationandControl. 8 : 338-53.

1971a. Quantitative Fuzzy Semantics. informationSciences. 3 : 159-76.

1971b. Fuzzy Languages and Their Relation to Human intelligence. Memo. No. ERL-M302. Electronics Research Laboratory. University of California at Berkeley.

ZARETSKY, I.I. 1969. TheMessageIstheMedium : anEthnosemanticStudyoftheLanguageofSpiritualistChurches. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation. University of California at Berkeley.

NOTES

1 Among Tahitians a reliable shibboleth of speakers of the metropolitan semantic dialect of French is use of the T-V contrast in pronouns and verbs in a way that makes pragmatic sense from a French person’s point of view. Such speakers form a distinct minority.

2 The English glosses ore quite deceiving if taken os translation. They refer only to the biological aspect of a classification which is not mainly biological.

3 Cliff’s theory was tested on a sample of nine English adverbs of intensity (e. g., somewhat, very, extremely) and fifteen evaluative adjectives (e.g., good, bad, contemptible). The theory holds that each adjective in the set has a numerical value representing its degree of favorableness and that each adverb has a multiplicative value, analogous to a scalar in vector multiplication. Hence, the meaning of an expression like “very bad” may be represented by a number and this number is the product of the number assigned to the adjective “bad” and the “scalar” assigned to the adverb “very”. The 135 possible adjectives-adverb pairs were administered to three large groups of undergraduate subjects and the basic scale values for each pair were obtained by the successive intervals technique. The major lines of the theory were very strongly confirmed ; for details see Cliff (1959).

4 Exception is made for hierarchial taxonomies. Such taxonomies do not themselves partition the set of objects but contain within themselves such a partition.

5 Stephen Palmer has suggested to me that apparently inconsistent classification of a given individual across contexts might be due to a particular context’s according greater weight to a given variable than another context gives to that variable. Thus, if the context of discussion is primarily economic, greater weight might be given to economic variables in determining racial classification than if the context of discussion involved, say, Biblical exigencies or athletic ability. According to this view, there is not a unique function from the underlying variables to the racial continuum but a number of such functions, the selection of which on a particular occasion of speaking would depend perhaps on both semantic context (e.g., topic of discussion) and pragmatic context (e.g., relations of interlocutors to each other). This seems a plausible suggestion ; I have at present no way of evaluating it empirically.

6 Less detail was given about the rules, but it was indicated that such rules may utilize pragmatic Information. Thus a mixed-blood person fairly low on the scale might characterize himself as a ‘Tahitian’ in order to distance himself socially from another mixed-blood hearer, but if the same speaker were to try to characterize himself as a Tahitian to on audience all of whose members were clearly more Tahitian than he, it would surely count as an attempt to ingratiate himself rather than as a ploy to distance himself from his interlocutors.

7 L. Bloom, P. Lightbown and L. Hood (1975 : 22ff.) find a notion of schema essentially the same as the one used here useful in modeling the acquisition of semantics by the child.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Title MAJOR CATEGORIES OF RACIAL CLASSIFICATION IN PAPEETE2
URL http://books.openedition.org/sdo/docannexe/image/956/img-1.jpg
File image/jpeg, 209k
Caption Fig. 1. – A Western Version of the Schema Underlying, the Puluwat Concept etak.Source : T. Gladwin (1970 : 185)
URL http://books.openedition.org/sdo/docannexe/image/956/img-2.jpg
File image/jpeg, 325k
Caption Fig. 2. – A Putatively More Puluwatese Version of the Schema. Underlying the Puluwat Concept etak.Do,…, Dn represent successive posistions of the moving destination. Ro,…,Rn represent successive positions of the moving reference island.
URL http://books.openedition.org/sdo/docannexe/image/956/img-3.jpg
File image/jpeg, 381k
Title Degree of Membership
Caption Fig. 3. – Wavelength in NanometersNote : 1. The detailed shape of the curves are not intended literally. Only the maxima and minima of the curves as drawn here correspond to established psychophysical parameters.2. The only pure green sensation (s) are those having a dominant wavelength of ca. 510 nm.3. Any sensation of dominant wavelength greater than 475 nm. (unique blue) and less than 575 nm. (unique yellow) is to some positive degree green.Green
URL http://books.openedition.org/sdo/docannexe/image/956/img-4.jpg
File image/jpeg, 168k
Title Degree of Membership
Caption Fig. 4. – Wavelength in NanometersGreen and Very Green
URL http://books.openedition.org/sdo/docannexe/image/956/img-5.jpg
File image/jpeg, 143k

AUTHOR

University of California

© Société des Océanistes, 1978

Terms of use: http://www.openedition.org/6540

Tahitian Folk Medicine

Antony Hooper

FULL TEXT

1This paper is an ethnographic account of the Tahitian concept of ma’i’sickness’, and is based on field research in the Iles sous-le-vent. The first section outlines the four major categories of ma’i commonly distinguished by Tahitians – Injury, True sickness, Ghost sickness and Retribution sickness – and the principles which underlie these distinctions. This Is followed by a description of the diagnostic and curing practices commonly used in the rural areas ; the role of tahu’a and its place in the diagnostic process is described, together with the preparation and use of herbal remedies. It is suggested that Tahitian diagnostic procedures ore in practice similar to those used by Western medical practitioners, although they begin from wholly different premises. The final section is concerned with the part which ma’i ploys in providing a public commentary and judgements upon the morality of the social relationships which are characteristic of Tahitian rural communities. The Appendix gives a glossary of scientific names for Tahitian herbs and the recipes for the herbal remedies used to treat 32 subvarieties of 7 varieties of True sickness.

Cet article est un rapport ethnographique sur les recherches faites aux Iles Sous-le-Vent sur le concept tahitien de la ma’i (maladie). Dans la première partie sont décrites les quatre plus importantes catégories de ma’ireconnues par les Tahitiens : la blessure, la vraie maladie, la maladie provoquée par les fantômes, et celle qui est un châtiment – ainsi ce qu’a servi de base pour ces distinctions. Ensuite vient la description du diagnostic et des pratiques de guérison employées généralement dans les régions rurales : du rôle du tahu’a et sa place dans l’établissement du diagnostique, puis la préparation et l’utilisation des herbes comme remèdes. Il est suggéré que les procédés pour diagnostiquer une maladie employés par les Tahitiens sont semblables à ceux utilisés par les médecins occidentaux, bien que partant de bases entièrement différentes. La partie finale traite du rôle joué par la ma’i en provoquant des commentaires et jugements publics sur la moralité et les relations sociales caractéristisant des communautés rurales tahitiennes. Un lexique des noms scientifiques des herbes tahitiennes et les recettes pour la préparation des plantes médicinales utilisées pour soigner 32 sous-variétés et 7 formes de ma’isont donnés en appendice.

3Several of the earliest European voyagers in Tahiti, in spite of their difficulties with the local language and the many distractions which attended their visits, made observations of the common sicknesses and some of the local methods used for their treatment. Banks, who was on Tahiti and several islands of the neighbouring Leeward group for nearly four months in 1769, mentions priestly “ceremonies for the cure of sick people” and was impressed by the apparent skill of local surgeons and the Tahitians’ use of both “vulnerary herbs” and medicinal plants (Beaglehole 1962 : I, 374-6). James Morrison, who enjoyed a longer and much more intimate contact with the people a decade or so later, wrote a fairly extensive account of the practices of mediums and the ideas on which their activities were based. He also mentions the Tahitians’ surgical skills, although he had a poor opinion of the medicines which were used. He wrote that ” for any mixed Complaint they have no remedy except it is applyd by Chance tho they always administer Some Medicine with their prayers…” (1935 : 228).

4European contact intensified during the closing decades of the eighteenth century and led to the extensive transformation of Tahitian society during the next twenty years. But whatever else the Tahitians took from Europeans (and they took over much in the way of both ideas and material goods) it is evident that they did not abandon the use of their own medical techniques – in spite of Ellis’ somewhat rosy statement that such heathen practices had “entirely ceased” (1853 : III, 44). Brodie was to note a few years later the people’s “strange superstition that almost any of their wild herbs is preferable to European physic” (n.d. : x, 11), and there are numerous references in missionary journals and letters to the activities of native mediums and curers. Pearse’s account of events in his Leeward Islands parish during 1878 is particularly vivid and full.

5We expelled nine members one month for involving themselves in superstitious practices. One of them was a deacon of the church and the others were relatives. There had been much sickness in the family and several had died. Through the leaven of heathen superstition still lurking in them, they were possessed of the idea that evil spirits still residing in the bones of their ancestors, were the cause of their afflictions. They resolved to burn the bones in order to destroy the power of the spirits. They also consulted the native sorcerer who confirmed them in their determination. But there was the difficulty of knowing the place where the bones were interred. They suspected that they were interred in the vicinity of their old marae, but the sorcerer told them he could discover the place. On the day appointed the relatives were conducted by him to the heathen marae of their ancestors, and after certain preliminaries he told them the place to dig. They at once set to work at the place indicated, and about a foot below the ground discovered a stone receptacle containing human bones, stones cut to the shape of human skulls stone images, one like a dog, another a fowl, another a rat, another a lizard, another a fish etc. These were all taken out by the sorcerer who after performing certain incantations cast them into a large fire… While speaking of superstition I will give you another form of it which is very common among certain families. It came to my knowledge as a case of church discipline at Tahaa. A member of a family was taken very ill native medicine failed to cure. in their distress they sent for the native sorcerer or diviner. On his arrival, after repeating certain formulae, he asked the relatives to confess to him for whose sin the sufferer was possessed by an evil spirit. One after another denied having sinned against him. At last one confessed having thought ill of him in his heart. This was considered to be the cause of the illness. Upon this confession the sorcerer based his conjurations and prayers, in order that the evil spirit may be exorcised. Certain ceremonies were also performed in pressing upon the body to know the position of the demon within, this being found, a gradual pressure of the hands on that part force the demon downward to the leg and forward to the foot so that he may escape. Thus being expelled from the sufferer, he is supposed to be cured and is expected to recover. As a rule medicine is also given, but if the recovery is effected, the cure is credited to the sorcery and not to the medicine. There is no doubt that the very faith in the enchantments often helps to restore. If the patient does not recover, the sorcerer is not blamed, for he avows that the cause whereby the sufferer became possessed was not revealed to him, for had it been, he would certainly have recovered. Thus often ill feeling is produced in the family, one accusing the other of being the cause of his affliction and death. When I was at Huahine some few months since we expelled several members for applying to the sorcerers, rather than trusting to God.

6It is strange that so much faith is placed in these superstitions. Pearse appeared to be resigned to the view that only “true knowledge of the gospel” would overturn the power of these superstitions and “lead the people to trust in God and to the proper treatment of medicine …” (1878).

7This has not been the case. Both the Gospel and the Tahitians’ belief in their local methods of curing have flourished during the century since Pearse wrote. Far from one having driven out the other, both are now an integral part of the distinctively Tahitian way of life. This has been pointed out by several writers, and in the scattered, uneven descriptive literature on the twentieth century Society Islands there are a number of brief accounts of indigenous medical practices. For the most part, these either describe various herbal remedies (Goupil 1926 ; Petard 1948 ; Salmon 1955) or recount exploits of well-known local healers (R.V. 1925 ; Sasportas 1924 ; Walker 1925). A recent article by Panoff (1966) is made up mostly of recipes for herbal remedies, making only a brief mention of what he terms maladies surnaturelles. Levy, on the other hand, has written perceptively (1967, 1973) about Tahitian concepts of the supernatural and the techniques used for the treatment of “supernatural maladies”, making only passing reference to the use of herbal remedies.

8In this paper I take a somewhat different perspective on these topics. Although I describe several herbal remedies in some detail I am not here concerned with their possible pharmacological properties or physiological effects ; and although I give several accounts of the treatment of ‘ghost sicknesses’ I cannot, as Levy does, point up the psychodynamic principles which might be involved. My perspective here is more directly ethnographic, beginning with the Tahitian concept of ma’i ‘sickness’, and attempting to describe the associated ideas and practices. I begin with an account of the Tahitian cultural system for labelling and classifying disorders, together with some of the explanatory principles which are involved. I then describe the therapeutic practices in common use. The final section suggests some relationships between these ideas and practices and certain features of rural Tahitian social structure.

  • 1 Two periods of field research, of eighteen months and two months, were sponsored by the U.S. Natio (…)

9This account is based upon data gathered during field research in two rural communities in the lles sous-le-vent1, a group of five high islands and four atolls to the north-west of Tahiti, the largest island and metropolitan centre of French Polynesia. in these islands, outside of one small urban centre on the island of Raiatea, the population is dominantly Polynesian, living in small communities on the coastal fringes of the larger volcanic islands. They speak of themselves as mā’ohi ‘indigenous’ or ta’ata Tahiti’Tahitians’, and see themselves and their way of life as distinct from that of the other ethnic groups, metropolitan French, demi and Chinese who make up the population of the Territory. This distinctiveness is made of many elements – race, language, religious affiliation as well as a whole body of customs and practices relating to land, kinship, preferred foods and the life cycle. Among these we may also place the system of folk medicine which is described here, which exists alongside the fairly good facilities – small hospitals, and dressing-stations staffed by government trained medical personnel – which are located within reach of the rural people and freely available to them. Rural Tahitians have a mixed attitude toward these services, regarding them with abhorrence, envy and fear of their injections and surgical procedures. Generally only the most serious cases are taken for this sort of treatment.

10There is no vestige remaining of the elaborate nineteenth century Tahitian polity or the ideas of inherited rank on which it was based. There are neither titles nor “chiefs” apart from those who are elected to serve as minor administrative officials in the districts into which the rural areas are divided. Executive government is under the direction of an appointed French governor, although the local Territorial Assembly (elected by universal suffrage) has for the past twenty years given strong expression to local as against metropolitan French interests. All Tahitians are highly involved in the market economy of the Territory ; on Tahiti itself many are engaged in wage labour, and even in the most remote rural areas the money gained from the sale of cash crops forms an essential part of domestic household economies.

MAJOR CATEGORIES OF SICKNESS

11The Tahitian term which I gloss as ‘sickness’ is ma’i. All forms of plant and animal life may be ma’i ‘sick’, or pohe ma’i ‘overcome with sickness’, although it is only the ma’i suffered by human beings which is the subject of any conceptual elaboration. Tahitians speak of injuries to animals by the same terms as are used to refer to human injuries, and while they do not discount the possibility that domestic and other animals may suffer from ‘ghost sickness’ I did not learn of any specific examples. Sick animals are seldom cared for in any way, and there are no specialists for their treatment ; those suffering from anything more obscure than the most obvious injury are passed off as merely having ‘dog sickness’ or ‘chicken sickness’ and are left to recuperate, or to die.

12Tahitians commonly distinguish four major kinds of ma’i, three of which are labeled by separate parau rahi, or ‘general terms’. At this level of generality the contrasts are based on the different presumed causes of the sicknesses. In many instances, however, an explicit distinction is made between an immediate or effective cause and the underlying or final cause. In general discourse, these levels and contrasts are clear from the particular contexts. Tahitians in general, even those who specialise to some extent as curers, are not given to elaborating taxonomic or typological niceties at this level.

13The first major category of ma’i includes all those events which would be classified in English as “injuries” – sprains, breaks, cuts, burns and so forth. Each specific type of injury may be labeled by a specific term, as is the case in English, although there is no single Tahitian term for the category as a whole. When speaking of particular cases, people will ordinarily use the appropriate term for the specific type of in juty, and the question of a category corresponding to the English “injury” does not arise. in discussing the taxonomic status of particular injuries (such as mutu ‘cut’ or pa’apa’a’burn’) however, informants would not accept them as belonging in any of the other three major categories, preferring to speak of them all together as a separate category which they defined by straightforward listing of the component items – “bruises, cuts and that sort of thing…”

14I shall use, then, the English term “Injury” for this unlabeled category. For Tahitians, as for ourselves, the immediate cause of any injury is usually seen as either obvious, or readily inferred without any diagnostic skill. It is this feature which sets off the category from other categories such as ‘true sickness’ and ‘ghost sickness’. At the level of ultimate causes, however, a particular injury may be readily accepted as being also an instance of ‘ghost sickness’.

15The crucial issue here is the notion of “accident”. Tahitians have the notion that many things happen simply by chance, and that some injuries may be caused simply by misadventure, and lack of adequate care or supervision. But they are, at the same time, also very ready to try and discern behind the apparently fortuitous circumstances of an injury, some underlying meaning or cause. It is the classic question of what brought about the particular set of circumstances surrounding the “accident”. The answer may, in appropriate circumstances, be provided by beliefs about the actions and propensities of ‘ghosts’. The tendency to seek for such underlying meanings and causes seems to be most marked when either the injury or the surrounding circumstances are at all unusual. There was, for example, a lame youth in the community whose disability was due to a complex fracture of a femur which he had suffered as a child when he fell through a hole in a wooden house-floor. I was told that people were at the time surprised by the seriousness of the break when the child had suffered such a comparatively short fall ; and when the local treatments did not work as expected, the injury was interpreted as the work of a ‘ghost’ which had pulled his leg through the hole with particular viciousness and force.

16Again, it is very commonly believed that certain activities, such as fishing, are particularly dangerous if they are undertaken on a Sunday or other Holy day ; such activities are liable to be punished with attack by sharks or other misadventures, and appropriate cases seem to be always readily available to support this contention. The punishment in these cases seems to be conceived as taking place automatically, without the intervention of any active being or agency, but when pressed for further explanation most people will say that they suppose that it must be God’s doing.

17This kind of explanation derives its particular force from some very basic, widely held, and apparently deep-seated Tahitian ideas about the nature of sickness and health in general, which I shall discuss in the concluding section.

18Ma’i mau ‘true sickness’, is a second major category, which may be distinguished from “injury” both by intrinsic nature and the lack of any obviously identifiable effective cause. ‘True sickness’ may tupu noa ‘just grow’ upon a person who has formerly enjoyed good health, and is seen as being due to something which comes from outside the body rather than arising from within the body itself. The intrinsic nature and immediate effective cause of ma’i mau is not a topic on which Tahitians are prone to speculate in any serious way. They see it as a world-wide phenomenon which has been present at least since Biblical times, and having no special manifestations among Tahitians as distinct from other peoples. For this reason, they will readily offer what French disease-names they may know as being exact translations of Tahitian terms, and they see their own herbal remedies as working in precisely the same way as the potions, pills and injections which are available from the French pharmacies and hospital services. It is believed, however, that people who are puta to’eto’e (literally, ‘pierced by cold’ or ‘chilled’) or puta mahana ‘pierced by the sun’ have a weakened bodily resistance and are prone to succumb to any variety of ‘true sickness’. Diet is also seen to play a part in resistance to this category of sickness. The general feeling of satiety and well-being denoted by the term pa’ia is said by adults to be only truly attained from meals of fish, coconut sauce and local vegetable foods. Canned foods, in spite of the extent to which they are in fact used in the rural areas, are held to be unsatisfying ; there is even speculation that they are the cause of cancer. And many Tahitians will argue that their ancestors in the days before they ate “foreign” foods extensively, were much healthier than the people are at the present time. As evidence for this fact they point to the skulls which are secreted in well-known rock crevices, which all have well-preserved teeth.

19‘Ghosts’ and ghostly influences are not seen as causing ‘true sickness’ in any way. A ‘ghost sickness’ may, however, be mistaken for one of the varieties of ‘true sickness’ and its real nature thus not discovered until it is seen that herbal treatments are having no effect, and a specialist in the treatment of ‘ghost sickness’ has been consulted. A diagnosis of ‘ghost sickness’ by a specialist then leads to a complete reclassification of the sickness and a radical change in the method of treatment.

20‘Ghosts’ may, however, be involved in other ways with those who are inflicted with one of the varieties of ‘true sickness’. A young man who was said to have been chilled by an extensive period spent spear-fishing in deep waters off the barrier reef, fell quite severely sick ; it was thought that he had a ‘true sickness’ and several kinds of herbal remedies were tried over a period of several days. As the youth’s condition worsened, a specialist was called upon. He confirmed the original diagnosis of a ‘true sickness’ as being correct, but stated that there were special subsequent complications due to the fact that the ‘ghost’ of the patient’s dead mother had great aroha ‘compassion’ and wanted him to rest with her in death so that he could be relieved of his suffering. For these circumstances there seemed to be little that could be done. Herbal treatments were continued, and the boy’s father visited the grave of his dead wife to plead with her ‘ghost’ to allow a recovery to take place. Only when the patient was very severely ill was he taken to hospital, where he died a day later – probably of pneumonia.

21‘True sickness’ is the only major category of ma’i which embraces an extensive number of named varieties, each of which may in turn be composed of a number of named sub-varieties. The principles of classification at this level are both elusive and obscure, and I shall deal with them in greater detail in the following section.

22The Tahitian term which I translate as ‘ghost’ is tūpāpa’u, and an understanding of the nature of ma’i tūpāpa’u ‘ghost sickness’ involves a description of some distinctively Tahitian concepts. The great majority of Tahitians are Christian, and have been for generations. The Christian concepts of “soul” and “spirit” are translated in the Tahitian Bible as vārua, and, invariably, the nature of vārua is seen in more or less strictly Biblical terms. The vārua is seen as being given to each child, by God, either at birth or at some point during its gestation, and is taken by God again at death – usually to Heaven. (Most Tahitians say that they believe in Hell in fairly literal terms, but they seem to doubt whether there are in fact many Tahitians there).

23It is widely believed that each person has “within” him a tūpāpa’u – an incorporeal mea ‘thing’ which can leave the body during dreams and which survives the body’s death, going neither to Heaven nor Hell. As informants explain it, the tūpāpa’u is “without a body, like the air or a shadow”. The relationship between these two concepts, the Christian notion of vārua and the local one of tūpāpa’u, is an interesting one. in discussing the nature of “life” and “death” Tahitians use a fairly literal Biblical idiom, seeing ora “life” and the vārua as coming ultimately from God, whereas the tūpāpa’u on the other hand are seen as “just there”. When talking about these matters once with me, an elderly Protestant deacon who took pleasure in toying with such ideas carefully explained the nature of both concepts. Then, in reply to my question as to whether he had both a vārūa and a tūpāpa’u “inside” him, he replied with a laugh, “Perhaps I do, but perhaps there is only one thing, and sometimes it is a vārūa and sometimes it is a tūpāpa’u. How can we know such things ?” For him, as for most other Tahitians, there is no real conflict between the two sets of belief. The concepts simply belong to different universes of discourse. While I never heard any Tahitian be sceptical about vārūa, a few people (in my experience usually men) would voice some scepticism about the reality of tūpāpa’u, saying that they were the creation of one’s thoughts only, and that if you didn’t believe in them you would never see them. Such statements did not, however, seem to blunten in any way their fascination for stories about tūpāpa’u.

24In spite of this occasional vein of scepticism, most of the Tahitian explanations which I heard about the nature of tūpāpa’u, as well as stories about their exploits, showed that there is a widely-shared and consistent body of beliefs about them. Tūpāpa’u have the physical and personality characteristics of the living person, being either male or female, aggressive or retiring and so forth. Although they leave a living body at, or shortly after the body’s death, they will tend to remain in the vicinity of where the body is buried. They are capable of instant movement and have been known to make journeys to distant lands. Tūpāpa’u watch over the affairs of the living, especially those of their living kismen. For most Tahitians, the ‘ghost’ of a kinsman is looked upon as being generally protective and not nearly so anxiety-provoking as an unrelated or unknown ‘ghost’. Tūpāpa’uare, however, vengeful, and occasionally capricious and playful in their relations with the living. Unlike vārūa, which are never visible, tūpāpa’u may be seen by living people, to whom they appear to walk a few inches above the surface of the ground, often making a characteristic whistling sound. Dogs and other animals can often see or be aware of them even when humans remain oblivious to their presence. They are generally held to dislike sweet scents and perfumes, and, according to some informants, are afraid of bamboo.

25Although Tahitians feel especially aware and afraid of tūpāpa’u when they are alone or in isolated, unfrequented places, it is not often that they will appear, quite unprovoked, in such circumstances. The most common and important manifestation of tūpāpa’u is when they cause sickness. A tūpāpa’u may be the ultimate cause of an injury, and they may be implicated in some instances of ‘true sickness’, as explained above. But there are also numerous occasions of sickness which are seen as due to direct tūpāpa’u influence and intervention. These sickness usually have a bizarre or frightening quality to them, and they can be cured only by specialist curers.

26A fourth major category of sickness is known as ma’i fa’autu’a, literally ‘retribution sickness’. From one point of view this may be seen as being a special variety of ‘ghost sickness’ since it is also due to “supernatural” causes.

27In contrast to ‘ghost sickness’ though, the supernatural agency at work is not a definite tūpāpa’u but is seen as a more abstract entity still, almost as a principle of Justice. Some informants state simply that it is the work of God. The essential feature of a ma’i fa’autu’a is that it is a punishment for wrongdoing – not an automatic punishment, since many wrongs are seen as never being punished, but one that is inherently just and proper.

28It is in terms of these four major categories that rural Tahitians commonly speak about ma’i in general, and organise their perceptions and theories about particular instances of sickness. Both specialists and layman may, however, disagree in their diagnoses, or change them according to circumstances. Diagnosis, and the social relationships involved in sickness and the curing process, form the subject of the following section.

DIAGNOSIS AND CURING

29Ma’i is a subject of obvious and direct concern to all rural Tahitians, the most obvious reason for this being that their very livelihoods depend upon physical activity in gardening, tree-climbing and fishing. Ill-health is not only personally inconvenient or distressing. It can tax, in a very rapid and direct manner, the livelihood and well-being of whole families. The state of health of community members is a constant and persistent item of everyday conversation, and even the most minor indisposition is closely watched and its progress enquired after, until it should become serious or else clear up completely. There is considerably more to this than idle curiosity or decent neighbourly concern.

30Injuries of one sort or another, although they may be alarming when they happen, are coped with in a fairly matter-of-fact and straightforward way. Cuts are generally tightly bound with piece of ripped-up clothing to stop the flow of blood, occasionally with the addition of a few crushed leaves believed to have the property of making blood congeal. Scalds and superficial burns may be rubbed with butter, or, if none is immediately available, smeared with a soft mud which is allowed to dry in place. For scalds, many people recommend pressing a rotten leaf of ‘ape (a taro-like plant which grows wild, Colocasia macrorrhisa Schott) onto the affected area. This is said to bring about a cure overnight, although it does have the unfortunate effect of irritating the surrounding unscalded skin. The widely-known treatment for a child taken unconscious and drowning from the water is to place him head down over an adult’s back with his legs over the adult’s shoulders ; the adult then runs with the child until the water “breaks” and consciousness returns. Broken bones are set (often rather approximately) in place and the limb or surrounding area coated with sticky breadfruit sap and bound with either cloth or more, a cloth-like substance made from the bast of breadfruit bark. Practically all adults seem to know of straightforward first aid remedies of this kind, although many may be unwilling to take the responsibility of carrying them out. Whenever possible, the injured person is taken as quickly as possible to his or her home, where members of the family can take the decisions as to what should be done. Others may be sympathetic, but Tahitians are not effusive about shows of concern in such matters.

31With ma’i mau ‘true sickness’, the onset is usually defined by the individual concerned. The adoption of a “sick role” in Tahiti involves a voluntary withdrawal from all or most ongoing activities – work, visiting, meetings, household duties, church, sport – and the patient retiring to his usual house and resting. An individual is not expected to continue with normal activities at the cost of personal discomfort if he has declared himself as ma’i, and accusations of malingering are not common. At the early stages of ‘sickness’ the responsibility for care and treatment is wholly on family and household members. It is not customary for anyone other than these people to visit the sick person, inquire directly about symptoms, or to offer advice of any kind. Members of the immediate family, especially parents, may prepare a herbal remedy that they happen to know, or if the indisposition seems likely to be more than a passing one, to seek out the advice of a semi-specialist in such treatments.

32Most adult women who have cared for small children know several recipes for “small medicines” or “children’s medicines” which they will make up and give to their children when they are indisposed, without feeling that they should consult anyone else on the matter. Many have considerable trust in their “own” remedies as being clearly the most suitable for their own children, and one woman told me that she had used only one remedy to cure all of the ills which her son had suffered from in childhood.

33The treatment of sickness in adults is seen as a somewhat more complex and serious matter, and the advice of a tahu’a is more readily sought. Tahu’a is a term with a fairly wide range of referents. in its widest sense it refers to a person with specialist skills of any sort, particularly when that person is performing a directive role in some undertaking. The term is still occasionally used in this wider sense in the rural areas (I have heard it used to refer to both a boatbuilder and a Protestant pastor) but it is a somewhat archaic usage. More commonly, a tahu’a is a ‘curer’ and the term may be used with or without qualifiers to designate a special field of competence. A tahu’a rā’au is one who specialises in the use of rā’au ‘medicines’ for curing, ra’au being the generic Tahitian term for “plants” and also for “medicines” of both European or local origin. Tahu’a rā’au is, however, never used to refer to a European-trained doctor, who is always known as a taote, a 19th century Tahitian rendering of the English “doctor”.

34A person who simply knows a few ‘medicines’ and even uses them freely to aid both members of the family and neighbours, is not referred to as a tahu’a for that reason. The term is reserved for those who make something of a specialty of diagnosis and have recourse to a number of ‘medicines’ as well as the ability to concoct new ones. in the small community of about 200 people which I knew best there were three people, two women and a man, who were known as tahu’a rā’au. Of these three, the man was held to be much more skilled and effective than the other two – who had, in fact, learned some of their recipes from him. One of the women specialised somewhat in the treatment of children’s complaints, and knew by heart perhaps a dozen recipes. The other, who was not very frequently consulted, had a special exercise book in which she had written down the recipes for 69 named ‘medicines’. These were not ordered in any way, but represented notes which she had made over a period of years as she learned the medicines from various sources, both inside and outside the community. The man, who was widely held to be the only person in community who really knew about rā’au, had never committed his knowledge to writing. During the period of nearly three weeks which he devoted to instructing me about rā’au, and during which we would work for three to four hours together every day, he did not refer at all to written notes. Other people in the community agreed with his own statement that the considerable body of recipes which he knew was held entirely in his memory. He was at the time a widower, living with his adopted children and their families, and was a mainstay of the community’s Protestant church group, although he was not a deacon. The study of the Bible, together with a little of the less demanding garden work of the household and his work as a tahu’a, were his main occupations. His knowledge of medicines was gained mostly from his father, who had also been something of a tahu’a in his lifetime. But he also experimented with new recipes of his own, keeping those which proved to be effective.

35During our daily sessions, he was confident and organised in his approach, patiently answering during the initial sessions all my questions concerning technical terms, and the names of plant-parts which were new to me. We worked, at his direction, sysmetatically through seven varieties of common ma’i mau, together with the 32 sub-varieties which he distinguished, with his giving me first a cursory description of the symptoms, followed by a list of ingredients for the appropriate rā’au, their method of preparation and the dosage to be followed .

36The following is a verbatim account of his instructions for the rā’au for tuihotete, a variety of ‘true sickness’, and is a fair example of the way in which instructions for making rā’au are communicated orally between adults when it is presumed that the listener is familiar with the plants employed and the common techniques of preparation.

  1. E piti rau’ere nono para, piti mea pu’u, ‘aūte e piti rau’ere.
  2. Tāpū i te hō’ē ha’ari, vaiho te pape i rotote ‘au’a, va’u te ha’ari i roto i te pape.
  3. Pāpāhia ‘āmui, pū’ohu.
  4. Taviri i roto te ha’ari.
  5. Tunu te ‘ōfa’i ‘ia ‘ama, tu’u i roto i te ‘au’a.
  6. Tāpo’i, e ia to’eto’e fa’ainu pauroa, hō’ēnoa inura’a.

37A fairly free translation of the six sections follows.

  1. Two mature nono leaves, two immature ones, two ‘aute leaves.
  2. Cut a (fully mature) coconut, put the liquid into a bowl, grate the meat of the coconut into this liquid.
  3. Pound up (the leaves) together, wrap them in cloth.
  4. Wring (the bundle of leaves so that the liquid runs out) into the coconut water.
  5. Heat (a small) stone until hot, place it in the bowl.
  6. Cover, and when it is cold give it to be drunk, all at once.

38When treating patients, a process which might last several weeks and involve daily visits, the medicines would always be made under the direction of the tahu’a, either by his adopted daughter or by a member of the patient’s family, with any willing hands being pressed into the collection of the plant ingredients. The plants used in ‘medicines’ are generally of no commercial value ; many, in fact, are regarded otherwise as weeds and they are taken freely from anyone’s land.

39Ra’au, however, are regarded as personal property. Even though the recipe may be a simple one, learned and committed to memory within a matter of minutes, it remains the property of an owner, whether that person is a tahu’a or not, and should not be made except under his or her direction. Failure to do so is widely believed to result in the ‘medicine’ being ma’au’spoiled’ and rendered ineffectual. There appears to be no clear doctrine as to the way in which the injury takes place, but most people believe it is due to the action of ‘ghosts’. For what are apparently very similar reasons, there should be direct and continuing contact between patient and tahu’a during the process of treatment since medicines made in one place and taken to a patient some distance away are liable to be ‘īāhia ‘stolen’ by ‘ghosts’ in transit. As it was explained to me, “One opens the bundle with the crushed medicine in it, and there is nothing there at all !”

40Recipes for medicines may, however, be hōro’ahia ‘given’ by one person to another. This appears to be done quite frequently by people who have no pretensions to being tahu’a when they simply get weary of the business of making up a ‘medicine’ for a particular patient. Tahu’a do not commonly give recipes in this fashion, maintaining that they become ma’au simply by the transaction, and they are then put to the trouble of having to concoct new recipes as replacements.

41It is clear that these beliefs all serve to define tahu’a as a distinct social role. The only other kind of special knowledge which is regarded in a somewhat similar light by rural Tahitians is that having to do with the traditional songs and dances, which are regarded as being the property of the individuals or groups who created them. But there is here no explicit connection with ‘ghosts’ or ideas of ‘spoilage’. Most other kinds of special knowledge, particularly those having to do with fishing and gardening, are very jealously guarded against others who try, either openly or by trickery, to find it out.

42‘Medicines’ are never bought and sold among Tahitians and the tahu’a who use them maintain an ideology of completely free services to all who should ask for them. There is no ethic that they should be given gifts in appreciation of their services, although they are in fact sometimes given, even in the form of money. In general, the attitude to ‘true sickness’ and the various remedies available is strictly pragmatic. If the ‘medicines’ known by one person fail to bring about a cure it is expected that others, whether tahu’a or not, will be asked to help.

43There are no particular herbal ingredients of rā’au which are regarded as being specific in their effects, or as being especially indicated by certain symptoms. The commonly held view is that there are some plants which have “always” been known by Tahitians to have curative properties, as distinct from others which have no particular effects. Some thoughtful informants put forward the view that all plants may well have useful curing properties, but many of them are not known simply because they have not been tried. It is generally thought that the curing plants are there by God’s good grace, for Tahitians to learn about and to use. Most of them are thought to be rā’au mā’ohi ‘native plants’, although they may be used to cure the ailments of anyone, not only Tahitians. Popa’ā ‘Europeans’ have their plants and their ‘medicines’ as well, which are held to be no better or worse on the whole than rā’au Tahiti ‘Tahitian medicines’.

44However, in spite of the lack of any doctrine concerning the specific properties of curing plants, Tahitians do not regard it as proper to simply make a recipe containing extracts from all the curing plants and administering it to a patient. When I raised this possibility I was firmly told that “it simply wasn’t done that way”. Yet, in certain unusual circumstances, this is precisely what is done. Before leaving the community on a six-month labour contract in the Tuamotu group, a young man took the precaution of asking the tahu’a rā’au to supply him with a bottle of rā’aurahi, literally a ‘large medicine’, but as he described it to me “one with a lot of different things in it”. He wanted it, he said, because he didn’t know if there would be a good tahu’a where he would be working, or even if the necessary plants would be available ; and he used the ‘medicine’ something like a tonic, drinking a little at regular intervals or whenever he felt indisposed in any way.

45In marked contrast to the complexity and precision of the recipes for Tahitian ‘medicines’, the recognised symptoms and the syndromes indicating particular named ‘true sickness’ appear relatively vague and imprecise. Consider, for example, my informant’s description of the indications for the eight named sub-varieties of the ‘true sickness’ known as ira :

  1. Ira miti. Found characteristically in children, who feel sick and have a fever at 10 in the morning and feel better at 2 in the afternoon ; miti in Tahitian means ‘sea water’, and there is held to be a connection between these symptoms and the diurnal movements of the tide. (Lunar tidal movements are barely noticeable in the Society Islands).
  2. Ira vaeha’a. A pain on one side of the face only, which may occur in both children and adults.
  3. Ira ‘āhure. inflamation and breaking of the skin around the urethra of female children.
  4. Ira tui. A discharge of pus and matter from the ears, and a lot of matter in the eyes.
  5. Ira ‘ute. Red, painful lips in children.
  6. Ira ninamu. Occurs only in children, the symptoms being darkened lips and eyes, fever, headache, and desire for sleep.
  7. Ira hitirere. Known also as ira hui. Startling in young children. The same medicine is used as for ira ninamu.
  8. Hua ira. A swelling of a child’s penis, associated with inflamation, and, sometimes, a darkening of the skin.

46Two features of this description might seem puzzling – to both medical specialists and those who, like myself, are innocent of any specialised medical knowledge. The first is the recognition of some unusual and apparently bizarre symptoms, such as the waning and waxing of a fever which is held to indicate ira miti. My informant maintained that he did not know the precise way in which the tides influenced the course of this particular illness, although he had seen several cases of it, all of which he had been able to cure. The qualifying terms used to indicate the other sub-categories of ira are all comparatively straightforward and descriptive. Vaeha’a ‘side’ refers to the characteristic location of the pain ; ‘ahure ‘turned inside out’ refers to the exposure of the urethra ; tui is somewhat more complex since it refers in this instance to another category of ‘true sickness’ which is characterised by swellings due to accumulations of pus and matter ; and this category is, in turn, related to tui meaning a boil located in the neck region ; ‘ute is a shortened form of ‘ute’ute ‘red’ and in this case simply describes the condition of the lips ; nīnamu ‘dark blue’ again describes the characteristic symptom, as does hitirere ‘to start, move suddenly, as by surprise’ ; hua ‘genitals’ refers to the location of the malady.

47The second and somewhat more puzzling question is what features these separate sicknesses are believed to share in common. What makes them all instances of the category ira ? The term ira has two somewhat distinct meanings in Tahitian. Besides the category of ‘true sickness’ it refers to a mole or some sort of permanent discolouration such as birthmark, on the skin. Most informants see these as homonyms ; others are not prepared to be so definite, pleading ignorance of the old (and, by implication “true”) meanings. No informant, however, considered either moles or birthmarks to be any sort of sickness, ‘true’ or otherwise ; they are regarded as being things that are “just there”, I was never able to obtain a satisfactory or coherent account, from tahu’a ra’āu or others, of the “true nature” of ira, or even what they saw as the features common to all its manifestations. My informants came to share my puzzlement, but not my concern. They regarded the question as valid enough, but hardly saw it as an absorbing one. None of the other categories of ‘true sickness’ present quite the same difficulties. My tahu’a informant was explicit about the fact that fever, red swellings and discolouration were characteristic of all manifestations of the category of māriri, and also that all varieties of tui were due to accumulations of pus and matter in the head region. Similarly, he’a appears to have connotations of dryness associated with all of its manifestations.

  • 2 Lemaitre 1973. Lemaitre’s Information, gathered mainly I think on Tahiti, is completely independen (…)

48Ira is apparently more obscure than any of these other categories of ‘true sickness’, but I am reluctant to see it as being an entirely miscellaneous category – especially as it has been defined in a recent dictionary2 as a “catégorie de maladie qui comprend entre autres des maux de tête et des convulsions”. Ira appears to have the following distinctive features. It is found characteristically in children, and affects both the head and the external urinary organs. If we overlook for the moment the enigmatic symptoms of ira miti, and accept that ira hitirere ‘startling’ could be readily associated with a disorder of the eyes (since the startling movement might be interpreted as the child “seeing” something which is in fact not there) then the manifestations of ira in the head all involve either headaches or disorders of the eyes or lips. This feature of ira would then explain the sub-category ira tui, which is unusual in that the qualifying term tui also refers to a separate category of ‘true sickness’ associated with swellings and discharges of pus, but not usually with matter in the eyes as is the case with ira tui. The special features of ira miti remain unexplained. Tahitians do not to my knowledge see any other special influences of the tide on either human beings or the natural world, although it is known to influence the movements of fish, particularly on reefs and in the lagoons.

49In the light of this brief description of some diagnostic criteria, it is hardly surprising that Tahitians should hold the view that the diagnosis of sickness is a difficult and imprecise matter, in which even specialists are liable to make mistakes. Although ma’i is a very frequent topic of conversation (like crops, fishing, weather and the movements of other people) in the daily round of gossip and casual encounter, the interest is always in individual cases and the particular people called upon to help. Questions of prognosis and etiology and etiology are the dominant concerns ; diagnosis is left to the tahu’a.

50Tahu’a rā’au, and also any others who might be called upon to make up a ‘medicine’ which they know, are guided in only a very general way by the visible symptoms and the patient’s statements about feeling states. A few minutes of enquiry and conversation is all that is taken in most cases, before a particular ‘medicine’ has been decided upon and helpers instructed to gather the necessary ingredients. Even at this point, people do not commonly either enquire about or discuss an appropriate name for the sickness. If, after a day or so of treatment with a particular ‘medicine’ there has been no improvement, the ‘medicine’ may be changed – and this process may be repeated over a period of several weeks with a half dozen or so different treatments, until one is found that is associated with some recovery. This ‘medicine’ may then be used to define the sickness.

51When I commented on the apparent arbitrariness of this procedure I was told by my tahu’a informant that it was really no different from that followed by European taote ‘doctors’, and he went on to describe several instances he knew of where Tahitian hospital patients had been treated with various medicines until the right was found which could effect a cure. Although his knowledge of these cases could have been only partial and based on inferences from very incomplete information his statement nevertheless probably contains a certain element of truth. What Western medical practitioner has not in fact modified his initial diagnosis on the grounds of the effectiveness, or lack of effect, of the remedies prescribed ? However, while the observations may be true enough of the practices actually followed in many instances by Western physicians, they hardly describe the procedures of the scientific “biologistic” tradition of Western medicine which seek to define diseases strictly in terms of indicators of biological discontinuity and change.

  • 3 I had thought this to be an original observation, but Mr Nigel Baumber has since drawn my attentio (…)

52This being so, there is an obvious contrast in the most basic procedures of the two systems of medical practice. in general terms the Western biologistic medical tradition may be said to seek precise definitions of the nature of various diseases, and their appropriate cures. in the Tahitian system it is the cures and remedies which are the starting point, and the knowledge of how to concoct them which is organised, written down in many instances, and passed on. The two systems thus start from opposite poles, though they may find a common middle ground. Western medicine attempts to define diseases precisely and seeks cures. Tahitian medical specialists start with the cures but are necessarily vague about the nature of the diseases, which can, in fact, be defined only by the cures which are found to be effective3.

  • 4 Hi’ohi’o is the reduplicative of hi’o ‘to look, examine’ and ta’ata hi’ohi’o is a ‘ clairvoyant’.

53A somewhat similar process of elimination may lead to suspicions that a particular case might not be one of ‘true sickness’ at all. If ‘medicines’ fail to effect any improvements in a patient’s condition within the expected time, or if an illness should take any dramatic, severe or unexpected turn, this is commonly held to be an indication of ma’i tūpāpa’u ‘ghost sickness’. The diagnosis of ma’i tūpapa’u cannot, however, be confirmed without consultation with a specialist tahu’a who commands techniques for communicating with ‘ghosts’. Such tahu’a may be distinguished by various terms, of which tahu’a hi’ohi’o4 is probably the most general.

54At the time I did my field research there were no active tahu’a hi’ohi’o in either of two communities in which I lived. There was, however, one elderly man, whom I shall call Fatu, who had a reputation of having been a powerful tahu’a in the recent past, before he became paruparu ‘weak’ and, as others said of him fa’aruehia e tona tūpāpa’u ‘abandoned by his ghost (familiar)’. Fatu’s description of how he acquired his powers is an interesting one. He was born on a neighbouring island and adopted to his father’s kin in a community a short distance away from his present house. While he was a young man, when he and his wife were working as share croppers on land owned by another, several of their children died in infancy. No tahu’a seemed to be able to save them. After the death of their fifth infant. Faty went off by himself one evening to a corner of his house and privately asked his parents and his grandparents to come and help him cure his children. He described this act as not a pure ‘prayer’ but just an “asking in his thoughts”. He then heard the noise of a cricket (an omen commonly associated with messages from absent kinsmen) before he fell into a light sleep and felt a hand laid on his arm. He woke and saw before his eyes a whole group of tūpāpa’u – his parents, grandparents and many others, all of whom were feti’i ‘cognatic kin’. He asked who among them was their leader and was told that it was the grandfather of his adoptive mother whom he remembered as having been a very old man when he was a young child. So he asked this tūpāpa’u to “come inside him” and help him save his children. At this stage Fatu did not want the power to cure people generally, and was concerned only for his own children, but when people round about learned of his new powers they started bringing sick people to him for diagnosis and cure. Since his wife was an accomplished tahu’a rā’authey had between them a flourishing practice for many years. Fatu was brought to his present home by the father of a girl patient whom he had cured of a ‘ghost sickness’, and then sought to adopt. When I knew him he was a widower who lived alone in a small house on the inland borders of the community, cared for by neighbours, the adopted daughter and her parents and by his own children who would visit from time to time from a neighbouring community. He was an industrious gardener, quiet and humourous in manner, though given to displays of dancing and shouting on the very rare occasions he could obtain enough liquor to get drunk. Most people in the community had been somewhat in awe of him, and slightly afraid, when he was in full possession of his powers, but they now could regard him with a friendly affection, and were rather proud to be able to tell of his exploits. As a somewhat frail old man, he was pleased to be left in peace and declared himself relieved that his tūpāpa’u did not visit him any more. He would still give medical advice, however, to close associates who sought his help.

55In describing the acquisition and nature of his powers, Fatu emphasised that they came from the tūpāpa’u of his own ancestor working inside him, and were not mea ho’o or ‘bought things’ like the powers of some other tahu’a who were, as he put it, fa’aau matahiti or ‘on a yearly arrangement’. The distinction which he drew is a common one in Tahitian thought. Some tahu’a are held to derive their powers from an ancestral ‘ghost’ who can be called upon to offer advice and to do supernatural deeds without any demands for repayment. Others, however, are said to have obtained their powers through a voluntary contract with a tūpāpa’u who is not a kinsman, and may be not even a Tahitian ; these tūpāpa’u are of people who were, in real life, very powerful and influential. These tahu’a are believed to acquire their power to command the tūpāpa’u by rituals performed at disused pagan religious centres and involve a definite contract by which the tahu’aundertakes to pay for the power he has acquired by supernaturally killing one of his own close kinsmen. It is held that the death of “just anyone” will not do ; the person killed in settlement of the contract must be a close kinsman. Tahu’a of this kind, naturally enough, are considered to be very dangerous, and very powerful. Over the course of the last generation there has been at least one violent murder in the Leeward Islands which could be laid to these beliefs. in this case a tahu’a was murdered by a close relative who believed that he had been made sick by the tahu’a and would eventually die. Probably most tahu’a, like Fatu, are at pains to claim that their powers come from a kinsman and involve no malevolent contracts. in describing to me some of Fatu’s accomplishments several people were sceptical of his claims to have only an ancestral familiar.

56Since Fatu’s powers had failed the people of the community had recourse to two other well known tahu’a hi’hi’o who lived some distance away in other communities. Both these tahu’a were middle-aged men, one of them a deacon in his parish. Accounts of the cures which they had made were well known to practically every adult in the community, although the majority had never seen either of these men actually exercising his special powers. During the nine months I lived in the community there were no occasions for either of these tahu’a to be called in, and Fatu himself advised only one man about a sickness in a way which did not involve him communicating with his spirit familiar. For this reason I did not ever see a tahu’a hi’ohi’o in consultation with a patient, and the following account is based on the observations and testimony of others.

57Fatu, whom most adults of the community had seen in action, preferred to work with a patient when only a few of the patient’s closest associates and relatives were present. His procedure was to run his fingers lightly over a patient’s body until he detected the precise location of the sickness by what he described as “little pecking sensations” in his fingertips. This also gave him some indication as to whether the sickness was a ‘true sickness’ or a ma’i tūpāpa’u ‘ghost sickness’. If it was decided that the patient had a ‘ghost sickness’ Fatu might pronounce immediately on the cause, or else call upon his familiar to speak through his mouth, telling of what he saw. To accomplish this, Fatu would seat himself on the floor, remain quiet for a short period before going into a trance-like state associated, according to eyewitnesses, with some involuntary body movements and laboured breathing. While in this state his lips moved and his tūpāpa’u would speak with the voice of a very old man, telling of what he saw in connection with the illness. These statements were elliptical and their meanings sometimes difficult to fathom, although the tūpāpa’u would answer questions from those who sought clarification of various points. After one of these sessions, which might last five minutes or so, Fatu would appear to return to consciousness very weak and exhausted, to be restored by a young couple of the community who were his usual helpers on these occasions, with massage and refreshments of coconut water or coffee. He would have no knowledge of what his familiar had said through his mouth and would be told by his helpers and others present about what had taken place. They would then work out together the meaning and implications of what had been said.

58The procedures followed by other tahu’a hi’ohi’o are various. One from a nearby community on the same island would come only if sent for and escorted by his kinsmen who lived in the village, and instead of Fatu’s light touching of the patient’s body, used limes as an aid in diagnosis. He would place a lime on a board on the ground, step on it with his full weight and then observe the pattern made by the juice which was squashed out. Another tahu’a hi’ohi’o on the island had as his familiar the tūpāpa’u of a man who, when alive, was very fond of wine and spirits, and this man was said to expect wine to be served whenever he was called to see a patient. Both of these tahu’a could achieve the same trance state as Fatu had been able to, and would use it on occasions.

59The most obvious occurrences of ‘ghost sickness’ occur when a foreign tūpāpa’u “enters into the body” of a living person, causing the person to behave in unusual and often bizarre ways. An example of this, witnessed by a number of people, had occurred in the community some years previously. A man in his thirties, whom I shall call A., was cutting copra with two companions a short distance from the village. Out of curiosity, and seeking a brief diversion from their work, they got down several old skulls from their well-known resting place in a nearby cliff. A. treated one of these skulls irreverently, putting a cigarette between its teeth and laughing at it. That evening, as it got dark, he fell into violent convulsions and was incoherent and hysterical – possessed, as his companions at once knew, by the tūpāpa’u of the skull. Fatu was immediately sent for, and as he was paddled quickly across the bay to the patient he could, he said, see the tūpāpa’u of the skull moving along the shoreline in the darkness, arousing the dogs of each successive house which he passed. The tūpāpa’u was an old man dressed in a loin cloth made of white flour sack and was hurrying back to the vicinity where the skull rested because he was aware that Fatu was coming to drive him away. When Fatu arrived, the patient was serene though unconscious, and was quietly restored by Fatu.

60According to informants, women are generally more liable to possession by tūpāpa’u than men, and some women of a weak and nervous nature are particularly prone, having been possessed on several occasions. The man possessed by the tūpāpa’u of the skull was ordinarily of a shy and retiring disposition and had previously had no untoward experiences with ‘ghosts’. After this episode, however, both he and his wife became close associates of Fatu and used to restore him after his sessions with his familiar. For a period it was believed that he might become a tahu’a himself.

61Visitations by a tūpāpa’u of the opposite sex appear to be a relatively common form of ‘ghost sickness’, and I learned of cases which had occurred in both communities. Erotic dreams are commonly described as being due to a ‘ghost’ sexual partner, and are not usually spoken of as being moemoeā ‘dreams’ at all. Such experiences are generally held to be of no particular significance if they occur only infrequently and do not always involve the same ‘ghost’. Some people, though, appear to become obsessed by a particular ‘ghost’ of the opposite sex, grow weak and thin, refrain from sexual intercourse with their spouses, and are given to lying around and having conversations with the tūpāpa’u. In such cases the tūpāpa’u must be driven away by a tahu’a. One such case involving a married woman whom I shall term B. was described to me in the following terms. B. had several young children at the time, and the first sign that something was wrong was when she declared herself no longer attracted to her husband and attempted to chase him from their bed at nights. She would bathe in the evenings, put on scented oil and special clothes, and lie on a separate bed, talking and laughing with a tūpāpa’u tane ‘male ghost’. The husband sought Fatu’s help, and they went together to the house one evening when B. was going through her unusual routines. Fatu and the husband sat down at a table in the room while B. continued to “laugh and chatter”. Fatu sat on the bed, touched her arm and asked her the meaning of what she was doing, whereupon she simply turned to face the wall and lay still. Fatu then commanded the tūpāpa’u in his normal voice, to leave and never return. B. then slept soundly for the rest of the night and had no more dealings with the ‘male ghost’ again. According to Fatu, the ‘ghost’ was “ripped up” by his familiar.

62One further example will serve to illustrate the nature of ‘ghost sickness’ and the way in which they are diagnosed and dealt with. A man, C., on his return to the shore from his plantations one afternoon, stopped to talk with his cousin’s husband, D. As they talked, he drove his long bush-knife into a nearby tree to keep it out of the way. When he reached his home he found that he had forgotten his knife and returned to the tree to retrieve it, only to find that it was no longer there. D. denied all knowledge of its whereabouts, but C., convinced that he had taken it, swore at D. in the stylised accepted form, wishing upon D. “the wrong that D. had committed on him”. A month or so later, D. fell sick. He would not eat, and complained of vague pains all over his body, which extensive treatment with ‘medicines’ of various kinds could not remedy. Eventually, Fatu took him to live in his house. According to Fatu, one day after D. had been with him a week a knife flew through the air past his head and stuck in the house thatch, just as he was stooping to go in the door. He knew then the meaning of the sickness. D. readily confessed his theft of the knife. Fatu and the local deacon took him to C., to whom he made his apology, and the deacon prayed together with them both. From that time onwards D. began to eat more substantially, and he made a rapid recovery.

63Informants described this as an instance of ‘ghost sickness’, even though no ‘ghost’ had been directly involved in causing D.’s sickness. It was also described as a ma’i fa’autu’a ‘retribution sickness’ and some of the more pious saw the sickness and the sign of the flying knife as having been sent directly by God. I learned of numerous other incidents involving the same stylised cursing as a form of confrontation between people involved in disputes, with subsequent sicknesses and eventual reconciliations.

CONCLUSION

64The account which I have given of the nature of ‘sickness’ and methods of diagnosis and curing is based almost exclusively on information gathered in one relatively small rural community, and the classification of different kinds of ‘true sicknesses’ represents the knowledge and practices of only one man in that community. Although he was generally acknowledged to be the best informed and most skilled of the local tahu’a rā’au, there were also two others in the community who were called upon to make ‘medicines’ of various kinds. When their help was sought, they made their own independent diagnoses, and each of them was credited with having made successful treatments of what seemed to be minor ailments. There was no apparent rivalry between the three, and, significantly, their diagnoses of particular cases, their classifications of various ‘true sicknesses’ and the ‘medicines’ which they used all differed markedly in most instances. They never consulted together on particular cases, since the accepted etiquette demanded that a patient should try the resources of one tahu’a at a time before moving on, if necessary, to ask another for help.

65Given this range of variation in the very fundamentals of classification, diagnosis and treatment between three semi-specialists from the one small community who were, in most other matters, in close social contact with one another, it is hardly surprising that there should be considerable variations in these matters between semi-specialist tahu’a rā’au in different rural communities and on different islands.

66Some indication of the range of this variation may be gathered from a comparison of the materiel presented here with that described by, for example, Panoff (1966) and Petard (1972). It may be accounted for by the conventions of the tahu’a rā’au role and by the very nature of the reality which the tahu’a and other participants seek to construct. For, as Fabrega has correctly pointed out, “Strictly speaking, there is no object or concrete thing that is a disease, although there are tissues, hearts, livers, and respiratory passages that may demonstrate or reflect the manifestations and characteristics that we would attribute to disease (1972 : 585)”. There is also some variation between Levy’s (1973) and my accounts of the Tahitian concepts of vārua and tūpāpa’u and of the nature and derivation of the powers attributed to various kinds of tahu’a. But these are, on the whole, minor, and relate less to “nuclear beliefs” than to the more “ancillary” ones where there is scope for individual speculation and some elaboration of the “furniture of the other world (Firth 1948 : 27)”.

67It would, I think, be wrong to see these variations as due to the beliefs, classifications, recipes and so forth being but decadent, imperfect remnants of what was once a more coherent, unified body of beliefs and practices. in his authoritative account of late eighteenth and early ninteenth century Tahitian culture Oliver observes that :

68…among those who dealt with human ailments there was wide variation both in fundamental approach and in procedural detail. Some specialists acted primarily as priests, others as shamans, others as magicians, and still others as physicians or surgeons or bone setters, with only slight dependence on spirit aid. Moreover, within each of these “specialties” there had developed individualized techniques and skills, and there were probably many practitioners who combined, in varying proportions, the elements of several specialties. It is more than likely that in addition to the presence of such specialists in this society, every man and woman was something of a practitioner himself, with his own little stock of remedies and skills (1974 : 476).

69The priests, shamans, and other specialists of Oliver’s account have long since disappeared from Tahitian life, along with much of the rest of the complex traditional Polynesian culture which he describes. But although Tahitian curing practices might have been transformed over two centuries of intensive European contact, there are also some striking continuities of both ideology and technique. The “vulnerary herbs” which Banks mentioned are still used, and Tahitians still maintain, as they did to Brodie, a preference for them over “European physic”. The procedures followed by Pearse’s “native sorcerer or diviner” are in essence strikingty similar to those which are still practiced today. These continuities are probably not due entirely to the efficacy of the ‘medicines’ as this would be construed in Western pharmoco- logical terms, or even to the so-called psychosomatic nature of the ‘ghost sicknesses’ and their stylised cures. Like other medical systems, Tahitian folk medicine is involved with considerably more than curing in these terms. It is based on distinctive ideas about the fundamental nature and meaning of sickness and a particular context and style of social relationships.

70In my view all instances of ma’i tūpāpa’u, and not only those which might be labeled by Tahitians as ma’i fa’autua ‘retribution sickness’, involve an element of social conflict or other disturbances of the moral order. in the case of the stolen knife the element of conflict is clear, and was brought into public view by the very process of treatment. The man possessed by the ‘ghost’ of the skull which he had mistreated had behaved in a sacriligious manner in a semi-public situation, and given the Tahitian views about how human remains should be treated he might well have expected some sort of punishment for his foolhardiness. The case of the ‘male ghost’ is somewhat less clear, since I did not learn anything of the personal relationship between the woman and her husband prior to her involvement with the tūpāpa’u. When I knew them there was nothing in their calm, apparently placid relationship which called for comment of any kind from others in the community, and I neglected to pursue the matter any further. I would be surprised, however, if their relationship had been entirely serene prior to the incident.

71Although the moral element is most evident in instances of ‘ghost sickness’ it is also not entirely absent from Tahitian views of their other categories of sickness. Although ma’i mau ‘true sickness’ may sometimes just happen for unknown reasons, freedom from sicknesses of any kind may be held up as a sign of virtue and a blameless life. This was brought out by several informants, always in relation to themselves or their families, when discussing the misfortunes of others. The same ideas are clearly expressed about those instances of ma’i which I have classed together as injuries. injuries, like ‘true sicknesses’ may at times just happen, but under some circumstances are held to be virtually certain to occur. Tahitians maintain that fishing on the Sabbath or any other Holy day renders one liable to attack by sharks or other fish – “even quite small ones” which usually flee at the sight of humans. Similar injuries are likely to happen to men who go to sea after a domestic quarrel which has not been made up.

72The proposition that sickness of any kind may well be a punishment has a clear latent function in the field of social control. But it also has more subtle implications which go beyond the possibility that some people may be simply deterred from wrongdoing by their fear that they might get sick as a consequence. One of the striking features of rural Tahitian life is the manner in which people gossip about the indispositions of others. News of this sort travels rapidly through the usual networks and through casual encounters, characteristically accompanied by laconic comment and discussion of possible causes. For example, a man fell from his bicycle one day, injuring his wrist, and the news of this came to be spread with the embellishment that it only served him right for having beaten his daughter unjustly several days previously. Again, a woman died with dramatic suddeness from an internal haemorrhage, and in the many ensuing discussions about this there was a general consensus that her death was a punishment on her husband for laziness ; she had done much of the work of the household, which he would now have to undertake himself. And the tragedy in which an interisland launch swamped, drowning a number of the party of Mormon converts on board, was universally acknowledged to be a punishment, albeit a rather drastic one, for their abandoning the Protestant faith.

73It is apparent that this constant moral commentary on ma’i of all kinds taps a whole hidden vein of local conflicts, tensions and rivalries, and that it can serve to crystalise and provide a focus for public opinion about the sick person and his or her associates. If the sickness should then warrant consultation with a tahu’a hi’ohi’o there is ready-made consensus of opinion and approbation which he may, if he chooses, draw upon in making a diagnosis. The process of diagnosis and treatment is thus a means of mobilising the consensus and putting it into effect to redress some moral wrong. If this is so, the question arises as to why the process of effectively sanctioning public opinion should be so apparently haphazard (depending on sickness to focus attention on the issues) and so laboriously indirect and circuitous. I do not wish to suggest that Tahitians do not settle local differences and disputes by other more direct and straightforward means, but it is nevertheless true that there is no office or group in the rural communities which has the authority to arbitrate disputes and resolve deep-seated differences.

74The conversion of the Tahitians by the London Missionary Society missionaries in the earlier part of the nineteenth century and the subsequent annexation of the islands by France brought about the downfall of the indigenous authority system, which in the rural areas has never been effectively replaced. The introduction of French law provided a framework for Tahitian society to develop according to a European model of individual tenure and small peasant holdings, but Tahitians have generally chosen instead to hold their land rights in common, transmitting them by the cognatic French laws of succession. Rural economic life involves intricate strategies of cooperation and compromise among bodies of coowners, for whom the law provides no really clear-cut organisational structure. The rural communities, made up basically of people who have simply inherited land rights in the vicinity are de facto entities, neither traditionally Polynesian in organisation nor French, and lack a stable, clear-cut and explicit authority structure. Local government is minimal and largely ineffectual.

  • 5 A number of these ideas are set out in more detail in Hooper 1975.

75Within these communities social relationships are egalitarian and intensely multiplex in nature. individuals are bound to one another by relations based on propinquity, religious associations, land ownership and its associated economic enterprises, kinship, marriage, friendship, sex and broad age divisions ; and, most importantly, these relations are always with the same relatively restricted set of other people. Factions, cliques and shifting coalitions are evident in all local affairs, colouring nearly all social relationships. in my view, these facts are related to some of the distinctive qualities of Tahitian interaction, which have been noticed and commented on by numerous writers. Given the relatively fluid unformalised role structure and the multiplex character of community relationships, interactions have a tentative, cautious aspect, as though highly attuned to the complex social implications of every move. A gentle, subtle indirection is far more appropriate to Tahitian social style and sensitivities than open confrontations or direct persuasion5.

  • 6 The only exception to this is the ‘ghost sickness’ which is believed to affect any person who viol (…)

76Seen in this context, Tahitian doctrines about sickness and curing take on an added dimension. Not only do they provide a set of explanatory principles for sickness itself and a device for social control and the delivery of psychological support for those who are sick. They also play a part in maintaining the morality of social relationships within Tahitian communities, by invoking the authority of both the Christian God and Polynesian spirits to pronounce indirectly the judgement of neighbours and peers. This aspect of Tahitian folk medicine may even be partly recognised by Tahitians themselves, who commonly maintain that ‘ghost sicknesses’ are essentially Tahitian sicknesses, to which Europeans (who are rarely involved and implicated in the intimate tangle of community affairs in the same way as Tahitians) are expected to be immune6.

REFERENCES

APPENDIX

77This appendix contains the recipes of ‘medicines’ for various ma’i mau ‘true sicknesses’ known to one tahu’a rā’au, who dictated them to me on various occasions over a period of several weeks. The varieties of ‘true sickness’ distinguished are his own, and they are given here in the order in which he gave them, together with his brief remarks on the relevant symptoms. I have attempted to follow closely the order and style of his presentation and the result is in fact close to the sort of written record which is made by Tahitians when they commit recipes to personal and family notebooks. This man did not, however, have his own written record of recipes and worked entirely from memory. He repeated several complex recipes for me in exactly the same form that he had given up to ten days previously.

78As the term rā’au implies, most of the ingredients used are plant material, but two of them included in the glossary below are common echinoderms. I have used local names in the recipes, as they were used by the tahu’a and commonly understood by others in the Iles sous-le-vent. As with fish names, these occasionally differ from those commonly used in Tahiti. Through the kindness and interest of Mme. Aurora Natua of the Papeete Museum I was able to record many of these differences, which are noted in the glossary below. I collected specimens of many of the plants used, which have been identified by Dr A. Orchard, Botanist at the Auckland War Memorial Museum. I am most grateful to Dr Orchard for his help. The ingredients marked in the glossary with an asterisk were made by him and are deposited at the Museum. Notes on the other identifications are given in the glossary.

Glossary of Ingredient Names

79‘a’eho : Erianthus floridulus (Schut. Mant) acc. to Nadeaud 1873.

80‘aero fai : *Achyranthes aspera L. ahi : Santalum insulare (Bertero Mss.) acc. to Nadeaud 1873.

81‘ahi’a : Eugenia malaccensis acc. to Chabouis n.d. Vol. 1

82‘ahi’a ‘ava’ava : *Oxalis corniculata L. According to Mme. Natua, this is known in Tahiti as patoa ‘ava’ava.

83‘aito ha’ari : *Psilotum nudum (L.) Palisot ‘anani tahiti : Citrus spp.

84‘ape : Alocasia macrorrhiza L. acc. to Barrau 1961 and Papy 1954.

85‘ati : Calophyllum inophyllum L.

86‘aua : *Terminalia cattapa L. = T. glabrata Forst. According to both local informants and Mme Natua, this is known as ‘autara’a in Tahiti.

87’aute : *Broussonetia papyrifera (L.) Vent.

88‘aute ‘u’umu : *Hibiscus rosa-sinensis L. au fenua : A river slime.

89fara : Pandanus spp.

90fe’e : Ophiocoma scolopendrina Lmk. acc. to Chabouis n.d. Vol. II Known in Tahiti as ma’ama’atai according to Mme Natua.

91hoi : Dioscorea bulbifera L. acc. to Barrau 1961 and Papy 1954.

92mape : Inocarpus edulis Forster acc. to Barrau 1961.

93mata’ura : *Cyathula prostrata Blume. According to informants this is known in Tahiti as toro’ura.

94mati : Ficus tinctoria Forst. acc. to Nadeaud 1873 and Papy 1954.

95matie : *EchinochIoa colonum ( ?)

96mei’a : Musa spp.

97metuapua’a : Polypodium nigrescens Bl. acc. to Lemaitre 1973.

98miro : Thespesia populnea (D.C.) acc. to Nadeaud 1873.

99moahau’aino : *Cardamine sarmentosa Forst.

100In Tahiti, according to Mme Natua this is known as pātoapurahi.

101moemoe : *PhylIanthus nirari L.

102mō’u upo’o hina : *KyIlinga monocephela Rottb.

103According to Mme. Natua this is known in

104Tahiti as matie upo’o ‘uo’uo.

105niu : *Leucas flaccida R. Br. According to local informants this is known as niuhiti in Tahiti.

106nono : Morinda citrifolia.L. acc. to Barrau 1961.

107‘ofe’ofe : *Centotheca lappacea (L.) Desv.

108pāpati : *Ipomea spp. Informants said that this name was not known in Tahiti.

109pia or pia mutu : Tacca leontopetaloides (L.) Kuntze (T. pinnatifida Forster) acc. to Barrau 1961.

110piri’ate : *Vandellia crustacea Benth. According to both Mme. Natua and local informants this plant is known as ha’eha’a in Tahiti. piripapa : *Portulacca oleracea. This may be known in Tahiti as ‘aturi.

111piripiri : *Cenchrus echinatus L.

112pito : *Ophioglossum reticulatum L. According to Mme. Natua this is known as ti’apito in Tahiti.

113pitorea : *Polygonum glabrum Willd. Known in Tahiti as tamore acc. to Mme. Natua.

114pua’a veoveo : *Crateva religiosa Forst.

115purau : Hibiscus tileaceous acc. to Chabouis n. d.I.

116ta’ata’ahiara : Dichrocephala latifolia acc. to Nadeaud 1873.

117taino’a : *Cassytha filiformis L.

118ti’a’iri : Aleurites moluccana Wildenow (A. triloba J.R. and G. Forster) acc. to Barrau 1961.

119tiare tahiti : Gardenia tahitiensis acc. to Chabouis n.d.I.

120titi : *Davallia solida (Forst.) SW. Known in Tahiti as ti’ati’amoua.

121tō patu : tō is Saccharum officinarum L. acc. to Barrau 1961. patu refers to a variety which which is distinguished.

122tōhetupou : *Geophila repens (L.) I. M .

123Johnston = G. herbacea etc ?

124toro’e’a : *Canthium barbatum (Forst.) Seem.

125In Tahiti, according to Mme Natua this is known as torotea.

126tou : Cordia subcordata Lamarck acc. to Barrau 1961.

127tuava : Psidium guajava L. acc. to Barrau 1961.

128‘uru : Artocarpus altilis (Parkinson) Fosberg.

129acc. to Barrau 1961.

130vai’anu : *Adenostemma lavenia (L.) Kuntze = A. viscosum.

131vana : An Echinoderm. Hechinoxtrix ( ?) acc.

132to Chabouis n .d. II.

133vi ‘ohurepi’o : *Mangifera indica L. ‘ohurepi’o is a variety name.

Medicines

Ira

1341. Ira miti : Found characteristically in children, who feel sick and have a fever at 10 a. m. and feel better at 2 p.m. ; miti in Tahitian means ‘sea water’ and there is held to be a connection between the symptoms and the diurnal movements of the tide.

13540 fresh leaves of tiare tahiti

13640 fresh leaves of ‘aute the water of one ‘black’ coconut

137Pound the leaves with a stone, wrap in a cloth and pour the coconut water through it. Boil the wrapped leaves in the coconut water.

138Bathe the whole body of the child in the liquid and also give it two soupspoonsful to drink.

1392. Ira vaeha’a : A pain on one side of the face only, which may occur in both children and adults.

140Ingredients used are the same as those for Ira miti. If the pain affects the right side of the face then use only the right side of the leaves ; if the left side of the face, then only the left side of the leaves. When the medicine is made, divide it equally between two bowls. Heat 2 fist-sized stones in an earth-oven until very hot, and drop them into a bowl. Cover the patient’s head with a sheet and have him breathe the steam and vapours as an inhalation. Then use the other half of the medicine. Some may also be drunk.

1413. Ira ‘ahure : inflammation and breaking of the skin around the urethra of female children.

1421 handful of red taino’a

1431 handful of white taino’a

1441 handful of piri’ate

1451 handful of pāpati

1464 drinking coconuts.

147Pound the plant matter to a pulp and divide it into two equal portions. Wrap each portion in a piece of cloth, and using the water of 2 coconuts for each portion, wring the juices from the portion into the coconut water. Use one portion of the medicine (consisting of the coconut water and expressed juices) to bathe the affected part ; if possible, have the patient sit in it. The other portion should be drunk.

1484. Ira tui : A discharge of pus and matter from the ears, and a lot of matter in the eyes.

14930 fresh leaves of tiare tahiti

15030 leaves of ‘aute ‘u’umu

1511 handful of niu

1521 handful of vai’anu

1531 handful of mata’ura

1541 handful of moemoe

1551 handful of moahau’a’ino

1562 red leaves of mape

1572 black leaves of mape

1581 handful of leaves of vi ‘ava’ava (a kind of vi).

159Pound these ingredients to a pulp and wrap in a cloth. Express the juices into the water of 6 green drinking coconuts, and heat. The eyes and ears should be bathed with the medicine, and some given to the patient to drink.

1605. Ira ‘ute : Red, painful lips of children.

1613 opened flowers of tiare tahiti

1623 terminal shoots of tiare tahiti

16330 terminal shoots of ‘aute

1641 coffee bowl of fresh water.

165Pound the ingredients to a pulp, wrap in a cloth and express the juices into the water. Bathe the lips and give some of the medicine to be drunk, adding a little sugar.

1666. Ira nīnamu : Occurs only in children, the symptoms being dark lips and eyes, fever, headache, and desire for sleep.

1672 handfuls of leaves of tiati’a mou’a

1682 handfuls of leaves of toro’e’a

1691 banana leaf, of the variety known as meia ‘ore’a

170Only the stalk of the leaf is used.

1711 young shoot of a variety of pandanus known as pae’ore.

172Discard the stalk, taking only the leaf part.

1731 branch of fara nīnamu, as long as a forearm. Discard the outside bark, taking only the inside bark to be scraped into the medicine.

174Pound the ingredients to a pulp, wrap in a cloth and express the juices into the water of 4 drinking coconuts. Boil, and while it is still hot, sprinkle it with the fingers over the whole body. Two teaspoons may be given to drink, three times daily.

1757. Ira hitirere : Known also as Ira hui. Startling in young children. The same medicine is used as for Ira nīnamu.

1768. Hua ira : A swelling of a child’s penis, associated with inflammation, and, sometimes, a black colour.

17712 opened flowers of tiare tahiti

1781 handful of piripiri totetō (a kind of piripiri)

1791 section of tō tore (a kind of tō)

180Crush the tō to a pulp. Crush the other ingredients to a pulp separately. Mix the pulps, wrap in a cloth and express the juices. Give to the patient to drink.

181Another medicine for the same sickness is as follows :

1821 handful of pito

1831 handful of piri’ate

1841 handful of vai’anu

1851 handful of mata’ura

1861 handful of niu

187Pound the ingredients to a pulp, wrap in a cloth and express the juices into the water of 3 blacks drinking coconuts. Boil, and bathe the affected parts, also giving some of the medicine to be drunk.

Māriri

1881. Māriri ‘otu’i ate : Symptoms are a fever and a pain inside any part of the trunk of the body – not in any part of the leg or on the outside of the body. The patient characteristically wants to drink a lot of water.

1891 handful of flower buds of matie

1901 handful of flower buds of piripiri

1911 handful of flower buds of ‘ofe’ofe

1921 kernel of a sprouting coconut.

193Pound the ingredients to a pulp, wrap in a cloth and express the juices into water of one ‘black’ drinking coconut. To be given to the patient to drink. Then take the ‘dross’ from which the juice has been expressed, dampen it and bind it as a poultice over the painful region.

1942. Māriri fati : Fever, with periods of chills, and a continual cough.

1954 pieces, about 4 inches long, of titi

1964 pieces, about 4 inches long, of metua pua’a

1974 terminal shoots of tiare tahiti

1984 flower buds of ta’ata’ahiara

1991 handful of flower buds of ‘ofe’ofe

2001 handful of flower buds of moupo’ohina

201Pound the ingredients to a pulp, wrap and express juices into a litre of fresh water, adding some sugar. Give some to drink, and also bathe the whole body with it. Massage is also helpful while body is bathed.

2023. Māriri ‘ai ta’ata : A swelling which has no matter in it, which may appear both inside and outside the body. For one inside the body, there is no medicine – but there is one for the outside. The informant identified this as cancer.

203For external application, the following medicine is used.

2042 roots of pia mutu

2051 red tuber of wild hoi

2061 white tuber of wild hoi

2071 handful of both the leaves and vine of pāpati.

208Pound these ingredients together, adding no water, and wrap in a cloth. Bind some of the pounded matter onto the swollen region.

209The following medicine is given to be drunk.

210A piece, four finger-widths square, of the bark of ti’a’iri

211The water of one ‘black’ drinking coconut

2121 handful of the white roots of pūrau which can be found in water beside a pūrau tree. Pound the roots and bark, wrap and express juices into the coconut water. Put the medicine back into the coconut and leave it for a while. This may be rubbed on the body and also drunk – one lot of medicine per day.

2134 . Māriri fefera : A red mottled colour appearing over the whole body, associated with fever. The informant suggested that it is Rubella.

2142 tubers of nūmera

215Pound to a pulp, wrap, and express juice into water of one ‘black’ coconut. Give to drink and bathe the body with it.

2165. Māriri ‘ere’ere : This sickness has no symptoms more specific than high fever, pain all over the body and thirst. If it is fatal, the body turns black after death.

21710 green fruits of vi ‘ohurepi’o. Cut off the skin and grate the fruits onto a plate.

2188 pieces of titi 4 inches long.

2198 pieces of metua pua’a, 4 inches long.

2208 opened flowers of tiare tahiti

22140 terminal shoots of tiare tahiti

22240 leaves of ‘aua. Discard the leafy parts, taking only the stalks.

22340 leaves of ‘ahi’a

2241 handful of pito

2251 handful of piri’ate

2268 flower buds of ta’ata’ahiara

227Pound these ingredients together and mix in the grated vī. Wrap and express the juice into the water of 40 omoto drinking coconuts to which has been added 1 kilo of brown sugar, and the juice of 8 limes (taporo). Pour the whole mixture into a demijohn and use it to – bathe the patient and for the patient to drink.

2286. Māriri pu’upu’u : Pimples on the surface of the body and legs, which have no matter in them.

229The kernels of 4 opa’a coconuts, grated

2301 piece, four finger-widths square of the bark of ‘ati

2311 piece, four finger-widths square of the bark of ‘ahi’a mā’ohi

2321 piece, four finger-widths square of the bark of tou

2331 piece, four finger-widths square of the bark of miro

2341 piece, four finger-widths square of the bark of vī ‘ava’ava

2355 plants of mō’u upo’o hina

236Express the milk from the grated coconut and put the mou upo’o hina into it. Put in a frying pan and cook slowly, adding two tea-spoonsful (one at a time) of pia (the flour made from pia mutu). When it is cooked, put about 2 inches of the liquid into a glass to be drunk. It has a very laxative effect. The remainder of the medicine may be spread on the affected parts. Patient should not drink cold water, only warm water or coconut water.

2377. Hua māriri : A red swelling of the male genitalia.

23820 leaves of ‘aua

23920 terminal shoots of tiare tahiti

2401 handful of piripiri

2411 handful of matie

242Pound these ingredients together to a pulp ; wrap, and express the juices into the water of six ‘black’ drinking coconuts. This may be poured or sprinked on the genitals three times daily.

2438. Māriri pūfe’efe’e : A redness and swelling of either or both arms and legs. The redness not confined to one spot but spread over the whole limb. It is associated with pain and fever. Fe’efe’e is the Tahitian term for elephantiasis and this sickness is probably filarial.

2441 six inch square of the bark of tou

2451 six inch square of the bark of a ‘black’ coconut

2461 six inch square of the bark of miro

2471 six inch square of the bark of pūrau

248All these should be pounded together and the as possible, then water added and the mixture sprinkled on the affected limb (s).

249A drinking medicine for this same sickness uses all the above ingredients, but of the size of four square inches and the addition of the following :

2501 handful of flower buds of piripiri

2511 handful of flower buds of matie

25220 terminal shoots of tiare tahiti

253All these should be pounded together and the juices extracted by pressing into the water of one ‘black’ coconut. Add a gallon of water. Add sugar. Drink.

254Another medicine is as follows :

2552 mature fruits of nono

2562 immature fruits of nono

2572 mature leaves of nono

2582 immature leaves of nono

2591 handful of mata’ura

260Pound together to a pulp. Add no water, but spread the pulp on the affected limb.

261Yet another treatment is to wet a cloth with the medicine for Māriri ‘ere’ereand press it on the limb.

Tui

2621. Tui hotete : A swelling, or swellings, on the lower jaw and throat and below the ears on the side of the neck. The swellings have matter in them.

2632 fully mature leaves of nono

2642 immature leaves of nono

2652 leaves of ‘aute

266Pound these ingredients to a pulp and express the juice into the water of one mature coconut into which the kernel has been grated. Heat this liquid with a hot stone, cover it with a cloth and when it is cold give it to be drunk all at once. If the swelling should break, scorch a leaf of tafaie on a fire, spread monoi ‘scented coconut oil’ on it, and put on the broken head of the swelling.

2672. Papā tui : A swelling, inside only, of the neck region. No matter in the swelling and it is highly infectious. “If one child gets it, all children get it”.

2685 opened flowers of tiare tahiti

269The inside bark of one stalk of nono

270Pound these ingredients into a pulp, wrap and express the juices into water. Mix into this water a kind of store-bought soap known as pu’anātura, stirring it until it becomes thick and hard. The stirring should be done in one direction only (either clockwise or anti-clockwise) with no reversal. Spread over the neck.

2713. Tui houhou : Little pimples over the body and scalp, with matter in them.

2721 handful of flower buds of niu

2731 handful of leaves and flower buds of mata’ura

2741 handful of ti’apito 1 handful of piri’ate

2753 terminal shoots of tiare atatea

2761 inch of the tuber of a nūmera

2773 sections of tō patu (a variety called tō piavere in Tahiti)

278Pound the to tō a pulp. Pound the other ingredients together into a pulp and mix with the tō pulp. This juice tō be drunk three times daily.

2794. Tui he’a : Yellow fluid and matter discharging from the ears.

2803 seeds of ti’a’iri. Discard the skin and take only the kernel

2811 handful of pito

2821 handful of piri’ate

2831 small branch of tiare tahiti

2841 small branch of pua’a veoveo

2853 mature leaves of tou

2863 immature leaves of tou

287Fruit of mati

288Take the tou leaves and express the juice from mati fruit onto them until they are thoroughly wet. Pound, wrap and put to one side. Scrape the inside bark from the tiare tahiti and pua’a veoveo branches and pulp them together with the other ingredients.

289Crush some tō to get about one litre of juice. Express the juice from the two lots of pulp to this juice and give it to be drunk.

2905. Tui topa i roto i te ‘ ōuma : This is a tui a swelling from the head which has fallen inside the body.

2917 leaves of vī ‘ava’ava

2927 flower buds of niu

2932 fruits of miro, one mature and the other immature.

294Use only the kernels, discarding the skins. Pound these ingredients together, wrap and express the juice into a little fresh water. Grate a pinch of ‘ahi wood into the mixture and add a level teaspoonful of brown sugar. Stir, and give to be drunk. Some may be massaged onto the chest.

2956. Tui ‘ai roro : Symptoms are matter from the nose and in the eyes, and headache. Most frequently in children. If not treated it forms a “bag” on the side of the brain – according to the informant, like cancer.

2962 mature leaves of tou

2972 immature leaves of tou

2982 terminal shoots of tiare tahiti

2992 opened flowers of tiare tahiti

3004 flower buds of ‘aute, taking only the central parts of the buds

301Pound these ingredients to a pulp, wrap.

302Take one coffee bowl of fresh water and add to it one level teaspoon of brown sugar. Express the juices into this water and divide the resultant mixture in half. One half to be drunk, a soupspoonful at a time ; the other to be bathed on the head.

He’a

3031. He’a pa’a : Dry, cracked lips, may affect both children and adults.

3043 plants of piri’ate ‘ōtāne (‘ōtāne is the term for male plants and animals, and the ōtāne in this case is red in colour).

3053 plants of piri’ate ‘ ōvahine (ōvahine is the female, in this case white in colour)

30612 plants of ti’apito ‘ ōtāne (the ‘ ōtāne in this case is the one which flowers)

3072 sections of tō

308Pound these ingredients to a pulp, wrap and express juices into a bowl. To be drunk only, not bathed on the lips. The patient should then he purged.

3092. He’a ha’amae : Occurs only in children, who are thin and don’t eat well, having appetite for only charred foods or raw food like banana.

3101 large bundle of ti’apito

3111 large bundle of piri’ate

3124 mature leaves of tou

3134 immature leaves of tou

3141 section, four finger-widths square, of bark of tou

3151 handful of leaves of autara’a mou’a. Discard the leafy parts, taking only the leaf stalks.

3164 “pimpled, rough” leaves of ahi’a

3174 smooth leaves of ahi’a

3182 flower buds of fara. Use only the inside portions

3192 young ‘ ā’eho, at the stage where it just appears above ground, with two leaves only.

320Fruit of mati

321Express the juice from mati fruit over the leaves of tou until they are well wetted.

322Pound the leaves to a pulp, together with the other ingredients. Wrap, and express the juices into the water of four ‘black’ drinking coconuts. Put about a soupspoonful of au fenua into the mixture. Stir and drink. When well made, this medicine froths a lot.

323A second medicine for this same sickness is as follows :

3248 mature leaves of tou

3258 immature leaves of tou

32612 opened flowers of tiare tahiti. (If there are no flowers, then the terminal shoots will do)

327Fruit of mati

328Express the mati juice onto the tou leaves and when they are wet pound the leaves and other ingredients together into a pulp. Wrap, and express the juice into a gallon of water until it is red in colour. Add a half kilo of brown sugar. To be bathed on the body and also drunk.

3293 . He’a tupito : A pain in the navel and the surrounding region, especially when eating. Occurs in both children and adults.

3304 flower buds of ‘uru pae’a (a variety of ‘uru)

3312 flower buds of tō patu

3324 sections of tō

333Pound the tō until pulpy. Pound the other ingredients and add to the tō. Wrap and express juices into a bowl. Some to be poured into the navel three times daily and some to be drunk.

334A second medicine for this is as follows :

3354 flower buds of ‘uru pae’a

3364 sections of tō

337Pound the tō. Pound the buds and add to the to juice. Some to be poured into the navel 3 times daily and the rest drunk.

338The following is a third medicine :

3391 basketful (‘o’ini) of pito

3401 basketful (‘o’ini) of piri’ate

341Pound to a pulp and wrap and express juices into a gallon of tō juice. To be drunk only.

3424. He’a tupē : Small, very itchy pimples on body, face and legs.

3433 black ‘ina (sea urchins)

3443 white ‘ina (sea urchins)

3453 red fe’e

3463 black fe’e

3471 handful of pito

3481 handful of piri’ate

3491 coffee bowl of fruit of tōhetupou

3504 opa’a coconuts

3515 mō ‘u upo’o hina

352Cut the coconuts, saving the water from only one of them. Grate the four coconuts into the mō’u upo’o hina. Pound the other ingredients into a pulp, wrap and express juices into the mō’u upo’o hina. Add 1 handful of corn starch (available at local store) and stir.

353Boil this all in some water and add one soupspoon of sugar. About 1 inch of this mixture to be drunk and the rest to be put aside in a bottle for annointing on the body.

354‘Ōpī

355There is only one variety of this sickness. According to the informant it is not indigenous to Tahiti, but was brought by the Chinese. Urination is very painful, and there is matter and blood in the urine, which smells badly.

35620 seeds of ti’a’iri

35720 terminal shoots of tiare tahiti

358Pound together to a pulp, wrap, and express the juices into the water of one ‘black’ coconut. The patient should drink it all and will be cured unless the sickness is very severe.

Tona

359Only one variety of this sickness as well. Symptoms are sores on the penis, with matter in them, and open sores around the mouth.

360The eyebrows fall out. The informant maintains that European doctors now have a good cure for this sickness, though in former days they did not.

3611 four finger-width square of the bark of ‘ati

3621 four finger-width square of the bark of tou

3631 four finger-width square of the bark of miro,

3641 four finger-width square of the bark of vi ‘ava’ava

3651 four finger-width square of the bark of ‘ānani tahiti

3661 four finger-width square of the bark of ‘ahi’a

3671 four finger-width square of the bark of tiare tahiti

3685 plants of mō ‘u upo’o hina

369Grate 4 mature coconuts and place the 5 mō ‘u upo’o hina in it. Pound the other ingredients as much as possible and add them to the gratings and cook with a handful of corn starch from the store. Drink two inches of the oily liquid in a glass, and leave the rest to be rubbed on affected parts. The patient should be told to bathe his sores in sea water out on the barrier reef.

‘O

3701. ‘O fāura : Swellings which “creep” down from inside the anus. Are itchy and “eat” the anus. The several “eyes” of the swellings should be pricked with a needle to release blood so that the swellings collapse. There are two medicines, one for application and the other for drinking.

3711 plant of moa hau’a’ino

372Pound the plant to a pulp. Squeeze the juice from part of the pulp onto the anus. The remaining pulp should be bound by cloths onto the anus.

3731 plant of moahau’a’ino

3743 opened flowers of tiare tahiti

3752 terminal shoots of tiare tahiti

3763 pieces of young root of ‘black’ coconut

3773 pieces of young root of ‘red’ coconut

3783 pieces, about 4 inches long, of titi

3793 pieces, about 4 inches long, of metua pua’a

380Pound these ingredients to a pulp, wrap and express the juices into about two inches of water in a bowl. To be drunk three times daily until used up.

3812. ‘O ‘ua’a : The same sickness as ‘O fāura but one which has progressed to a further stage. If not treated, the patient dies, eaten from the anus up into the interior. It cannot be cured by lancing or cutting out.

3823 plants of moa hau’a’ino

3833 plants of piri’ate

384Pound to a pulp and add monoi ‘scented coconut oil’. Squeeze onto the swellings.

3853. ‘O ‘amu : Swellings inside the lower bowel which do not appear outside. May also grow in other parts of inside of body.

3862 fully mature fruits of nono

3872 fruits from a nono which also has flowers on it.

3882 plants of moahau’a’ino

3892 small roots, 2 inches long, of ‘black’ coconut

3902 small roots, 2 inches long, of ‘red’ coconut

3912 terminal shoots of tiare tahiti

392Pound these ingredients together into a pulp. Squeeze the juices from the pulp onto the anus and if possible pour some into the rectum. Some juice may also be drunk.

393A drinking medicine for the same complaint is as follows :

3941 piece, four finger-widths square of bark of tou

39512 pieces, 4 inches long, of metua pua’a Fruit of mati

396Express the mati juice onto the tou bark until it is thoroughly wet. Pound the bark until a pulp. Pound the metua pua’a to a pulp. Express the juices from both pulps into a bowl, add a teaspoon of sugar and then drink this liquid.

3974. ‘O pararī : A sickness found only in women who have given birth, and especially when they are old. The patient coughs a great deal.

3988 pieces, 4 inches long, of titi

3998 pieces, 4 inches long, of metua pua’a

4008 terminal shoots of tiare tahiti

4011 handful of moahau’a’ino

4021 handful of ‘ofe’ofe

4031 handful of flower buds of tuava

4041 handful of ‘aito ha’ari

405Pound the ingredients to a pulp, wrap and express the juices into two handfuls of fresh water. Divide this into three parts and drink one part at a time over the course of one day. Another treatment for this sickness is to take 2 handfuls of flower buds of tuava and heat them in a pan of water. The patient should sit with her feet in the water and with her legs and thighs covered by a cloth, so that the steam goes up between her legs.

4065. ‘O fati : This kind of ‘o is caused by an old broken bone which has “come back” to give trouble. The patient coughs a great deal.

4074 pieces, 4 inches long, of titi

4084 pieces, 4 inches long, of metua pua’a

4094 roots, 4 inches long, of ‘black’ coconut

4104 roots, 4 inches long, of ‘red’ coconut

4114 terminal shoots of tiare tahiti

4121 handful of moahau’a’ino

413Pound to a pulp, wrap and express juices into 2 inches of fresh water in a bowl. Add no sugar. Should be drunk three times.

4146. ‘O ‘ouma : Pain in the chest and constant coughing.

415The soft kernel of one ‘black’ coconut at the stage known as ‘ōuo

4161 handful of moahau’a’ino

4171 handful of piri’ate

4181 handful of flower buds of ta’ata’ahiara

4198 pieces of tō, about 6 inches long

420Pound the tō to a pulp, then add the pulped other ingredients. To be drunk in three sessions.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

DOI are automaticaly added to references by Bilbo, OpenEdition’s Bibliographic Annotation Tool.
Users of institutions which have subscribed to one of OpenEdition freemium programs can download references for which Bilbo found a DOI in standard formats using the buttons available on the right.

BARRAU, Jacques, 1961. SubsistenceAgricultureinPolynesia&Micronesia. Honolulu. Bernice P. Bishop Museum Bulletin No. 223.

BEAGLEHOLE, J.C. 1962. TheEndeavourJournalofJosephBanks, 1768-1771. 2 Vols. Sydney, Angus & Robertson.

BRODIE, Walter. n.d. TheBrodiePapers : ExtractsfromJournals. Typescript in Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington.

CHABOUIS, L. et F. n.d. PetiteHistoireNaturelledelaPolynésieFrançaise. (Vol. I Botanique ; Vol. II Zoologie). Papeete. La Société Polynésienne d’Edition.

ELLIS, William. 1853. PolynesianResearchesduringaResidenceofNearlyEightYearsintheSocietyandSandwichIslands. 2nd edition. 4 Vols. London. Henry G. Bohn.

FABREGA, Horacio. 1972. “Concepts of Disease : Logical Features & Social Implications” PerspectivesinBiologyMedicine, Summer, 1972 : 583-615.
DOI : 10.1353/pbm.1972.0006

FIRTH, Raymond. 1948. “Religious Belief and Personal Adjustment” JournaloftheRoyalAnthropologicalinstitute. LXXVIII : 25-43.
DOI : 10.2307/2844523

GOUPIL, Sarah. 1926. “Médicines tahitiennes. Raau” BulletindelaSociétéd’étudesOcéaniennes 2 : 95-97.

HOCART, A.M. 1929. LauIslands, Fiji. Honolulu. Bernice P. Bishop Museum Bulletin No. 62.

HOOPER, Antony. 1975. “Review Article, of Robert I. Levy’s Tahitians” JournalofthePolynesianSociety 84 : 369-378.

LEMAITRE, Y. 1973. LexiqueduTahitienContemporain. Paris O.R.S.T.O.M.

LEVY, Robert I. 1967. “Tahitian Folk Psychotherapy” InternationalMentalHealthResearchNewsletter 9 : 12-15.

1973. Tahitians. MindExperienceintheSocietyIslands. Chicago. University of Chicago Press.

MORRISON, James. 1935. TheJournalofJamesMorrison, Boatswain’sMateoftheBounty. Edited Owen Rutter. London, Golden Cockerel Press.

NADEAUD, J. 1873. Enumérationdesplantesindigènesdel’îledeTahiti. Paris, Libraire de la Société Botanique de France.

OLIVER, Douglas L. 1974. AncientTahitianSociety. 3 Vols. Honolulu. University Press of Hawaii.

PANOFF, Michel. 1966. “Recettes de la pharmocopée tahitienne traditionnelle” Journald’AgricultureTropicaleetdeBotaniqueAppliquée 13 : 619-640.

PAPY, H. René. 1954. Tahitietlesîlesvoisines. Travaux du Laboratoire Forestier de Toulouse. 2 Vols.

PEARSE, A. 1878. Letter to L.M.S. from Raiatea, Society Islands, dated January 28. LMSSouthSeasLetters. Microfilm, Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington.

PETARD, Paul. 1948. “Description et usages de quelques plantes indigènes de Tahiti”. JournaldelaSociétédesOcéanistes IV : 115-131.

1972. RaauTahiti. Plantesmédicinalespolynésiennesetremèdestahitiens. Noumea. South Pacific Commission Technical Document No. 167.

“R.V.”. 1925. “Le guérisseur indigène à Tahiti L’Anthropologie 35 : 197-198.

SALMON, J. 1955. “L’utilisation populaire des plantes médicinales à Tahiti” Journald’AgricultureTropicaleetdeBotaniqueAppliquée 2 : 438-442.

SASPORTAS, L. 1924. “Le guérisseur indigène à Tahiti” Aesculape 14 : 237-241.

WALKER, Orsmond H. 1925. “Tiurai le guérisseur” BulletindelaSociétéd’étudesOcéaniennes 1 : 1-35.

NOTES

1 Two periods of field research, of eighteen months and two months, were sponsored by the U.S. National Institute of Mental Health and the University of Auckland respectively. An earlier version of this paper was presented at an Anthropology Department seminar at the Research School of Pacific Studies, Canberra in January 1975 and I am most grateful to Dr John B. Haviland for the helpful comments which he made on that version. I am also grateful to Professor Ralph Bulmer of Auckland University for his useful criticisms of an earlier draft.

2 Lemaitre 1973. Lemaitre’s Information, gathered mainly I think on Tahiti, is completely independent of my own.

3 I had thought this to be an original observation, but Mr Nigel Baumber has since drawn my attention to Hocart’s statement (1929 : 62) about Lau medicines : “Diseases are not diagnosed by symptoms but by the cure that happens to succeed”.

4 Hi’ohi’o is the reduplicative of hi’o ‘to look, examine’ and ta’ata hi’ohi’o is a ‘ clairvoyant’.

5 A number of these ideas are set out in more detail in Hooper 1975.

6 The only exception to this is the ‘ghost sickness’ which is believed to affect any person who violates the site of a Tahitian marae.

AUTHOR

University of Auckland

© Société des Océanistes, 1978

Terms of use: http://www.openedition.org/6540

Race, Class and Ethnicity : Industrial Relations in the South Pacific

Race, Class and Ethnicity : Industrial Relations in the South Pacific with Special Reference to Fiji and Bougainville1

Alexander Mamak and Richard Bedford

FULL TEXT

Source: http://books.openedition.org

  • 1 The fieldwork conducted by the senior author in Fiji between 1970-72 was made possible by a grant (…)

The importance of class analysis for explaining contemporary behaviour in the South Pacific is indicated by several developments in the early independence period, namely, the pressures of inflation, increasing rates of urbanization, and the localization of positions formerly held by expatriates. This paper delineates tendencies in class formation and class conflict with special reference to Fiji and Bougainville. Previous accounts of social conflict in this region tended to focus solely on race, mainly because stratification by race and by class tended to coincide. Such an approach precluded an analysis of the underlying class structure that was emerging, and the position of race and ethnicity in that structure. It is suggested that a number of factors, both historical and contemporary, must be taken into account before an attempt can be made to determine the extent to which urban man in the South Pacific is likely to develop into an urban industrial proletariat. A more balanced view of the complex roles of race, ethnicity, and class in contemporary “class” formation is provided so as to enable their functions in the newly-developing urban societies of the South Pacific to be seen with more coherence than is perhaps the case up to date.

L’importance de l’analyse de classe pour expliquer le comportement contemporain dans le Pacifique du Sud est indiqué par l’évolution de la situation au début de l’indépendance, c’est-à-dire, les pressions in-flationistes, les taux croissants d’urbanisation, et la localisation des postes tenus auparavant par les expatriés. Cet article décrit les tendances dans la formation de classe, et le conflit de classe, avec une référence particulière à Fidji et Bougainville. Les descriptions publiées antérieurement sur les conflits sociaux dans cette région avaient tendance à se concentrer seulement sur la race, en grande partie parce que la stratification par race et par classe avaient tendance à coïncider. Une telle approche empêcha une analyse de la structure fondamentale de la classe qui émergeait et la place des races et ethnies dans cette structure. Il est suggéré qu’un certain nombre de facteurs historiques et contemporains devraient être considérés avant qu’un effort puisse être fait pour déterminer dons quelle mesure l’homme urbain dans le Pacifique du Sud pourrait se transformer en proletariat urbain industriel. Un aperçu plus équilibré des rôles complexes des races, ethnies, et classes dans la formation de “classe” contemporaine est fourni pour permettre que leur fonction dans les sociétés urbaines du Pacifique du Sud en cours de développement puisse être en vue avec plus de cohérence qu’auparavant.

INTRODUCTION

3More than two decades ago Professor Douglas Oliver (1961: 426) was led to ask: “Just how susceptible would the islanders be to the doctrines of Marx?”. There was then not much evidence of the acceptance of Marxist ideas, let alone the development of class consciousness, strength, and militancy to act as a driving force of change. But in recent years it would appear from the growing industrial unrest in some urban centres of the South Pacific that a crucial transformation has already taken place.

4The importance of class-analysis for explaining contemporary behaviour is indicated by several developments in the early independence period. Firstly, urban wage-earners in the South Pacific are beginning to represent a large section of the population as a result of increasing urbanization and the continuing displacement of agriculture by urban-based industries as the primary source of employment. Secondly, the advancement of a section of urban labour into skilled and managerial positions as a result of rapid political change and localization has widened the income gap among South Pacific peoples thus increasing the significance of class relations. The pressures of inflation have also encouraged urban workers to become more conscious of their economic roles, and to view themselves as members of distinct economic groups. Mass action by mine workers in Bougainville provides a recent example and is regarded, at least by the Socialist Labour League of Australia (Workers News, May 22, 1975) as part of a world-wide movement against monopoly domination and capitalism.

5While the development of economic corporate groups is a phenomenon common to most societies, and appears to be something new emerging in the urban societies of the South Pacific, the process of class formation and class conflict may be different and much more complex in the South Pacific than in other contemporary societies. In the South Pacific the process involves much more than a simple division between skilled and unskilled local workers, or a struggle between the proletariat and the modern capitalists. What seems to be developing is a complex interaction between economic, racial, and ethnic groups whose boundaries overlap in different ways over time, and leading to an interrelationship between racial, class, and ethnic consciousness. A brief description of a recent strike movement in Bougainville will suffice to show the difficulty involved in finding a proper race-class-ethnic synthesis necessary for explaining contemporary industrial action in the South Pacific.

The Bougainville strike

6On Monday, May 12th, 1975 an inter-ethnic brawl between a trade union official and a company security guard at the Bougainville copper mine soon spread to involve the majority of black mine workers at the site. Close to a thousand men under the leadership of their union began marching on the company’s pay office demanding not only that the company re-engage the sacked union official but also wage increases and better working conditions. Women and children, most of them families of white expatriate employees, were hastily evacuated from the mine site. The industry was totally paralyzed during the two days of rioting that followed. Company property was destroyed with damages and production losses estimated at several million Australian dollars. Among the properties damaged was a recreational centre used primarily by white employees. Police action and mass arrests eventually put an end to the strike.

7Despite some evidence to the contrary both editorials in The Australian and the Sydney Morning Herald of May 15 emphasized the absence of anti-white sentiments during the disturbances. Company officials blamed the violence on a breakdown in communication between the trade union and its members, and claimed the incident had developed out of frustrations over differences in pay among black employees. While it is true that black employees are differentiated in terms of income level a close congruity of interest exists as a result of the growing awareness of greater disparity between black and white earnings. Black staff members did not take part in the strike, but a considerable number of high income, skilled tradesmen were directly involved. When a meeting to form a Staff Association was called soon after the strike only about ten of the two hundred or so people who attended were blacks. In brief, it is clear that racial, class, and to some extent ethnic hostility were present in the strike. But which form of conflict, consciousness, and identity is the most fundamental and important explanation not only of the Bougainville strike but of industrial life in the South Pacific in general? To what extent, and in what way is Man in the South Pacific likely to develop into an “industrial proletariat?” Before any attempt can be made to answer these questions it is necessary to provide a background in terms of the intellectual debate which surrounds the concepts of race, class, and ethnicity, and to examine the roots of contemporary movements and proletarian consciousness in the context of these terms.

The treatment of race, class, and ethnicity in the literature

  • 2 According to our usage of the race concept relations between members of a non-white population mho (…)

8The concepts of race, class, and ethnicity have often been used to explore the process and pattern of social relations and organization in developing countries. There is agreement in the literature on the general usage of these terms although some associated characteristics may be left out or emphasized more than others in some instances. As is the case here, these concepts are described in terms of organization and social relations between distinct groups of people. Depending on the level of analysis (e.g., ideological, organizational) they are seen as imposing constraints on interaction and generating conflict, hostility, and antagonism between the various groups. These types of relations and organization imply a sense of group identity and unity, distinct types of membership and inter-group behaviour based on skin colour (race), income level, education, occupation, etc. (class), or cultural variables such as custom, language, and religion (ethnicity). There are of course many situations–as we shall see–where class and race or ethnicity coincide. Finally, the treatment of class in this paper is limited primarily to the description and analysis of economic relations between whites and blacks or between blacks. By contrast, the use of ethnicity is generally confined to relations between nonwhites, while the concept of race is solely used in the context of black-white relations2.

9To date, no attempt has been made to give equal emphasis to all three concepts even though the formulation of one concept generally involves the others in some way. Therefore, in the following brief review of the treatment of race, class, and ethnicity it may be best to examine the emphasis placed on each of these concepts in terms of a race-class continuum with ethnicity taking on varying significance at either end.

The emphasis on race

10Theories of pluralism place a great deal of emphasis on the concept of race. In the plural model conflict is viewed primarily in terms of the relationship to the means of political power rather than to the means of production. Pace is of primary significances because in most colonial societies it is the white minority who has sole access to power.

  • 3 This is contrary to the belief of other race analysts mho argue that some classes are “missing” in (…)

11While plural theorists recognize the probable correlation between economic differentiation and racial stratification they question the primacy often given by Marxists to the economic situation. Economic inequality is viewed in the context of race and is seen as providing only one basis of racial differentiation: “Racial difference… comes to have social significance only as it is elaborated in systems of differential political incorporation, economic stratification, and racial segregation” (Kuper 1971: 595). It is also argued that “physical identifiability in a racially plural society is a more enduring identity than class membership in an industrializing homogeneous society” (Kuper 1971 : 594-595). Furthermore, plural theorists often claim that in most colonial societies low-income workers are too differentiated, both economically and ethnically, to make up a single class3. In light of this there is an absence of working class solidarity. Ethnicity may take on additional significance at the political level because plural theorists believe that with the political ascendancy of blacks at the time of independance there may be a radical transformation of ethnic categories into ethnic blocs.

12Within the range of race analysis is the emphasis given by a number of writers to aspects of race relations, with economic factors taking on added significance. This approach is illustrated by Gail Omvedt (1973) and others who argue that the major cleavage in colonial societies is racial : “The basic social relationship existing at the time of colonialism is racism” (See also Casanova 1965 : 33). Racial antagonism, however, is exacerbated by the correlation between race and distinct classes. Black workers, for example, are regarded as racially inferior and treated alike irrespective of their ethnic or class status. Because these workers are affected in common by racism their solidarity is based primarily on race differentiation and not on class. At the same time, ethnic diversity and minor class differences among the economically poor black workforce are insignificant partly because racial differentiation is more pervasive, and partly because the latter see themselves as members of a single, low-ranking group, in a society where rank is determined on the basis of colour.

13Let us recapitulate the above approach by comparing it with the plural model. In comparison to the plural model much greater emphasis is given in this approach to the economic situation. While primacy is still given to race this emphasis is explained on the basis of racial and class hierarchies coinciding at the wider level. Another important contrast is in the treatment of ethnicity. Plural theorists discuss and compare ethnicity primarily with class and suggest that ethnicity may preclude the development of class consciousness. On the other hand, Omvedt and others discuss and compare ethnicity with race and argue that the pervasiveness of race at the wider level may help to offset the development of ethnicity at the local level.

  • 4 The lack of attention paid to the social system of whites and the interaction between blacks and w (…)

14The flexibility of ethnic boundaries viewed within the wider context of racial dominance is evident in the work of such writers as Amin (1964), Rodney (1973), and Hlophe (1973). It is suggested, for example, that ethnic boundaries are often expanded to include members of the suppressed classes in interaction with whites (as reflected, for instance, in the statement voiced by members of distinct ethnic groups : “We are all blacks”). This theme is also evident in British social anthropology, particularly in the Rhodes Livingston-Manchester approach to African urban studies. According to this approach Africans involved in an urban-industrial environment are very quick to develop new sets of interests. Ethnicity as a category of interaction is sometimes largely irrevelant under urban-industrial conditions. This may be due to the predominance of the racial cleavage at the wider level which in turn helps to reduce ethnic cleavages. As Epstein (1958 : 240) points out in his classical study of the Zambian copperbelt : “.. .in situations involving the total field of Black-White relations the tribal factor tends to be overborne” (See also Gluckman 1961). Surprisingly, however, very little attention is given, especially in later studies, to this “total field” and little use is made of the class concept to explain the racial cleavage4. The focus is on ethnicity, the possible overlap in ethnic and class subsystems and the influence that this might have on other types of urban non-white social relationships. Modern writers give increasing importance to ethnicity and seem to support the plural theorists who emphasize the resurgence of ethnic competition in the development of new power relations during the process of independance (See, for example, Parkin 1969).

15An important recent work that uses the concept of ethnicity in relation to class is P.C. Lloyd’s study of the Yoruba of West Africa. According to Lloyd (1974a and 1974b) the Yoruba define people in ethnic rather than class terms. Despite marked inequality in the society the Yoruba both accept and regard inequality as legitimate . Much evidence is provided by Lloyd to show that the Yoruba do not fulfill the stereotype of Western lower classes. Such an approach however suffers from too close a comparison between European class models and social processes in non-European countries. We tend to agree with Wallerstein (1973 : 378) that there are many different forms of class consciousness and class conflict in existence all of which are nevertheless expressions of class interests.

The emphasis on class

16Moving towards the other end of the continuum is the emphasis placed on class. The most important formulation of this approach is found in Marxists theories of class conflict. They provide an interesting contrast to theories proposed by some race analysts. Unlike the plural theorists, for example, the proponents of Marxist analysis emphasize the development of lower working-class solidarity irrespective of whether or not members of this group come from distinct ethnic backgrounds. This solidarity arises from the sharing of common interests in a class situation common to all (Kuper 1971 : 594-595 ; Cox 1948 : 321-352 ; Bauer 1966 : 150). Blacks and whites are primarily seen as members of the working and ruling classes respectively and not as members of distinct racial groups. On economic factors, however, Marxists and plural theorists differ only in their emphasis. Furthermore, the Marxian belief (see, for example, Lenin 1979 : 40) that the class struggle eventually takes on the form of a political struggle directed towards the assumption of political power by the proletariat makes the – Marxian approach almost compatible with the plural approach.

17The primacy given by Marxists to class is often argued on the basis that class factors preceded race in the process of colonial expansion. According to the Marxist view racial antagonism is a relatively late phenomenon. It is associated with the rise of capitalism (most of the leading capitalists are whites) and does not become significant until blacks attempt to assimilate Western economic values and culture. As colonialism develops race may become increasingly important because of its association with other variables such as class. Marxists believe that at the ideological level race functions as a mechanism of control, helping to perpetuate and justify the system of inequality. Such a system may continue even beyond the period of independence as colonial structures and mentality persist and blacks continue to accept white stereotypes of themselves as irresponsible and inferior.

18The foregoing argument provides Marxists with one explanation for the temporary absence of class-based interest groups and class consciousness in some colonial or ex-colonial societies. Contemporary Marxists concede that the industrial proletariat is, and will remain insignificant for a lengthy period as class hatred is often transferred into race hatred, and class factors are often constrained or masked by race aspects. In some cases where working class solidarity is absent Marxists attribute this to the growth of a labour aristocracy. For these reasons it may take some time for the realities of class interests and class consciousness to emerge (See, for example, Cox 1972 : 290 ; 292-295 ; Basham 1975 : 291).

19In brief, the concept of race in Marxist analysis is used primarily in class terms, that is, race is seen as a form of class or status relationship and race conflict as a variant of class conflict. As previously indicated, however, Marxists also concede that racial factors can be so pervasive as to blanket other interests for a lengthy period.

Summary and synthesis

20The pattern of social relations and organization in non-western societies is generally delineated on the basis of three types of differentiation–race, class, or ethnicity. The emphasis on race predominates among race analysts, ethnicity is emphasized by some Bristish social anthropologists, while the importance of class is argued most cogently by Marxist analysts.

21There is agreement among the above writers as to the importance of race throughout colonization or at least at some stage in the process. But while plural theorists focus on race relations almost solely in the context of competition between blacks and whites for political power other race analysts suggest that racial antagonism is largely based on the coincidence of race and class hierarchies. Some British social anthropologists also acknowledge the importance of race differentiation and the overlap of race and class but are often unwilling to use these terms or to examine the race-class relationship. Even Marxists recognize the importance of race relations at a later stage in colonization, and believe that race factors can become so pervasive as to mask the underlying class structure. However, Marxists attribute significance to race primarily because of its association with class. The Marxists view of race is almost completely subordinated to their view of class and the real basis of conflict is seen in class rather than racial terms.

22The concept of ethnicity is also given varied treatment by the above writers althought unlike the race concept there is a greater degree of disagreement about its significance. Plural theorists and some British social anthropologists treat ethnicity almost in the same way as they would approach the concept of race. They argue that with the development of new power alignments at the time of independence race decreases in importance while ethnicity becomes more important. The struggle for political power is now between members of the ethnically heterogeneous black population. According to this viewpoint ethnicity also hampers the development of working-class solidarity and imposes constraints on black interaction even though many of the latter may share the status of a suppressed class. Other race analysts take an opposite point of view by proposing that racial pervasivences can override ethnicity. The earlier studies of the Zambian copperbelt seem to lend credence to the latter viewpoint. From the Marxian perspective ethnicity is also insignificant as it is claimed that differences between the ruling and working classes can override all other types of differentiation. In light of the above it appears that the ambiguous role of ethnicity is still to be resolved.

23The virtual disregard of the importance of class strikes us as being a serious shortcoming in the approach used by some race analysts, especially the plural theorists. By ignoring the association between race and class which Marxists and most other analysts acknowledge, the plural theorists lose sight of an important factor that might help to explain the exacerbation of race or class antagonism. On the other hand, while Marxists and some of the other analysts acknowledge the importance of both race and class they make no attempt to clarify the relationship by combining race with class analysis. Furthermore, their approach is seriously weakened by the scant attention paid to class and/or ethnic differentiation among blacks. Similarly, the emphasis given to ethnicity by some contemporary Bristish social anthropologist and plural theorists precludes an analysis of the relationship between race and class, and ignores the possibility of overlap of race and class and the influence of this overlap on ethnicity.

24We believe the above shortcomings are the result of writers placing undue emphasis on one concept at the expense of others. Although such an approach helps to distinguish between concepts it can also lead to false dichotomies and distract from the true significance of each. It may also lead to ambiguity as when writers, althought agreeing on the importance of race in a colonial situation, differ in their treatment of it. What is required is a synthesis which gives equal theoretical emphasis to race, class, and ethnicity, and which directs attention to their specific relationships and significance over time in a particular geographical area.

25Drawing heavily from the insights and shortcomings of the above writers we propose to look at selected aspects of industrial relations in the South Pacific, particularly in Fiji and Bougainville, Papua New Guinea. Our major aim is to sketch the complex nature of industrial activity in the South Pacific so as to generate a number of propositions which take into account the interrelationship between race, class, and ethnicity. The arguments presented in the following section of this paper, however, must remain largely conjectural until such times as more evidence is available and thoroughly researched.

THE REALITIES OF RACE, CLASS, AND ETHNICITY IN THE SOUTH PACIFIC

The early period

  • 5 Unless otherwise indicated the terms “labour”, “workers” and “labour force” are used to refer to b (…)

26The history of labour5 in the South Pacific goes back at least to the 1850s when islanders were recruited for employment in cotton and sugar plantations in Australia, Hawaii, and Fiji. With the growth of a white capitalist economy the system of labour recruitement soon extended to other parts of the Pacific. For example, islanders were recruited for mining and plantation work in New Caledonia, phosphate quarrying in Nauru and Ocean Islands, and general plantation work in the Society Islands, the Solomons, Samoa, and Tahiti. The vast majority of Asians began arriving several decades later, mainly as unskilled workers (Oliver 1961 ; Parnaby 1964 ; Brookfield 1972).

  • 6 Much has been written abut the illtreatment andpoor wages accorded to South Pacific labour. See, o (…)

27Despite the low wages and abuses suffered by labour under this system6organized workers’ movements and racial and class consciousness among workers were slow to develop mainly because of instability in the labour force, the low volume of workers, and the development of ethnicity. These factors were in large measure due to, and reinforced by white colonial labour policies and the system of recruitement.

  • 7 In rural Papua New Guinea, for example, the administration mas reluctant to pursue a policy that m (…)

28Labour recruitement was primarily characterized by large-scale movements of labour under contract, sometimes to places several thousands of miles away from their rural homes. This developed out of the general unwillingness of the local population to work for low wages (Rowley 1958 : 546 ; Stanner 1953 : 139 ; Langmore 1973 : 186), the employers assumption that migrant labourers from depressed areas who were separated from kin ties and traditional custom would perform more efficiently (Farrell 1972 : 43), and the attempt by many colonial governments to inhibit, for a variety of reasons the growth of a permanent native labour force7. All of these factors accounted for a high turnover in labour common to most areas of the Pacific.

29The vast majority of islanders were employed seasonally, or on a two to three year contract. With the exception of Asian labour most returned home at the expiration of their contracts. The general shortage of labour enabled a significant number to move from job to job or into new occupations. Many general labourers in the towns, for example, were formerly employed in white plantations. The majority of Indo-Fijian contract workers in Fiji moved into independent cane-farming, while a smaller number gravitated to the towns to seek employment as labourers. The lack of a stable, permanent body of colonial workers in wage-employment thus helped to preclude for a lengthy period the development of working-class consciousness, and organized labour.

30The difficulties of organizing labour and developing class consciousness were increased by the fact that even in some of the major centres of employment the volume of labour in relation to the total population was never very large. Although colonial workers were concentrated in a few industries–plantation, mining, and the public service–they were recruited by a large variety of employers many of whom employed no more than a dozen or so workers at any one time (Parnaby 1972 : 138).

  • 8 Employers however did not hesitate to replace dissident workers despite the labour shortage.

31In the early period there were few devices for protecting the rights of workers. Most were content to depend on the goodwill of employers which was often forthcoming mainly because of the general labour shortage8. In Papua New Guinea, for example, employers were encouraged to maintain fair standards of living and working conditions which gradually came under the general supervision and control of colonial authorities (See, for example, Main 1948 : 117-121, and 144-149). The payment for services in kind (e.g., through housing, rations) meant that labour did not have to depend solely on a money wage for survival. Monetary wages were then considered a luxury and were not generally used for survival purposes or the purchase of basic necessities.

32Race and class consciousness were also precluded to some extent by the low proportion of whites in relation to the total workforce. For example, in June 1939, the earliest date for which figures are available for Papua New Guinea, whites and Niuginians comprised respectively 8 percent and 92 percent of the total workforce of 10,967 employed in the mining industry (Wilkes 1958 : 227). Pacific labour was restricted to employment in unskilled and semiskilled categories and so did not enter in competition with white labour. Distinct class lines did not materialize in the minds of the protagonists as contact between colonial labour and whites was limited, while labour and white management were socially and physically segregated at work and outside the workplace.

33The emphasis on employing migrant labour (New Hebrideans and Solomon Islanders in Fiji, Niuginians in the Solomons and Queensland, etc.) introduced complex problems of communication and cultural differentiation. Many were illiterate and unskilled making it more difficult for labour in the South Pacific to organize collectively than in other countries. The extent of ethnic differentiation increased when locals began to enter the workforce, generally at a much later date and on a more casual basis than migrant labour. Lacking the skills and work experience necessary for promotion most locals were relegated to menial work thus fanning the employer’s belief that locally-recruited labour was inferior to imported labour. But while a number of semi-skilled positions were given to migrants from within or outside the area class differentiation among blacks did not figure very prominently since the majority were competing for the same jobs. Employers tended to measure performance standards in terms of ethnic background rather than in terms of class. This is not surprising since the lack of education and training facilities did not permit the growth of a class of skilled tradesman until the modern period (Danks 1956).

  • 9 Some of these features seem to apply to labour bn other colonial areas as well (See, for example, (…)

34From the worker’s point of view ethnicity was becoming as much a major form of social differentiation as race. The concentration of a heterogeneous workforce for the first time and in such large numbers led to frequent fighting and inter-ethnic brawling (See, for example, Oliver 1961 : 321). Ethnicity was reinforced by the lack of permanent housing, the absence of family life, insecurity at the place of work, and the temporary nature of the labour force. To prevent inter-ethnic clashes local and migrant labour were separated, eventually leading to the development of ethnic enclaves9 where groups had greater ties to the rural home rather than to workmates and the place of work.

35Finally, to round off this discussion of the early period it may be fitting to indicate how whites and blacks saw their position in the society. To the best of our knowledge no systematic work in this field has ever been attempted, nor do we have much information on the concepts used by both groups to describe their place in the society. What little information we have suggests the predominance of race in the early stages of industrial relations. For example, whites tended for some of the reasons cited above to see their social separation from blacks in terms of race rather than class. The following reaction of a white property owner to increasing Indo-Fijian and Fijian migration to Suva at the beginning of this century is typical :

36There is ample room for dwellings of a better class for Indians and natives should, in course of time, a demand for such spring up in other parts of Suva without permitting the invasion of the red area which Europeans have created for themselves and which they must justly claim to have reserved in the future for their exclusive habitation (Mamak 1973 : 46).

37Furthermore, whites often used such terms as “nigger”, “coloured”, and “native” in the context of white superiority. Economic differentiation between whites and blacks was also based on race and not on economic factors. As Worsley (1957 : 484) has pointed out : “… the payment of low wages is linked to the white man’s belief of his superiority”.

38Blacks also tended to see their position in society in terms of race differentiation. While they were no doubt aware of economic deprivation they were not disposed to view exploitation and the economic elements of white-black relationships in class terms. Larson (1970 : 195-209), writing about modern Tikopia in white plantation employment, has provided a reason. The Tikopia, a latecomer to wage employment, uses a model for behaviour based on that of a classless society. “They sensed that the inequity of allocations stemmed largely from differences in skin color and basic capabilities and saw the plantation as a white man’s enterprise, a somewhat complicated aspect of his culture which they could not wholly comprehend and would have to accept on management’s terms”. This view was widely encouraged by management’s paternalistic but flexible attitude towards the Tikopia. Although Larson’s study is concerned with the modern period, and the Tikopia differ from more experienced workers who view the conflict in the same plantation in both race and class terms, there is no reason to doubt that the Tikopia model for behaviour did not apply to equally inexperienced workers in other places in an earlier period. To see how labour’s perception of the industrial system has changed over time it may be worthwhile to examine labour’s response to economic differentiation.

The responses of labour

  • 10 The only other strike in Papua New Guinea that is comparable in scope to the Bougainville disturba (…)

39The responses on the part of South Pacific labour to ill-treatment, low wages, and poor working conditions have varied from place to place, and over time. But the outcome of these responses may be classified in terms of a scale of violence and non-violence. Protests accompanied by violence have been rare. Occasional references to killings and murders may be found in the early industrial record, but most examples of excessive violence are restricted to the contemporary period (for example, the recent disturbance in the Bougainville minesite, and the strike by urban Fijian and Indo-Fijian workers in Suva in 1959)10. At the other end of the scale and occurring with greater regularity throughout the history of colonial labour are the silent, less overt and more subtle forms of protest. Rather than complain or openly protest about wages and conditions of service most workers preferred to see through their period of contract, while others simply quit their jobs and moved back to their villages or into other jobs (See, for example, Rowley 1958 : 540-541 ; Wilkes 1958 : 238 ; and Mamak 1973 : 88). Falling within this context of non-violence are the work bans, token strikes, uncooperativeness, desertions, absenteeism and other types of sullen responses.

40A significant variant form of protest, lying somewhere in-between this scale may be seen in several of the Melanesian, so-called cargo cults and millenarian movements. Although these movements offered no violence they were generally feared by employers and the authorities who used repressive measures to counteract them. Rebellious workers, for example, were usually either killed, flogged, imprisoned, or deported.

  • 11 The close association between millenarianism and strike organization of African mineworkers is des (…)
  • 12 To stress the economic component of millenarian movements is not to deny the robe of ideas and rel (…)

41The economic basis of millenarian movements is evident in the literature although most writers tend to emphasize its anti-European nature, or draw distinctions between revivalistic and more secular movements (See, for example, Burridge 1954 : 253-254 ; Inglis 1957 : 261-262 ; and Willis 1970 : 23). On the basis of these studies one can easily get the impression of the predominance of racial hostility in millenarian movements. This is understandable because a major characteristic of these movements is the attempt to invoke the solidarity of its ethnically heterogeneous but black adherents in common struggle for equality with whites. However, it may also be correct to view the cults, or at least some of the later ones, in class terms. The Marching Rule movement in the Solomons (Wilson 1973 : 468 ; Worsley 1957 : 485, 1968 : 193) and the Mbula Tale in Fiji (Mamak 1973), for example, were characterized by an acute awareness of economic deprivation. At least three Fijian protest movements were formed in opposition not only to whites but also to several more privileged and powerful Fijian organizations (Mamak 1973). These movements were a collective reaction to things social, initiated almost exclusively for economic goals, and therefore may be regarded as fore-runners of contemporary workers’ organizations11. The presence of class hostility is found even in the records of less secular movements. Many were led by ex-plantation labourers recently returned to their village (Mair 1948 : 68). While a major characteristic of millenarianism is the emphasis on “traditional” elements, a recent study has cautioned against interpreting the reversal to “traditionalism” as a retrograde step. These movements are a response to the new economic order and are an indication that modern economic values had been accepted (Sanford 1974 : 488 ; see also Worsley 1957 : 488)12.

42Although labour was seldom well organized in the early period, and overt class struggles were rare the record of industrial relations in the South Pacific indicates a long history of continuous reaction on the part of labour and the use of various forms of protest, whether accompanied by violence or not. While the response of labour brought little improvement in conditions this was not so much because of labour’s passive acceptance of the economic position but because of strong control by employers and the colonial authorities–a control that was often expressed through some form of repression. Labour had nevertheless prepared the ground for actions of greater significance in the modern period.

The modern period

43In the modern period race, class, and ethnicity have taken on new dimensions due to the modification of several factors already described for the early period. The size of a permanent heterogeneous labour force has grown thus increasing the potential for ethnic conflict. Ethnicity tends to be exacerbated when it overlaps the growth of occupational segmentation and class differences among blacks. In most cases however the major occupational categories are ethnically mixed and the new work setting helps to make ethnicity irrelevant. In time ethnicity tends to be superceded by the new class division which in some cases has provided the bases for conflict. In general however class differences among blacks have not yet become predominant for the following reasons : the lack of correlation between ethnicity and class sub-systems ; the small proportion of upper class blacks in relation to the total labour force ; and common interests among blacks arising from the overlap of race and class. While the correlation between race and class was evident in the early period it has become more perceptible today partly because of the presence of a large number of whites in some industries. The complex relationship between race, class, and ethnicity in the modern period is mirrored to a large extent in the growth of trade unionism to be described in detail later.

44Since World War II the size of permanent class of wage-earners has increased steadily due in part to any one or more of the following factors–population growth, the forces of industrialization, the growing desire for a money income, and the gradual disappearance in some areas of land suitable for subsistence production.

  • 13 In 1953 almost 80 percent of the Papua New Guinea labour force mas employed on a casual basis or u (…)

45In most parts of the South Pacific the above trends are associated with increasing rates of urbanization largely because of greater opportunities for deriving a cash income in the towns. In Fiji, for example, the proportion of economically active males occupied in rural industries (mostly Indo-Fijians and Fijians) is gradually decreasing while the volume of migratory movements to Suva and other urban centres which have been in existence for some time is increasing. Permanent Bougainvillean participation in the urban economy also appears to be steadily increasing since commencement of the copper project although there may be significant regional variations to this trend. For example, Bougainvillean employees whose rural homes are close to the mine site seem to be the most unstable group of workers in the company. Local conditions and personal factors combined with easy access to the rural home have so far discouraged these Bougainvilleans from considering anything other than short term employment in the copper mine. Such instability in the labour force is not uncommon in the early stages of urban develoment, however13. As these centres become more established, and with new employer policies which favour the retention of a stable labour force (e.g., the provision of married accomodation for workers and their families) the current instability among local Bougainvillean employees may eventually be reversed.

46In contrast to the general increase in the size of a permanent labour force the proportion of wage-earners in relation to the total population in almost all areas of the South Pacific remains insignificant. This is largely due to the so far low level of industrialization in the South Pacific as compared to many other areas of the world (Report of the 1st conference of South Pacific labour ministers 1974). In the late 1960s only 7 percent of the Papua New Guinea population were engaged in wage labour (Langmore 1969 : 11). In Bougainville the wage-earning workforce actually declined significantly following the completion of the mine construction phase. Another factor which has slowed down the growth of wage-employment in the towns has been the payment of low wages–a trend that has continued from the early period. It is remarkable that only two decades ago the highest paid Niuginian government employee received a cash wage of only A$6 a week (Langmore 1973 : 187). Although wage rates have increased steadily in recent years the majority of workers are still employed at the minimum wage level. One reason why some local Bougainvilleans are only peripherally committed to wage employment is because of their dissatisfaction with the low wages and conditions of service in the mine. In light of the above, it is not surprising that industrial relations and organized labour remain insignificant issues for the majority of the population.

47Growth in size of the wage-earning workforce in comparison to the early period has also increased the potential for ethnic conflict. In Papua New Guinea more than half of the labour force are migrant workers employed from outside their District of origin (Langmore 1969 : 1). Local opposition to mining, coupled with a general unwillingness by local Bougainvilleans to accept anything other than very short term casual employment compelled the mining company initially to look elsewhere for labour. Later, as information (frequently exaggerated) on wages and working conditions offered by the company began to diffuse widely an increasing number of Bougainvilleans and Niuginians were attracted to the mine site in search of jobs. (Bedford and Mamak 1975). Growing competition for jobs and a concentration of large numbers of outsiders in close association with Bougainvilleans for the first time were to produce inevitable ethnic tensions. This led to the emergence of voluntary organizations which recruited members on the basis of ethnicity. In the early stages of mining operations, for example, Bougainvilleans began to organize in such a way as to take advantage of new opportunities, and to protect commonly-threatened interests as a distinct and separate unit. In 1973, a common front for all Bougainvillean workers in the towns was developed and eventually a committee under the name of Panguan Mungkas Association (PMA) was formed. The association was founded on the ethnic distinctiveness of Bougainvillean workers in contradistinction to other ethnic groups employed by the company. Exactly a year later, however, the influence of ethnicity appears to be waning and the association no longer seems to be as active as it was in the past. There are several reasons for this.

48Firstly, the economic interests of Bougainvillean members in the association have become more difficult to integrate as many have gained job promotions within the company. Technical and skilled workers, many of whom are staff employees, enjoy higher incomes and living standards than their compatriots who are employed as labourers and manual workers. In contrast to the distinction between staff and wage employees in the company Bougainvilleans employed by other companies and the government are not so well off in terms of pay, social amenities, and working conditions as Bougainvilleans employed by the mining company. Secondly, the association has suffered from too close competition with non-ethnic associations such as the mine workers’ union and the staff association. Bougainvillean staff employees are members of the staff association while most wage employees are members of the mine workers’ union. Thirdly, with the advancement of several of the association’s executives in the company Bougainvillean consciousness and identity have largely been subordinated to individual and company interests. Finally, the company has responded to Bougainvillean pressure to increase the Bougainvillean component in the labour force thus making the PMA’s existence unnecessary (Mamak and Bedford 1974b : 13-17).

49Socio-economic differences which have developed among black workers in Bougainville are not closely associated with ethnicity. In the mining company, for example, there is a balanced distribution of employees from various Districts in both staff and wage categories of the labour force. The new division seems to be based solely on occupational segmentation. There is a significant income gap between black staff and wage employees. In addition to receiving a higher income staff members enjoy such quasimonetary benefits as educational allowances for their children, a better class of accomodation, and superannuation benefits. They also have a better comprehension of the English language and a higher standard of education than most wage employees.

50Some minor occupational categories, however, are ethnically differentiated and in such cases ethnicity tends to be exacerbated. This is a pattern common to all areas of the South Pacific (e.g. ethnic conflict between Tolais and Bougainvilleans in Bougainville ; Highlanders and coastal Papuans in Port Moresby ; Rotumans, Part-Europeans, and Fijians in Fiji ; Solomon Islanders and Chinese in Nauru). As in the earlier period white, employer-created stereotypes tend also to have a negative effect on relations between workers of distinct ethnic backgrounds, especially when employers use ethnic criteria for promotions and evaluating job performance.

51In the main most occupational classifications are ethnically mixed and in such cases ethnicity becomes largely irrelevant. In the Bougainville mining company and in other industries where occupational segmentation does not largely correlate with ethnicity the work setting can provide for the development of common aims which transcend ethnic interests. For example, in Suva, one of the major urban centres in the South Pacific, Indo-Fijians and Fijians who share similar economic and class interests often express egalitarian and friendly attitudes towards each other. There is a similar tendency for mine workers in Bougainville to accept the work group as an important reference group.

52There are two other reasons (besides the lack of correlation between ethnicity and occupational segmentation, and the influence of the work setting) which preclude the development of major cleavages between members of the black workforce. Firstly, the proportion of blacks in higher occupational categories is small in comparison to the proportion of employees in low occupational categories. (This trend is likely to continue for some time given the slow pace of localization. In Bougainville, for example, there were only 97 blacks in staff positions compared with 2,845 employed in wage categories in 1973. Exactly a year later the number of black staff positions has increased by only eighteen). Secondly, class differences among blacks are to a large extent counterbalanced by more significant racial and class divisions between whites and blacks. Whites occupy most of the skilled and professional categories while the vast majority of workers in the South Pacific remain in unskilled and semiskilled positions (For Papua New Guinea see Danks 1956, and Langmore 1969 : 1-2).

  • 14 In contrast to urban industries the pattern of rural occupational activities is marked by ethnic s (…)

53The overlap of race and class is very distinct in Fiji and Bougainville. In the urban-industrial sector of the Fiji economy the great majority of Fijians and Indo-Fijians share low occupational status in contrast to whites who are found in professional and top management positions. Most Fijians and Indo-Fijian unskilled workers are engaged as labourers in local and national government projects, sugar processing, and building and road construction. At the semi-skilled level the following occupations are shared : electrician, carpenter, and the like on government projects and in construction, although there is some evidence of ethnic distribution in the tourist industry and commercial fields (Mamak 1973)14.

  • 15 This pattern of segregation is world-wide and is not limited to the Bougainville copper mining ind (…)
  • 16 For a discussion of the widening economic gap between whites and blacks in PaPua New Guinea see La (…)

54In the Bougainville mining community there are two forms of agreement governing employment and which cut across racial boundaries. The mine workforce is made up of employees who receive fortnightly wages and employees who are recruited as staff members under an annual salary agreement. But within each of these categories wide differences exist between whites and blacks in both pay and conditions of service15. Although black wage rates have increased steadily in recent years the gap between black and white earnings has also increased and is likely to continue on the basis of experience in other parts of the country and elsewhere16. In 1973 the estimated average annual earnings of a black wage employee was A$33.16 per week, or approximately 15 percent of the estimated average earnings of a white wage employee. In that same year the estimated average annual earnings of black staff employees was approximately 27 percent of the estimated average annual earnings of white staff (Bedford and Mamak, in preparation).

55The overlap of race and class has become more noticeable in the modern period partly as the result of a new development–the increase in the size of the white workforce in some industries like mining. In Nauru, for example, over 60 percent of the workforce today is expatriate. In Bougainville the proportion of the white component to the total labour force is comparatively high (25 percent). This factor combined with job promotions for blacks has placed the latter in very close contact with whites for the first time. Under these conditions, how do workers define this new type of relationship ?

56A study of working relationships recently conducted by Mamak (1973) in Suva, Fiji shows that most Indo-Fijian and Fijian workers irrespective of their occupational or class status ranked whites as the most difficult to associate with, and both judged whites in much the same way. No outright opposition to physical or cultural differences such as religion, language, and diet were expressed by either Indo-Fijians or Fijians towards each other, althought colour and class distinctions were sometimes made between themselves and whites.

57Black-white working relationships in the Bougainville mine are more cordial in comparison to the Fiji case, and most of our Bougainvillean and Niuginian informants got along very well with whites in the work place. There are rules governing working relationships which are explicitly stated in the contract of white workers and which provide for immediate termination if negative attitudes towards blacks are maintained or fostered. These rules are accepted by most whites and are regarded as defining appropriate behaviour in the work place. Nevertheless, as in Fiji, most whites regard all blacks as subordinates but react more favourably to blacks in high occupational categories than those in semi-skilled and unskilled positions. Ironically, however, upper class blacks who are in closer contact with whites are also more likely than lower-income blacks to express anti-white sentiments and to compare their earnings and working conditions with whites. The distinction made by black staff in the copper mine is one of class and race rather than class or race alone. Thus, despite a policy of integration close personal contact between whites and blacks is limited and it is rare for members of both groups to associate with each other outside the place of work. This may be due to the fact that in Bougainville as in most other parts of the South Pacific the frame of reference for interaction between blacks and whites is becoming more perceptively one of economic inequality based on race.

58In brief, while occupational segmentation is a new division in the modern period and has helped to preclude working-class solidarity among blacks, the overlap of race and class has also become more distinct, especially in some industries which employ a large white workforce, and has helped to foster a close congruity of interest between black workers irrespective of their ethnic background, occupational or economic status. This complex relationship is also illustrated by the growth of trade unionism in the South Pacific.

The development of trade unionism

59The new norms and values which are imparted in the modern period are most clearly reflected in voluntary organizations. In the industrial field, the development and characteristics of trade unions can provide a clear indicator of the emergence of a social class–a collectivity with common purpose interests which believes these interests can best be served by co-ordinated effort.

60In general, trade unions did not originate directly from outside pressures but emerged spontaneously out of the common needs and interests of South Pacific labour. It has previously been suggested that some of the early protest movements can be conceived as forerunners of contemporary workers’ organizations. Although the earlier activities of labour did not always end in victory they were nevertheless effective in making employers increasingly aware of the worker’s organizational capacity. Speaking of the 1929 strike in Rabaul (Papua New Guinea), for instance, Healey (1968 : 33) notes : “It would not be too much to say that this incident had terrified the entire European community in the Territory, for it removed the long held illusion that the natives were too stupid and illiterate to be able to combine”. Further disturbances in Papua New Guinea prompted the colonial authorities to set up labour departments and introduce new labour legislation and machinery for the regulation of trade unions. Similarly, a Department of Labour was established in Fiji following a wave of industrial unrest dating back to the early part of this century. This opened the way for the formation of unions covering a wide range of activities. Today, approximately two-thirds of Fiji’s labour force is active in the trade union movement.

61One of the major forces stimulating the development of an organized base for urban labour has been industrialization. While a number of small unions existed in Bougainville before copper mining operations began the prospects of unionism increased dramatically as a response to rapid industrialization associated with the mining industry. In a few years the Bougainville mine workers’ union, formed in 1969, succeeded in establishing itself as the largest union in the District, and one of the largest in the country. Spurred by the presence of a large urban labour force dependent solely on a monetary wage for survival and seeking to better their wages and working conditions the union has been able to gain significant recognition from workers and the company–an achievement which normally takes a decade or more in other parts of the country and the South Pacific where industrialization is relatively stagnant .

62Yet the development of an effective and viable trade union movement has been fraught with difficulties. The mine workers’ union, for example, was slow in gaining the support of wage-earners in the early years of the mining operations due in part to the largely transient nature of the labour force. An indication of the importance of stability for increasing union membership is provided by the results of one survey which shows that mine workers who have completed two or more years of work are more likely to join the union that those who have not (Mamak and Bedford, in preparation).

63Other problems associated with the organization of workers is the lack of experience and financial resources of the trade unions ; shortage of full-time officials, the anti-union attitude of many employers ; and ethnic and occupational differentiation among the workforce.

  • 17 A similar case illustrating differences between Polynesian and more experienced Melanesian workers (…)

64Organizational problems based on ethnicity are introduced when members of a single ethnic group are primarily seasonal workers who lack committment to wage-employment. In Bougainville, for example, many local Bougainvilleans see an alternative avenue to mobility and self-betternment in leaving wage employment. Consequently they are not much interested in trade unionism as are the majority of workers recruited from outside the District who are more permanently committed to urban wage employment17. Thus, ethnicity introduced several organizational difficulties for the union in its formative stages (e.g., the need to satisfy the demands of a heterogeneous workforce ; the problem of selecting union leaders ; competition with other organizations formed on the basis of ethnicity). Ethnicity however did not prove as divisive in the Bougainville trade union movements as it did in other places for reasons to be discussed below.

65With more Bougainvilleans recruited into the project in recent years all ethnic groups are proportionately represented in the mineworkers’ union. Ethnicity is no longer so predominant in the activities of the union because no ethnic group is large enough to dominate the affairs of the union. As a result neither membership nor squabbles among union officials and members are ethnic based. Union leaders are selected on the basis of their ability to articulate the grievances of the members and not because of their ethnic membership. Care is also taken to see that each department in the company is represented in the union executive.

66Nowadays much of the stimulus for the development of non-ethnic unions has come from employers themselves. In large-scale enterprises such as copper mining the employer is anxious to reduce the disruptive effects of ethnicity which can lead to great financial loss for the company. To prevent disharmony and promote simple but effective channels of communication between management and a large heterogeneous labour force encouragement is given to a policy of integration. Nationalist governments, who also happen to be the largest employer of a country’s labour force, are anxious to promote stability and discourage citizens and workers from organizing on the basis of ethnicity. Such was not the case in the initial stages of at least one trade union movement, however.

67In Fiji, the trade union movement started off as a predominantly Indo-Fijian activity with the focus of organizational activity in the sugar industry. But the leaders of the movement soon realized that if organized labour was to function effectively it had to admit all sections of the depressed class to its membership. Union leaders therefore attempted to spread their influence by acting as self-proclaimed spokesmen of the working class. The colonial government and other employers, however, became alarmed at the possibility of working class solidarity cutting across ethnic boundaries and introduced various obstacles to prevent labour from combining. Encouragement was often given to the labour of one section to breakaway from a militant trade union. (Even in some all-Fijian unions provincial committees were used to undermine the influence of the union). Although many unions formed on the basis of ethnic exclusiveness were short-lived the tendency for dual unions persisted for a lengthy period and was reinforced by the division between Indo-Fijians at the political level. Notwithstanding, overt antagonism between ethnic political parties and between ethnic unions was dampened by friction within each organization as the result of leadership struggles and personality clashes. In time, as Indo-Fijians and Fijians in low status positions became more concentrated they began to shed their ethnic separateness and worked together for the betternment of their lot. In 1959, Indo-Fijians and Fijians jointly struck work in Suva in protest against white monopoly of the economy. The trend persisted into the 1970s and today there is little evidence of ethnic exclusiveness in Fiji’s trade unions.

68In view of what has been said about the development of class differences and occupational segmentation among blacks it may not be too much to add that class may be a more significant factor than ethnicity in relations between black workers. In the South Pacific, as in most other developing areas, the majority of wage-earners are employed by governments. During the colonial period governments were concerned that the development of a united labour movement could act against them. Today nationalist governments are concerned with the impact of rising wages on the national economy. Workers are encouraged to reduce their economic demands in the interest of nation-building. Although many ex-trade union officials have been recruited into government (e.g., Nauru, Fiji, Papua New Guinea) workers in general feel that these ruling elites have lost touch with the worker’s demands. It seems likely therefore that governmental intervention in the trade union movement, and conflict between the new political class and workers will increase in the future.

69A similar pattern of conflict occurring between members of various occupational categories is also becoming evident. The perception of class boundaries between semi-skilled and unskilled workers on the one hand, and skilled and clerical staff on the other are reflected in different rates of participation in trade union activity, membership, and attitudes towards unionism. In Fiji, for example, a large proportion of low-status employees as compared to high and middle status employees are members of trade unions. This is not surprising since trade unions act primarily on behalf of low-income workers. Upper class blacks are more likely to see themselves as part of management, they are more oriented towards occupational advancement, and are not anxious to involve themselves in industrial disputes. On the other hand, most semi-skilled and unskilled workers, irrespective of their ethnic background, share attitudes which suggest the development of working-class consciousness. They express the desire for more intensive involvement in trade unions, a preference for collective rather than individual action, and the need for a strong negotiating body to represent their interests. At the organizational level class-based conflict is beginning to occur between manual workers’ organizations and professional type associations, both of which are ethnically-mixed.

70The perception of class boudaries is also beginning to appear in Bougainville. As previously mentioned the basic division among black mineworkers is between staff and wage employees. Since staff members are in closer contact with management they are also more exposed to the paternalistic and anti-union attitude of the employer, and are therefore discouraged from participating in industrial activities. Staff are not permitted to join the mine workers’ union, nor to engage in industrial disputes. On the other hand, a significant factor precluding the divisiveness of occupational segmentation and class differences among blacks is the close congruity of interest existing between the trade union and staff members–an interest which seems to have developed out of the growing awareness of greater disparity between black and white earnings.

71An indication of this interest is that in 1974 the union attempted (albeit unsuccessfully due to company pressure) to recruit black staff into the union. Another factor to note is the aim of union officials, some of whom are staff members, to lift the wages of lower income workers so as to reduce existing income differentials.

  • 18 For a description of a parallel situation in the Bulolo goldfleld (Papua New Guinea)in the 1930s s (…)

72By way of contrast, no real interchange has ever existed or exists between white and black workers in the South Pacific, nor are there any common associations for the two groups (See, for example, Report of the 1st conference of South Pacific labour ministers, 1974). This is partly due to the influence of employers. In Bougainville, the mining company is fearful of expatriate influence in the local trade union movement. The subject of union membership is carefully avoided in recruitment and no encouragement is given to whites to join the mine workers’ union. The system of dual wages is another factor precluding the development of common interests between white and black employees. For example, none of the three disputes (out of a total of 50 disputes recorded in 1970) in which Niuginian and white employees jointly took part involved a claim for higher wages. Finally, because of their higher earnings and economic status whites tend to regard themselves and are regarded by blacks as members of a privileged group18.

73In brief, while occupational segmentation and class divisions among blacks are a new development in the modern period and have in some cases provided the bases for conflict, there is a tendency for these divisions to be blurred by the persisting overlap of race and class.

Summary and conclusions

74The major aims of this paper have been to indicate the complexities of race, class, and ethnicity in the analysis of industrial relations in the South Pacific, and to suggest the need to examine the relationship between all three patterns of social differentiation over time.

75While there is general agreement in the literature on the importance of race factors and the close association between race and class, to date no attempt has been made to examine the relationship in detail nor to take into account both types of differentiation simultaneously. In this paper we have attempted to show the significance of race in both early and modern periods of industrial relations in the South Pacific, and the close association between race and class. For example, many of the factors (labour policies, stereotypes, paternalism, etc.) which have made the development of class consciousness problematic are racial. On the other hand, the persisting overlap of race and class has exacerbated racial and class antagonisms between blacks and whites, and helps to preclude conflict between blacks on the basis of ethnic and class differentiation. It is therefore clear that any attempt to separate race factors from aspects of class and ethnic relations will fail to explain the significance of either.

76The view of plural theorists that ethnicity precludes lower working-class solidarity is supported only when ethnic and class sub-systems coincide. On the other hand, the Marxist view that racial pervasiveness tends to override ethnicity is given much greater support by data from the South Pacific. In the South Pacific the major occupational categories are ethnically mixed, and the work setting combined with common interests help reduce the salience of ethnicity. Ethnicity in the South Pacific has not reached the significance that it has in other developing countries where the influence of whites is declining, and where ethnic and political and class sub-systems coincide.

77The data that emerges from our discussion of race, class, and ethnicity in the South Pacific lead us to suggest the following propositions as a basis for further research.

78The extent of ethnicity, racial and class antagonisms will depend on a number of factors– the numerical size of the protagonists, size and stability of the workforce, degree of social control, extent of repression, whether or not major occupational categories are ethnically mixed, etc. These factors may of course be related directly or indirectly to any one of the three types of differentiation.

DIAGRAMMATIC REPRESENTATION OF THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN RACE, CLASS, AND ETHNICITY

DIAGRAMMATIC REPRESENTATION OF THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN RACE, CLASS, AND ETHNICITY

Fig. 1 RACE/CLASS

Fig. 2 ETHNICITY/CLASS

Fig. 3 RACE/CLASS

  • * Ethnic/Class tensions if high status group is ethnically homogeneous ; class tensions of group is (…)
  •  If group is ethnically heterogeneous ethnic tensions due to job competition are likely to develop (…)

Fig. 4 CLASS
Heavy lines denote type of cleavage
Note **
Note **

79Race differentiation is predominant throughout the colonial period. The racial cleavage will predominate over all other types of cleavages especially when whites regard and treat all blacks as members of a single inferior race irrespective of the latter’s diverse ethnic or class black-grounds, and when blacks see themselves as members of a single, low-ranking group.

80As some blacks begin to experience upward mobility or become more committed to wage-employment they will also tend to become increasingly aware of class interests and will provide the leadership for change. There is some ambiguity in this situation, however, and race will tend to be confused with class. Hostility will be couched in both racial and class terms, and recruitement will be based on both colour and class (Fig. 1).

  • 19 Ethnicity may be emphasized by whites as a diversionary tactic, i.e., to prevent antagonism from b (…)

81On the other hand, the significance of race and black-white class differences may be temporarily reduced by the expansion of black economic differentiation and an increase in the size of a permanent, ethnically heterogeneous black workforce competing for the same jobs (Fig. 2). Ethnicity will tend to be exacerbated when ethnic and class sub-systems overlap and expand, i.e., when ethnic groups become increasingly divided into distinct classes. If blacks who experience occupational mobility are themselves ethnically differentiated, i.e., ethnic and class sub-systems do not coincide (as seems to be the case in the South Pacific), then class divisions among blacks (a situation some employers tend to exploit) will partly overshadow racial antagonism and will counterbalance the potential divisiveness of ethnicity and race19.

82Over time the persisting overlap of racial and class boundaries becomes increasingly more important than ethnicity or class differentiation among blacks, particularly if the upper and lower occupational categories are ethnically mixed and the number of blacks in upper status positions in relation to the total labour force is small. From the point of view of upper class blacks differences in white-black incomes are no longer to be explained in terms of education, skill, etc., but in terms of discriminatory policies based on race. It is also obviously less difficult for them, if they are so inclined, to recruit support from the lower-class on the basis of race. On the other hand race continues to be confused with class because whites tend to become more concerned about the stigma of race prejudice and justify separation from blacks on the basis of class differences. They also regard blacks in the upper class on more equal terms than whose in the lower class (Fig. 3).

83Upper and lower class blacks will join in common struggle against whites until such time when the economic gap between upper class blacks and whites is significantly reduced or when the former constitute a ruling class or labour aristocracy. The growing division between manual workers and a professional class of workers, or between labour and the ruling elites on the basis of class affiliation perhaps signal the next stage of development in industrial relations. As the number of blacks experiencing occupational mobility increases antagonism will be couched almost solely in class terms. The correspondance between race and class becomes increasingly blurred and rank i.s not so much determined on the basis of colour. Whites also begin to recognize the extent of economic differentiation among blacks and no longer regard or treat all blacks as if they were members of a single class or race. Irrespective of whether the conflict is now between blacks or continues between blacks and whites it will be based almost solely on class (Fig. 4).

84The above propositions should be regarded as tentative. More studies of how the protagonists view their place in society and particular conflict situations are needed if we are to determine precisely which type of differentiation is more important and why. Futhermore, although many examples were provided in this paper, it is necessary to specify the relationship between various levels of race, class, and ethnicity.

85In conclusion we may note that the pattern of industrial relations in’ the South Pacific today lies somewhere in-between the models represented in Figures 3 and 4. In most cases so far multiple differentiations have prevented antagonism from being directed solely toward any one group. But the trend in Bougainville seems likely to emerge in other parts of the South Pacific now that mining is becoming an important area of activity, and to persist given the cummulative effect of intensive capitalism, continuing inequality between whites and blacks, inflation and the rising cost of living, and a growing permanent class of low-income workers dependent solely on wages for survival. We can look to an intensification of industrial unease based on the old pattern of race-class conflict.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

DOI are automaticaly added to references by Bilbo, OpenEdition’s Bibliographic Annotation Tool.
Users of institutions which have subscribed to one of OpenEdition freemium programs can download references for which Bilbo found a DOI in standard formats using the buttons available on the right.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

AMIN, Samir. “The class struggle in Africa”. Revolution 1, 1964.

BASHAM, Richard. “On the caste system upside down”, Current Anthropology, vol. 16, no. 2, June 1975.
DOI : 10.1086/201557

BAUER, Peter T. “Marxism and the underdeveloped countries”, Marxist ideology in the contemporary world–its appeal and paradoxes. M.M. Drachkovitch, ed., New York : Frederik A. Praeger, 1966.

BEDFORD, Richard and Alexander MAMAK. “Bougainvilleans in urban wage employment : some aspects of migrant flows and adaptive strategies”, Oceania, 1975 (forthcoming).
DOI : 10.1002/j.1834-4461.1976.tb01241.x

–New Towns on Bougainville : copper mining and urban-industrial development in a Melanesian society, (in preparation).

BROOKFIELD, H.C. Colonialism development and independence. London : Cambridge University Press, 1972.

BULMER, M.I.A. “Sociological models of the mining community”, Sociological Review, vol. 23, no. 1, February 1975.
DOI : 10.1111/j.1467-954X.1975.tb00518.x

BURRIDGE, K.O.L. “Cargo cult activity in Tangu”, Oceania, vol. XXIV, no. 4, 1954.
DOI : 10.1002/j.1834-4461.1954.tb00614.x

CASANOVA, P.G. “Internal colonialism and national development studies”, Comparative international Development, vol. 1, no. 4, 1965.

COX, O. Caste, class and race : a study in social dynamics. New York : Doubleday and Co., 1948.

–“Race, pluralism, and power in the West indies, New Community, vol. 1, no. 4, 1972.

CROCOMBE, Ron. “Anthropologists and other missionaries”, a paper presented to the Association for Social Anthropology in Oceania, 26-30 March, 1975.

DANKS, K.H. “Industrial activity in selected areas of the South Pacific”, SPC Technical paper, no. 90, 1956.

EPSTEIN, A.L. Politics in an urban African community. London : Manchester University Press, 1958.

FARRELL, Bryan H. “The alien and the land in Oceania”, Man in the Pacific Islands, R. Gerard Ward, ed., London : Oxford University Press, 1972.

GLUCKMAN, M. “Anthropological problems arising from the African industrial revolution”, Social change in modern Africa, A. Southall, ed., London : Oxford University Press, 1961.

GUTKIND, Peter C.W. Urban anthropology : perspectives in ‘Third World’ urbanization and urbanism. The Netherlands : Van Gorcum, 1974.

HEALEY, A.M. “Labour and combination in New Guinea to 1942”, Labour in the goldfields. Canberra : Australian Society for the study of labour history, 1968.

HLOPHE, Stephen. “The significance of Barth and Geertz’ model of ethnicity in the analysis of nationalism in Liberia”, Canadian Journal of African Studies, vol. 5, no. 2, 1973.
DOI : 10.2307/483541

INGLIS, Judy. “Cargo cults and the problem of explanation”, Oceania, vol. XXVII, no.
DOI : 10.1002/j.1834-4461.1957.tb00703.x

4, 1957.

KUPER, Leo. “Political change in plural societies : problems in racial pluralism”, International Social Science Journal, vol. 23, no. 4, 1971.

LANGMORE, J. “Wage determination in Papua New Guinea”, a paper presented to the La Trobe University seminar, May 31, 1969.

–“Public service pay and localization policy”, Alternative strategies for Papua New Guinea. Anthony Clunies Ross and John Langmore, eds., London : Oxford University Press, 1973.

LARSON, Eric H. “Neo-colonialism in Oceania : Tikopia plantation labor and company management relations”, Oceania, vol. 40, no. 3, March 1970.

LENIN, V.I. On Marxism. Moscow : Novostin Press, 1970.

LLOYD, P.C. Power and independence. London : Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1974a.

–“Class consciousness and the Third World”, New Society, November 1974b.

MAGUBANE, B. “The ‘Xhosa’ in town, revisited urban social anthropology : a failure of method and theory”, American Anthropologist, 75, 1973.
DOI : 10.1525/aa.1973.75.5.02a00310

MAIR, Lucy. Australia in New Guinea. London : Christophers, 1948.

MAMAK, Alexander. Pluralism and social change in Suva city, Fiji. Michigan : Xerox University Microfilms, 1973.

–and Richard BEDFORD. “Bougainville’s students : some expressed feelings towards non-Bougainvilleans, Arawa town, and the copper mining company”, New Guinea, vol.

9, no. 1, 1974a.

–and Richard BEDFORD (with Leo Hannett and Moses Havini). Bougainvillean nationalism : aspects of unity and discord. Canterbury : Bougainville Special Publications no. 1, University of Canterbury, 1974b.

–and Richard BEDFORD. Bougainville copper and trade unionism. Canterbury : Bougainville Special Publications no. 4, University of Canterbury, (in preparation).

MEEBELO, Henry S. Reaction to colonialism. London : Manchester University Press, 1971.

OLIVER, Douglas L. The Pacific Islands. New York : The Natural History Library, 1961.

OMVEDT, Gail. “Towards a theory of colonialism”, The insurgent Sociologist, vol. 3, n° 3, Spring, 1973.
DOI : 10.1177/089692057300300301

PARKIN, David. Neighbours and nationals in an African city ward. Berkeley and Los Angeles : University of California Press, 1969.

PARNABY, O.W. Britain and the labour trade in the South Pacific. Durban, N.C. : Duke University Press, 1964.

–“The labour trade”, Man in the Pacific Islands, R. Gerard Ward, ed., London : Oxford University Press, 1972.

Report of the 1st conference of South Pacific labour ministers. Canberra : Australian Government Publishing Service, 1974.

RODNEY, Walter. How Europe underdeveloped Africa. London : Bogle-L’ouverture Publications, 1973.

ROWLEY, C. “Labour administration in Papua and New Guinea”, South Pacific. March-April, 1958.

SANFORD, Margaret. “Revitilization movements as indicators of completed acculturation”, Comparative studies in society and history, vol. 16, no. 4, 1974.

SCARR, D. “Recruits and recruiters : a portrait of the Pacific Islands labour trade”, Journal of Pacific History, 2, 1967.

STANNER, W.H.E. The south seas in transition. Sydney : The Australasian Publishing Company, 1953.

WALLERSTEIN, Immanuel. “Class and class-conflict in contemporary Africa”, Canadian Journal of African Studies, vol. 7, no. 3, 1973.
DOI : 10.2307/484165

WILKES, John. Australia and New Guinea. Sydney : Angus and Robertson, 1958.

WILLIS, Ian. “Rabaul 1929”, New Guinea, September-October, 1970.

WILSON, Bryan R. Magic and the millenium : a social study of religions movements of protest among tribal and third world peoples. London : Heinemann, 1973.

WILSON, Francis. Labour in the South African gold mines1911-1969. London : Cambridge University Press, 1972.

WORSLEY, P.M. “Millenarian movements in Melanesia”, South Pacific, September-October, 1957.

–The trumpet shall sound : a study of “cargo” cults in Melanesia. New York : Schocken Books, 1968.

NOTES

1 The fieldwork conducted by the senior author in Fiji between 1970-72 was made possible by a grant (no. MH49744-01) from the National Institute of Mental Health ; financial assistance provided by the University of Hawaii’s Research Corporation to both authors is gratefully acknowledged for field research on Bougainville over the period 1973-74. A modified version of this paper was presented to a symposium on “The Impact of Cultural Exchanges” in the 13th PACIFIC SCIENCE CONGRESS, Vancouver, B.C., 18-29 August, 1975.

2 According to our usage of the race concept relations between members of a non-white population mho come from distinct racial backgrounds (e.g. Indo-Fijians and Fijians) are not race relations because the crucial defining characteristics when made are usually based on cultural criteria and not on colour. An exception to this rube is found in Bougainville where one of the most distinct issues underlying relations between Bougainvilleans and mainland Niuginians is skin colour. Nevertheless, this distinctiveness is also frequently associated with perceived cultural differences (Mamak and Bedford 1974a : 4-9).

3 This is contrary to the belief of other race analysts mho argue that some classes are “missing” in non-western societies such as Africa (See, for exemple, Wallerstein 1973 : 377).

4 The lack of attention paid to the social system of whites and the interaction between blacks and whites in Africa has been criticized by Magubane (1973). For a similar criticism mode in the South Pacific context see Crocombe (1975). Two studies which attempt to fill this gap are : Bedford and Mamak (in preparation) and Mamak (1973).
With reference to the paucity of class analysis bn comparison to studies of ethnicity in Africa see Peter C.W. Gutkind (1974 : 175) mho notes that :
To date we have very few studies which indicate precisely how heterogeneity is manifest in urban life ; how social classes are formed ; whether groups rebate to one another according to ethnic criteria or socio-economic position in the urban system. Because most studies have ignored the conditions and processes of change and modernization, ethnicity has become the focus for analysis, treating it (falsely) os the independant variable. The class factor also remains undefined in the South Pacific context and has largely been ignored to date. Previous accounts of social disorder in the South Pacific tended to focus subjectively on race (see, for example, the early issues of New Guinea and Pacific Islands Monthly). Such an approach precluded an analysis of the economic factors underlying the conflict, the class structure that mas emerging, and the position of race and ethnicity in that structure. Modern studies of the South Pacific have not reversed this trend as emphasis is now placed on such concepts as nation-building and micronationalism. For a similar criticism applied to Africa see Wallerstein (1973).

5 Unless otherwise indicated the terms “labour”, “workers” and “labour force” are used to refer to both rural and urban black workers. Similarities in their status and conditions have been noted by Omvedt (1972 : 13) and Bulmer (1975 : 61).

6 Much has been written abut the illtreatment andpoor wages accorded to South Pacific labour. See, on this point, Parnaby (1964 and 1972) ; Scarr (1967) ; and Oliver (1961).

7 In rural Papua New Guinea, for example, the administration mas reluctant to pursue a policy that might “convert peasant proprietors into a landless proletariat” (Healey 1968 : 24-25). The government’s motives for discouraging the growth of a permanent urban workforce included the expressed ideal of preserving the traditional may of life, and the fear that a settled native population in the towns would bead to unemployment conditions. An underlying assumption of these policies mas that non-whites did not belong in an urban environment (Cf. Rowley 1958 for Papua New Guinea ; and Mamak 1973 for Fiji).

8 Employers however did not hesitate to replace dissident workers despite the labour shortage.

9 Some of these features seem to apply to labour bn other colonial areas as well (See, for example, Omvedt 1972 : 13-14).

10 The only other strike in Papua New Guinea that is comparable in scope to the Bougainville disturbance occured as far back as 1929 in Rabaul. In the cose of Fiji the only other strike equal in scope to the 1959 strike occurred in 1920 (See also Parnaby 1972 : 140, and Main 1948 : 216).

11 The close association between millenarianism and strike organization of African mineworkers is described in Meebelo (1971 : 256). In Bougainville the predominance of former “cargo cultists” in the Navitu Association, a modern organization concerned with social, economic, and political development provides a good example of this linkage (Mamak and Bedford 1974b). The economic basis of millenarian movements is amply corroborated by the tendency of employers and the authorities to attach a Marxist label to them (See, for example, Worsley 1957 : 490 ; and Mamak 1973).

12 To stress the economic component of millenarian movements is not to deny the robe of ideas and religion in these movements.

13 In 1953 almost 80 percent of the Papua New Guinea labour force mas employed on a casual basis or under agreement (Danks 1956 : 14).

14 In contrast to urban industries the pattern of rural occupational activities is marked by ethnic segregation–the majority of rural Indo-Fijians are engaged in growing sugar while the majority of rural Fijians are engaged in village or specialized agriculture. As previously mentioned, however, on increasing number of Indo-Fijians are moving from rural to urban industries.

15 This pattern of segregation is world-wide and is not limited to the Bougainville copper mining industry.

16 For a discussion of the widening economic gap between whites and blacks in PaPua New Guinea see Langmore (1969) ; increasing income inequality between white and black mine workers in South Africa is described in Wilson (1972). Although black mine workers in Bougainville are comparatively better-off in wages and working conditions than their compatriots employed elsewhere their expectations are also much higher, firstly, because of their involvement in an industry which generates great amounts of wealth, and secondly, because black-white economic differences are very noticeable.

17 A similar case illustrating differences between Polynesian and more experienced Melanesian workers in their attitudes to unionism in the Solomon Islands is described by Larson (1970).

18 For a description of a parallel situation in the Bulolo goldfleld (Papua New Guinea)in the 1930s see Healey (1968 : 32-34).

19 Ethnicity may be emphasized by whites as a diversionary tactic, i.e., to prevent antagonism from being directed solely at them (Figure 2). Conversely, the ethnically homogeneous, upper class blacks may also employ a similar tactic by emphasizing the racial cleavage and/or class differences between blacks and whites (Figure 1).

ENDNOTES

* Ethnic/Class tensions if high status group is ethnically homogeneous ; class tensions of group is ethnically heterogeneous.

 If group is ethnically heterogeneous ethnic tensions due to job competition are likely to develop but will probably be insignificant due to the low number of blacks in this status position.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Title DIAGRAMMATIC REPRESENTATION OF THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN RACE, CLASS, AND ETHNICITY
Caption Fig. 1 RACE/CLASS
URL http://books.openedition.org/sdo/docannexe/image/951/img-1.jpg
File image/jpeg, 89k
Caption Fig. 2 ETHNICITY/CLASS
URL http://books.openedition.org/sdo/docannexe/image/951/img-2.jpg
File image/jpeg, 100k
Caption Fig. 3 RACE/CLASS
URL http://books.openedition.org/sdo/docannexe/image/951/img-3.jpg
File image/jpeg, 116k
Caption Fig. 4 CLASSHeavy lines denote type of cleavageNote **Note **
URL http://books.openedition.org/sdo/docannexe/image/951/img-4.jpg
File image/jpeg, 97k

AUTHOR(S)

University of New South Wales (School of Socioloy)

University of Cantherbury (Department of Geography)

© Société des Océanistes, 1978

Terms of use: http://www.openedition.org/6540

Rank and Status in Polynesia and Melanesia

Essays in honor of professor Douglas Oliver

Excerpt (Source: http://books.openedition.org)

One of the less fortunate legacies that we who practice ethnography in Oceania have given the scholarly world is the stereotype of the Melanesian leader as “Big Man”.

The designation “Big Man”, derived literally from the metaphor commonly used in Austronesian languages or from the Neo-Melanesian Pidgin lexicon, has come to denote a “pure type” or “species” of leadership, authority and government. (Rightly or wrongly, ethnographic sources usually ignore women’s role in government,…

 Read more

  • Publisher : Société des Océanistes
  • Serie : Publications de la SdO
  • Place of publication : Paris
  • Year of publication : 1978
  • Published on OpenEdition Books : 03 April 2014
  • ISBN (Print version) : 9782854300598
  • Electronic ISBN : 9782854301069
  • DOI : 10.4000/books.sdo.938
  • Number of pages : 93 p.

Archaeology and the Origins of Social Stratification in Southern Bougainville

John Terrell p. 23-43

FULL TEXT

One of the Lessons of modern economic geography, abstract theory of graphs, and contemporary thinking in theoretical biology appears to be that hierarchical control networks are one solution to the problem of what to do about systems that are so complex, they may be unstable, unworkable, uneconomical, or any of these in combination. The issue explored in this essay is : Had the dynamics of life in southern Bougainville Led to the evolution of a hierarchical (stratified) system of social controls in Buin territory before the arrival of the Europeans ? Reviewing the controversy in the ethnographic literature between Douglas Oliver and Richard Thurnwald over the origins of the allegedly “feudal” society of the Buin-speakers, as well as recent archaeological finds from the Buin Plain, it is suggested that the need for social controls in southern Bougainville was probably not sufficiently complex enough that a system of ascribed leadership roles or “hereditary statuses” might have been an optimal solution to systems complexity in social, economic, political, etc. relationships. This observation has direct bearing on theoretical arguments concerning the origins of stratification and the state system of governance : notably the work of Service, Sahlins, and others in America. While the question of origins may be historically fascinating, it may be trivial in theoretical importance.

Une des leçons tirée de la géographie économique moderne, la théorie abstraite des graphiques et les pensées contemporaines en biologie théorique paraît être que les réseaux de contrôle hiérarchique sont une solution du problème de ce qu’il faut faire concernant les systèmes qui sont tellement complexes qu’ils risquent d’être déséquilibrés, impraticables, peu économiques, ou n’importe quelle combinaison de ceux-ci. La question étudiée dans cet article est : Est-ce que la dynamique de vie en Bougainville du Sud a mené à l’évolution d’un système hiérarchique (stratifié) de contrôles sociaux dans le territoire de Buin avant l’arrivée des Européens ? Examinant la controverse dans la littérature ethnographique entre Douglas Oliver et Richard Thurnwald sur les origines de la société dite “féodale” des parieurs de Buin, ainsi que les découvertes archéologiques récentes dans la Plaine Buin, il est suggéré que le besoin pour les contrôles sociaux en Bougainville du Sud n’étaient probablement pas suffisamment complexes pour qu’un système de rôles attribués au chef ou les “statuts héréditaires” ait pu être une solution optimum à la complexité des systèmes des rapports sociaux, économiques, politiques, etc. Cette observation a un rapport direct avec les arguments théoriques touchant les origines de stratification et le système d’état de gouvernement : notamment le travail de Service, Sahlins et d’autres en Amérique. Tandis que la question des origines peut être fascinante historiquement, elle peut être insignifiante du point de vue de l’importance théorique.

THE PROBLEM

3The origins of the state and of civilization are disputed mysteries that have always fascinated philosophers and social scientists. In truth, it may well be that we have always known the right answers to the questions asked about the reasons, or causes, for state organization and for the elaborations of cultural life usually thought concomitant with the appearance of class differences, inequitable distribution of goods and services, differential exercise of power, and the like. As reviewed by Adams (1966), Carneiro(1970), Flannery (1972), Fried (1967), Krader (1968), Mair (1964), Service (1962, 1975) and other anthropologists, favorite solutions to these mysteries, nonetheless, have often been explanations that go beyond commonsense notions about the usefulness or “functions” of leadership personnel, about the troubles apparently inherent in dominance situations, etc. Scholars have been led to compare historical states and civilizations in hopes both that special intrinsic qualities or external circumstances possessed in common might be distilled from the particulars of time and space, and also that those special qualities or conditions would prove to be either the actual causes behind the origins of these mysteries, or at least the best clues to what the causes might ultimately be.

4Such an approach to the origins of the state and of civilization has an obvious weakness : it is a methodology of comparative assessment easily without controls. It can lead to one-sided solutions that mistake some particular circumstance–such as the presence of irrigation agriculture–for a cause sine qua non. It is better to adopt the position that we must ask not only “What is the origin of the state or of civilization ?” but also “Why are states not universal ?” In other words, what are the threshold conditions favoring the establishment of states and of civilizations by any means however simple or however complex–i.e., by conquest, by diffusion, by evolution, etc. Why is it that these threshold conditions have been historically so rare ?

5Kent Flannery, in arguing for the usefulness of computer simulation models for analyzing the cultural evolution of civilizations, notes what may be one of the most important issues involved :

6One of the thorniest problems in cultural evolution is the origins of hereditary inequality–the leap to a stage where lineages are “ranked” with regard to each other, and men from birth are of “chiefly” or “commoner” descent, regardless of their own individual capabilities (Flannery 1972 : 402). Flannery’s phrasing of this “thorniest” of problems implies certain preconceptions about how societies evolve toward statehood which may or may not be historically correct, but which are not essential. What is important is the problem of ranking per se, not whether or not all societies must pass through a “stage of hereditary inequality” if they are to become states. This thorniest of problems has a solution which is, in fact, quite commonsensible. In order to review how this might be true, I would like to examine the functions of control networks by taking a specific ethnographic situation as a case study : the problem posed by the origins of social stratification among the Buin-speakers of southern Bougainville.

THE PREMISE

7Hierarchical control networks are one solution to the problem of what to do about systems that are becoming so complex, they are threatening to become unstable, unworkable, uneconomical, or any or all of these in combination. This premise seems to be one of the lessons taught by modern economic geography, the abstract theory of graphs, and contemporary thinking in evolutionary biology.

8Complexity, like ecosystem diversity, can be defined “as a function of the number of possible interactions in a system and the degree to which they are structured” (Johnson and Raven 1970 : 129). By “control” I mean the effect or interaction of one element within a system upon another. By a “hierarchical control network” I imply something more general than the ideal pyramidic chain-of-command within a modern bureaucracy. Along with Herbert Simon (1969 : 36), I refer to that sort of complexity seen in systems which appear to be composed of subsystems that are themselves composed of subsystems, and so on. I intend the term “network” to be taken simply, rather than in its technical sense as a directed graph which is connected and has no loops (Busacker and Saaty 1965). I mean only the vernacular definition, i.e., something having a complex arrangement or structure.

9The specific proposition lying behind the discussion to follow in this paper is inspired by Richard Levins’ argument that “the dynamics of an arbitrary complex system will result in a simplified structuring of that complexity” (Levins 1973 : 113). The question I will explore is this one : Was the dynamics of political life in southern Bougainville leading to the evolution of hierarchival systems of social control prior to the arrival of the Europeans ? The specific proposition will be this : The need for social controls was not sufficiently complex in southern Bougainville before the coming of the white man that a system of ascribed leadership roles or “hereditary statuses” might have been an optimal solution to systems complexity in social, economic, political, etc. relationships. The evidence used to examine this premise will be taken both from social anthropology and from archaeology.

10Was political life in southern Bougainville leading to the evolution of hereditary social stratification ? This question takes us first of all to a controversy some years ago between two well-known social anthropologists : the late Richard Thurnwald, one of the fathers of economic anthropology, and Douglas Oliver, whose famous book, A Solomon Island Society : kinship and leadership among the Siuai of Bougainville (1955), is often considered to be one of the classics of modern social anthropology.

THE CONTROVERSY

11Richard Thurnwald first visited Bougainville in 1908-1909 (Thurnwald 1909, 1910, 1912). He returned in 1933-1934 with his wife, Hilde (Thurnwald 1934a, 1934b ; Hilde Thurnwald 1934, 1937). They spent ten months living again among the Buin (also called the Telei or Rugara) people who inhabit the eastern side of the inland plain which fans out from the central volcanoes at the southern end of Bougainville (Fig. 1). In 1938 Douglas Oliver and his wife, Eleanor, arrived on the island : they carried out anthropological investigations for more than a year and a half also throughout southern Bougainville (Oliver 1943, 1949, 1955, 1968, 1973). They spent most of that time living with the Siwai or Siuai (also called the Motuna) who dwell on the southern plain just to the west of the Buin people.

12During their field work, both Thurnwald and Oliver were impressed by the nature of political life among these peoples and especially by the activities of the local “big-men” or leaders, called mumi by the Siwai and mumira by the Buin. Most of Thurnwald’s accounts are in German, while Oliver’s, of course, are in English. Oliver’s fascinating reports have greatly influenced anthropological thinking about the status and role of Melanesian “big-men”. Elman R. Service’s recent attempt to account for the origins of the state and of civilization, for example, cites Oliver’s Siwai as exemplars of what he judges to have been perhaps the most important single state in the evolution of the state : the institutionalization of power, i.e., the beginnings of hierarchical society (Service 1975 : 71-80, 291-294).

13As Service has himself phrased the argument, writing, mathematics, scribes, great specialized art, metallurgy, elaborate ceremonial religion, grand public monuments and other “specialized appurtenances usually attributed to the archaic civilizations” may be considered “the final benefits of a form of centralized and expanding political organization that began in the simple attempts of a “big-man” to perpetuate his social dominance by services to his fellows” (1975 : 308). More specifically :

14The Watershed in the evolution of human culture occurred when primitive society became civilized society. As we know from modern anthropological studies, primitive societies were segmented into kin groups that were egalitarian in their relations to each other. Eventually some of them became hierarchical, controlled and directed by a central authoritative power–a power instituted as a government (1975 : 3-4). … it is a fact that segmental societies, however equal their parts, do exalt individuals. They follow war chiefs, accept advice from wise men, and believe in the unequal access of persons to supernatural power. And this proclivity sets the stage for more permanent hierarchies of differential power (1975 : 291). How does an influential person come to occupy an office, so that as his charisma wanes the office can be filled by someone else ? In other words, how does personal power become depersonalized power, corporate and institutionalized ? How does a high achieved statues become an ascribed status ? In more societal terms, the question is : How does an egalitarian, segmental society become an hierarchical society with permanently ascribed differential ranks of high and low statuses (1975 : 71-72) ?

15Elman Service and others recommend the Siwai of Bougainville as a good instance of an “embryonic chiefdom” capable of crossing this “Great Divide” between the primitive and civilized worlds by achieving a hierarchical form of governance (1975 : 74). This suggestion is interesting, because Richard Thurnwald has inferred that the Buin people at one time in their past has already made that great leap. Thurnwald’s German writing style can be difficult to translate, yet it is unfortunate that Service does not refer to Thurnwald’s accounts of “big-men” in Buin : unfortunate, because the process that may have led to social stratification among the Buin suggested by Thurnwald is different from that presumed by Service. Since the controversy between Oliver and Thurnwald centered precisely on this question of process, Service’s elevation of the Siwai to the rank of an “embryonic chiefdom” potentially on the road to state organization and archaic civilization gives all the more reason to re-examine that controversy.

16Thurnwald and Oliver have both expressed the opinion that the status of “big-men” in Siwai differed from that of prominent leaders in Buin at the turn of the century. Before Thurnwald’s death in 1954, however, they disagreed on the reason why. “Political organization among these Terei (Buin) is, indeed, more complex than in the neighboring Siuai area, but Thurnwald’s explanation for it is, I firmly believe, quite overdrawn. His preoccupation with migrations of conquerors is in line with similar preoccupations of W.H.R. Rivers, but one need invoke no actual conquest by a ‘superior race’ to account for the development of chieftainship here ; trade contacts with Alu Islanders (i.e., people from the Shortland Islands in the strait south of Bougainville) could just as well have served to introduce the material objects and standards of value favorable for such an evolution” (Oliver 1943 : 61). “Dr. Oliver shows that the mumi of Siuai and vicinity acquired their status by a process that does not presuppose invasion and conquest by outsiders. This does not ‘prove conclusively that this hypothesis (of mine) has no foundation’ (to quote a remark by Ian Hogbin). It proves exactly nothing concerning Buin, a people living in a position exposed to foreign attacks…” (Thurnwald 1951 : 137).

  • 1 Thurnwald gives further details, also (1937 : 4-5). Frau Thurnwald has reconstructed the process o (…)
  • 2 As this paper was being completed, and after Kothleen Fine had typed the final draft of all but th (…)

17I will not attempt to do justice here to both sides in the Oliver-Thurnwald controversy. Indeed, arbitration is not apropos to what I would like to discuss. The dispute is taken as a case study not to determine who was right about the origins of social stratification in Buin, but instead :1 What are the alternative hypotheses about the past that might be extracted from what each of these scholars has written ?2 What can archeology contribute to the evaluation of these contrary hypotheses ? (3) What effect might the verification of one hypothesis rather than the other have on the broader issue raised by Service and others concerning the primitive origins of the governmental bureaucracies and the state ? What follows, therefore, will refer only to what shall be called the “Oliver hypothesis” and the “Thurnwald hypothesis”, and will not attempt a detailed critique of all that has been said a-bout social stratification among the Buin and Siwai.

18In his recent book, Bougainville. A Personal History, Douglas Oliver writes : “Generally speaking, the more cohesive tribes (politically active neighborhoods) were to be found among the coastal Austronesian-speaking peoples, and in the Buin non-Austronesian area of southeastern Bougainville. Elsewhere tribes appear to have been smaller and more loosely organized. Thus regional differences in tribal size and cohesiveness may have been associated with differences in the ways men became leaders” (1973 : 71). According to his analysis, tribal leadership on Bougainville ranged between the two extremes of ascribed status, on the one hand, and achieved status, on the other. To quote him directly :

19At one extreme were those tribal neighbourhoods dominated numerically, or in terms of land-holdings, by one particular matrilineage. In such cases the members of the principal matrilineage constituted an aristocracy, and their senior member a hereditary chief, to be succeeded in time by the eldest son of his eldest sister (and not by his own son, who would of course have been a member of a different matrilineage). So far had this process gone in some coastal tribes, and in the southern part of Buin, that these societies reached the point of clear-cut stratification, having been divided into two or even three hereditary classes : aristocrats, commoners and intermediates (ibid.).

20In broad outline, this is the pattern of ascribed leadership encountered by Beatrice Blackwood on Buka and in northern Bougainville during her field work in the area in 1929-1930 (Blackwood 1935). It is also the kind of pattern drawn by Thurnwald for the Buin :

21The natives are an essentially sedentary people, although dwellings were sometimes moved as a result of warfare and personal quarrels. The communities are kept together by feudal chiefs, each of whom is the representative senior of his family in the district (1934a : 140).

22The other extreme-leadership by achieved status-was encountered among those tribes “whose leaders earned their positions of authority by exercising military or political skill. Usually however, actual fighting prowess was less important than the ability to gain and inspire followers, which was exemplified by forcefulness of personality and by shrewd distribution of favours and hospitality” (1973 : 71-72). Here Oliver seems to be referring to tribes such as those of the Siwai (Oliver 1955).

23Social evolutionists, following Elman Service, might classify Bougainville tribes in which leadership was an hereditary right as more “evolved” than tribes among which leadership had to be gained individually from generation to generation through good public service and skillful social, economic and political maneuvering. The facts about social organization on Bougainville do not fit such a neat ordering of political forms (Terrell n.d.). Among the Teop of northeastern Bougainville, for example, leadership roles are customarily filled by eldest surviving sons and daughters of particular “lordly” matrilineages. Yet it is freely admitted that an office can be filled by someone other than an heir-designate if the latter should be found to be incompetent, apathetic, or plainly inferior to someone else. And that someone else need not even be a kinsman, because it is easy enough to adopt a person so that he may fulfill the needed role.

24Enough has been said to warn the ingenuous social evolutionist that political life on Bougainville is not a matter of extremes. Oliver’s characterization of the situation on the island as such is only a convenience. Elsewhere he has shown how truly difficult it is to classify the local tribes into clear-cut types. Writing, for instance, about only the Nagovisi, Siwai and Buin, all of whom dwell on the southern plain, he has reported that ‘with the exception of certain dyadic groups–for example, trade partners, sibling pairs, friends–every group we observed in southern Bougainville was structured hierarchically : one or two persons exercised authority more frequently than other members” (Oliver 1968 : 163). Among the Nagovisi, who live to the northwest of the Siwai, hamlet leaders are (or were, traditionally) “Old-ones”, male and female, who are normally also senior figures in the local matrilineages. “Kinship and age are the crucial qualifications for these positions, but a commanding or persuasive personality is also a factor” (ibid). Among the Siwai and Buin, on the other hand, where matrilineages are less obvious to the observer and less important in traditional life, “factors of personality and of ‘renown’ sometimes override age and even kinship affiliation as qualifications for hamlet leadership” (ibid).

25Oliver has suggested that variation such as this in the specifications for leadership roles may follow what biologists call a “cline”, or gradient, running across the plain from the northwest where the Nagovisi live down to the southeast where the Buin people dwell. In western Siwai a man of renown, a mumi, is generally also a matrilineage leader, as in Nagovisi. In northeastern Siwai, however, whether or not a man rises to a position of influence may depend, in part, on whether or not his father was a mumi : in short, at this point on the southern plain one can begin to detect an incipient bias favoring patrilineal succession to mumiship(1968 : 163-164, 166). Finally, in the territory of the Buin people, the institution of leadership built upon renown exists “side by side with one of inherited rank” (1968 : 166).

26Lest the reader be confused about how leadership in Buin differs from leadership, say, among the tribes of western Siwai, it should be emphasized before going any further that one of the differences being drawn seems to be that between patrilineal versus matrilineal ascription, and not, as one might at first think, between acquired or ascribed status per se. An added difference may be also whether or not it is useful to regard those of high status as comprising a “chiefly stratum”. This possible distinction, however, is an especially elusive one, because even Thurnwald was willing to say that a chief in Buin “is housed, dressed and fed exactly like his bondsman… The stratification, therefore, can only be discovered by close observation of the behaviour and customs, and by obtaining confidential information” (Thurnwald 1934a : 125).

27Without attempting to delve further into the obvious complexities of political organization on the Buin Plain, let it be said in summary that Oliver and Thurnwald seem to have agreed with each other that the institution of inherited rank was stronger among the Buin than the Siwai. In Oliver’s words : “there is a clearly discernible cline, from northwest to southeast, in the devaluation of sibship. There is a parallel trend in emphasis upon ‘renown’ as a factor in determining social hierarchies, with the additional factor of inherited class-status in the southeast” (Oliver 1968 : 167). He goes on to ask, “What accounts for these regional differences ?” Since Oliver and Thurnwald have suggested two somewhat differing explanations, let us turn then to the hypotheses they have advanced.

28Thurnwald’s hypothesis : Lawrence Krader in his book, Formation of the State, writes that Thurnwald “conceived the state to be formed by the conquest of one people by another” (Krader 1968 : 3). The Thurnwald hypothesis is, essentially, a conquest theory of state formation writ small. Phrased succinctly, Thurnwald asserted on a number of occasions that the “chief’s stratum” in Buin had resulted from “an invasion of a tribe of black navigating conquerors” (Thurnwald 1951 : 138). As far as I have been able to discover, he never described the process or sequence of events in historical detail. On several occasions, however, he did speculate on what might have happened :

29Originally the mumira belonged to a stock that swept over Buin from the Alu and Mono Islands. Probably enterprising persons by head-hunting, successful fighting and feasts attracted followers among the “aborigines”. As they took wives and settled among the indigenous population, racial and cultural fusion gradually advanced, although the progeny of the invaders reserved privileges for their kinfolk, thus establishing a kind of feudal regime (Thurnwald 1934a : 133).

30He suggested the original invasion had been carried out in a fashion comparable to the headhunting raids for which the islanders in the western Solomons were famous in the nineteenth century (Guppy 1887 : 16-17, 27).

  • 3 Thurnwald gives further details, also (1937 : 4-5). Frau Thurnwald has reconstructed the process o (…)

31“Derartige Raubzüge, die mit Schädeljagden verbunden waren, wurden noch bis vor etwa 50 Jahren, z. B. nach der Küste von Bambatana (Insel Choiseul) unternommen und wurden bei meinem Besuch dort 1908 noch gut erinnert” (Thurnwald 1937 : 4)3.

32Perhaps the most important feature of Thurnwald’s hypothesis is the allowance it makes for the disintegration of the “traditional ethnic stratification” in Buin with the passage of time, due to intermarriage, the acquisition of wealth and renown by commoners or those of mixed-blood, etc. He wrote :

33It should be borne in mind that people (in Buin) promote their acquisition of wealth by using rational calculations of an economic nature. They do it consciously and intentionally, incited thereto by the desire to improve their social position. This process, by which the influence of the hereditary aristocracy was countered by the influence of wealth, began long ago… In this way the established stratification of society has, in the lapse of time, become disturbed and the principle upon which it was founded has shifted (1934a : 132).

34In other words, Thurnwald argued that the aristocratic Buin social system, built upon ethnic stratification and ascribed status, was in the process of devolving into one based upon the principle of acquired status. In this quotation he seems to imply, as well, that this gradual disintegration of the old order was not leading back to the kind of egalitarian matrilineal system that both he and Oliver (1943, 1955 : 470 ; 1968) have proposed may have once been universal on the plain. Instead, stratification remained, in weaker form perhaps ; only “the principle upon which it was founded has shifted”.

35Oliver’s hypothesis : Lawrence Krader has further observed that theories of state formation by conquest usually fail as general theories, because such interpretations rely upon factors external to a society and they do not necessarily take into account the internal processes leading to the formation of a given state. He argues :

36Migration of a bellicose people to the vicinity of a peaceable one or the converse, and subsequent conquest by the former of the latter, does not in itself lead to class stratification and state formation. There must also have been beforehand at least the germ of social stratification, of an administrative system, of an ideology of superiority and of rulership, and of a burgeoning economy with some differentiations of economic functions. The Eskimo and neighboring Chukchi, for instance, made war upon each other, with occasional conquests, but we do not speak of a Chukchi or Eskimo state (Krader 1968 : 45).

37Krader goes on to comment that Thurnwald’s ideas about the formation of states through conquest in east Africa did not, in fact, suffer from such obvious deficiency (1968 : 49-50). Douglas Oliver has, however, indicated such a weakness in Thurnwald’s explanation for the alleged stratification of Buin society :

38…Thurnwald’s explanation for the class-stratified society of the Rugara-speakers (Buin) is in terms of alien conquerors, Melanesian-speaking warriors from the islands to the south, who imposed their regime upon the more primitive and less organized aborigines. This may be so, but it is not the only possible explanation. An alternative hypothesis is that the Rugara institution may be viewed as an extreme but logical variation on the prestige-ranking theme, a crystalization in dynastic form of beliefs and practices present, incipiently, elsewhere. Frequent contact by the Rugara-speakers with aristocratically organized outsiders may have provided a reference-model for an otherwise local development made possible by larger surpluses and more shell money, traded directly from the southern islanders (Oliver 1968 : 167-168). It can be seen, I believe, that these two hypotheses are not altogether dissimilar. Both Thurnwald and Oliver have written that the Siwai were less exposed to outside contact with Strait islanders than the Buin. In 1951 Thurnwald remarked : “In earlier writings I have commented on the society of Siuai, which differs decidedly from that of Buin. I assume that the Melanesians did not enter the hill country, but kept near the coast, although they maintained indirect relations with Siuai” (1951 : 138). “Cultural differences between the two areas do, however, exist. Many of these I believe can be attributed to the proximity of the Terei (Buin) people to Alu Island” (Oliver 1943 : 61). “There may have been some coastal trade with Alu and Mono islanders, but this cannot have been very lively inasmuch as the Siuai had few material surpluses to offer in exchange and inasmuch as the islanders did not to my knowledge offer a large market for slaves” (Oliver 1955 : 470). Similarly, they have both discussed the process leading to stratification in Buin as one involving a give-and-take between foreign and indigenous elements.

39The major difference between the Thurnwald hypothesis and the Oliver hypothesis thus seems to lie in the immediate cause or events held responsible for the conversion of Buin society away from matrilocal, matrilineal institutions and toward “a strengthening of patrilineal political ties” (Oliver 1943 : 61). Oliver credits stimulus diffusion and suggests that class-stratification evolved in part because of contact with an already stratified society, that of the Mono-Alu or Shortland Islanders. Thurnwald also thought Buin society had changed from a formerly more egalitarian condition, not so much by evolution due to the impetus of external ideas and trade, but by force applied by external invaders from the same source. Stratification did not evolve locally, it was imposed.

  • 4 As this paper was being completed, and after Kothleen Fine had typed the final draft of all but th (…)

40In both hypotheses, chance plays a dominant role. If the Strait islanders had happened to be less warlike or less stratified, the situation in Buin might have developed along different lines. I must confess that I prefer Oliver’s hypothesis, not because it is antagonistic to what seems a rather old-fashioned “invasion hypothesis”, but instead because it seems a more convincing phrasing of very much the same set of circumstances. Both hypotheses have weaknesses. Both are speculative ; both presume a degree of class stratification in Buin which might be challenged in fact4. Thurnwald, lamely I think, had to argue against his own observations, in order to argue for an aristocratic tradition and class in Buin : i.e., he had to claim that the mumira class had “deteriorated”, “disintegrated”, suffered “fusion” with the aboriginal natives, etc. As Oliver seems to hint now and then in his writings (e.g., Oliver 1943 : 62, note 29), Thurnwald’s eye-witness observations, indeed, could be read to suggest a structural picture of Buin political society little different from that painstakingly drawn by Oliver for the Siwai. On the other hand, Oliver’s hypothesis presumes certain differences in human ecology between the territory of the Siwai and that of Buin which may not exist (Terrell 1976 : 154-155), and it further supposes an “aristocratic tradition” in the Bougainville Strait which cannot be assumed without qualification. Guppy reports that “the chiefs of the islands of Bougainville Straits possess far greater power over their peoples than that which is wielded by most of the chiefs we encountered at the St. Christoval end of the group” (Guppy 1887 : 20). Yet I have argued elsewhere (Terrell and Irwin 1972) that much of the power and economic wealth of “King” Gorai and other chiefs in the Strait in the latter half of the nineteenth century can be interpreted as a direct result of their entrepreneurial dealings with European traders. Moreover, even these remarkable big-men were described by visiting white men as little distinguishable by appearance from their “subjects”. Gorai did have by repute a great number of wives, and Guppy relates that the “inhabitants of the Shortland Islands, Gorai’s immediate rule, live in great awe of their chief”. Yet he adds that “We were unable to see very much of the mode of exercising his power ; but I suspect that Gorai, like other chiefs, places but little value on the lives of his people (1887 : 22).

41I have ventured far into the arena of social anthropology. I have gone as far as I have to emphasize some of the complexities and uncertainties of the problem of social stratification in southern Bougainville. Let me suggest then a few of the things we might ask about the past, given the Thurnwald and Oliver hypotheses as I have presented them.

42If the Thurnwald hypothesis is correct, it seems reasonable to expect to find these characteristics in the genetic composition of the Buin villagers and in the archaeological record from this part of Bougainville :

431. According to one of Thurnwald’s earliest papers (1910 : 101-110), the Buin population can be divided into two racial types which correlate more or less discretely with the chiefly class and the aboriginal lower class. “Natürlich kommen zwischen diesen beiden eine Menge Misch-Typen vor. Der erste Typ is dem anderen wohl an Intelligenz und Kulturgütern überlegen, doch hat der letztere es durchgesetzt, seine Sprache in Buin zu erhalten. Die Leute von Buin sprechen eine nicht melanesische Sprache, die mit der Bergvölker (i.e., the aborigines) verwandt ist” (1910 : 101).

442. Since the black, seafaring invaders are alleged to have introduced important “high” culture traits, the archaeological record may show the sudden appearance of new culture elements a few hundred years ago–Hilde Thurnwald (1938 : 214) has speculated that the initial marauding began about 200 years ago.

453. If it is possible to identify certain monuments, artifacts, settlement traits, etc. as introduced traits belonging to a new chiefly class, we may anticipate finding that such elements have become more general–i.e., common–with the passage of time, as the aristocracy has gradually disintegrated and commoners or men of mixed-blood have begun to achieve high status in competition with the old aristocrats.

46Alternatively, given the Oliver hypothesis, the following patterns may be expected :

471. If intermarriage has taken place between Strait islanders and the Bougainville tribes, we might find that the Buin people are genetically more similar to the off-shore islanders than either the Siwai or the Nagovisi are discovered to be. However, given Oliver’s hypothesis, there is no reason to suspect extraordinary genetic variability within the Buin population, due to the occurence of two ethnic strata with only partial “racial mixture”.

482. If similarities between the Buin tribes and the Strait islanders have come about merely through borrowing and trade, there is no reason to expect to find in the archaeological record a sudden influx of culture traits a few hundred years ago. Once contact between landsmen and off-islanders was established, traits might have passed back and forth at any time in the past. Even the sudden appearance of a complex of traits within the archaeological record, moreover, might be explained as wholesale borrowing.

493. New traits borrowed from Strait islanders from time to time may have become fashionable for awhile and then gone out of fashion. There is nothing in the Oliver hypothesis to lead us to anticipate a major “cultural decline” due to the disintegration of an old order.

50Shortly I shall turn to archaeological evidence bearing on these possibilities. Before doing so, however, it is appropriate to mention briefly something about the results of modern biological research on the genetics of Bougainville islanders undertaken by Jon S. Fried-laender and others from Harvard University. While Friedlaender has thus far not attempted biological surveys in the Buin area, he has completed systematic studies among the Siwai and other linguistic groups in southern Bougainville and, most recently, on Buka and selected areas of northern Bougainville (Friedlaender 1975 and pers. comm.). Following European contact, there was a marked decline in the native population of the Strait islands (Irwin, pers. comm ; Thurnwald 1910), and much of the present-day population is comprised of migrants from Bougainville. Thus it may be now more or less impossible to compare Strait islanders and plainsmen directly. Friedlaender has found that Torau-speaking Melanesians living on the east coast of Bougainville, after whom Thurnwald once named his black invaders (Thurnwald 1937 : 4), can not be distinguished readily from Bougainville islanders in general and, in fact, most closely resemble their present neighbors in the Kieta area, the non-Melanesian-speaking Nasioi. Although it is likely that the Torau have been residing on the east coast for hundreds of years (Black n. d. ; Terrell and Irwin 1972), no one doubts their affinities with the islanders in the Bougainville Strait. Such circumstantial evidence, therefore, seems to imply that Thurnwald’s racial argument has no basis in fact (Friedlaender, pers. comm.).

51What, therefore, does archaeology have to say about the Oliver and Thurnwald controversy ?

ARCHAEOLOGY IN BUIN

52In 1969-1970 I carried out archaeological surveys on Bougainville in four selected areas, including the Paubake Survey Area located in Buin territory (Fig. 1). During the final three months of the expedition which were given over entirely to work in Paubake, I was joined by two New Zealand archaeologists, Dr. Geoffrey Irwin, presently Lecturer in Anthropology at the University of Auckland, and Kenneth C. Gorbey, now Director of the Waikato Museum in New Zealand. Since the monograph on these researches is to be published in the near future, I will only summarize points of direct relevance here (Terrell 1976).

53At various times in his narratives on his journey to Buin in 1908-1909 Richard Thurnwald mentions the existence of certain isolated stone boulders and stone groups which locally had supernatural associations (1909 : 518-519 ; 1910 : 135 ; 1912, Vol. 1 : 369-370). He speculates whether or not they might have served in the past as grave stones. In this regard he reports that a stone near the village of Morou was alleged to be the burial place of a “big-man” named Tsikinue (1912, Vol. 1 : 370). He notes that it seemed revealing that Tsikinue was said to have been buriedthere, because the historic Buin villagers practiced cremation (1912, Vol. 1 : 33). On his return to Buin in 1933-1934 he undertook further study of these mysterious stones (Thurnwald 1934b). He made rough field surveys of stones about the villages where he and his wife lived, and he even “ventured to dig underneath a few megaliths without encountering any objection from the natives”.

54He discovered that most, if not in fact all, of the stones “are never hewn, or bear any other traces of human workmanship”. He thought he could distinguish three types of monuments :

551. Megaliths which varied considerably in size ranging from roughly 30 x 30 inches up to 70 or 80 inches square, if cubic in shape. “The larger blocks are supported by six basic stones, comparatively very small in size. Little blocks are supported by three or four basic stones only”.

562. Monoliths “standing erect and sometimes bearing traces of human sculpturing, either in in the shape of a prism or a rectangle ; in one or two cases the profile of a face could be guessed”.

573. Stone circles or ovals : “Comparatively small stones of a few inches in diameter arranged in a circle or oval associated with traces of cremation. They are apparently of no great age”.

58It is unclear how many of the so-called megaliths he may have excavated in 1933-1934. His account reads as if he were describing only a single example :

59A few inches beneath the surface I found remains of nutshells, round objects like throwing stones, and broken pottery. Somewhat deeper, a few inches more, human bones in an advanced stage of decomposition were discovered, together with broken stone implements, crude axe blades, and seemingly wooden objects which it is scarcely possible to reconstruct.

60He indicates that the finds were handed over to the Department of Anthropology at the University of Sydney, but they are no longer to be found there (Specht 1969 : 11).

61Thurnwald was intrigued by the human remains : “Perhaps the stones hide the remains of an invading population from which the present chief’s families are late hybrid descendants”. He was somewhat perplexed by the condition of the burial :

62The position of the human remains shows that the body had not been buried as a whole. The bones were lying in a jumble, not arrayed like a full skeleton. No skulls or teeth were found, though some of the pits were thoroughly examined, the basic stones and the megalith removed, and digging continued below the layer of bones. My impression is that a low pit was originally excavated and then filled with bones which were sometimes placed on one side of the megalith rather than directly under it. For some reason the skulls must have been withheld from the grave.

63He concluded that the transport of such large blocks must have taken a great deal of strenuous exertion on the part of a large number of men : “…certain persons must have been able to urge others to help in the performance of the work ; and these others must have been willing to concur with them. This suggests an enterprising people”. Citing reports of similar stone monuments in Siwai, on the islands in Bougainville Strait and to the north on the island of Buka, he ends his report with the thought : “On other islands of the Pacific also, monuments are found, the investigation of which would throw some light upon the migrations and early history of this part of the world”.

64The primary objective of most archaeological surveys is not to answer questions about the past, but rather to determine the most interesting questions to ask. Solutions usually come later from detailed, intensive research directed toward carefully phrased research problems. The objectives of the archaeological surveys on Bougainville in 1969-1970 were simply to define some of the outlines of prehistory on the island, the largest in the Solomon Islands, and gather evidence which might prove useful in accounting for the great ethnological and biological diversity of these islanders, an ethnic complexity so extraordinary that Bougainville is a microcosm of the diversity not only of the whole of the Solomons, but also of the whole of Melanesia. If the tentative nature of our findings is kept firmly in mind, the following observations bearing upon the prehistory of the Paubake area can be offered.

65Investigation of stone monuments in Buin, it now appears, has nothing to contribute to the study of so-called “Megalithic folk” alleged by some scholars to have migrated throughout the Pacific bearing advanced culture traits as their gifts to backward, short, stolid “aborigines” (e.g., Riesenfeld 1950). We could find only two “monoliths” in the Paubake Survey Area ; none was obviously sculptured. While the possibility cannot be ruled out that Thurnwald’s monoliths on which “the profile of a face could be guessed” might somehow be related to the famous sculptured burial pillars of Choiseul (Bernatzik 1935 : Fig. 43), there is otherwise no reason to think that the stone monuments of Buin are anything more than local inventions. Evidence favoring this conclusion is afforded by the distributions of both “megaliths” and “stone circles”.

66We discovered over 70 stone megaliths (PI. 1a), ranging in the length and width of the capstone between roughly 30-400 cm, and in height above ground level between 15-200 cm. The “basic stones” or underlying support stones varied in number from between none at all to 9 in total. It is clear that the function of the understones was merely to level the primary capstones and that the number employed in a specific instance is not terribly significant. In order to avoid the presumption that these table-like stone constructions reflect a Megalithic Culture, we have termed them “capstones”.

67The distribution of such finds is revealing. While Thurnwald was surprised by the occurrence of hugh blocks of stone on an alluvial landscape (1910 : 135 ; 1934b), the distribution of capstones, singly, in groups of 2-3 and more, or in impressive long avenues (Fig. 2), appears to correlate precisely with the distribution of naturally-occuring stones of a similar nature (Fig. 3). As reported by the soil scientists at the Australian Division of Land Research (Scott et al. 1967), the northern region of the Paubake Survey Area depicted as unshaded on the maps in Fig. 3 & 7 is a portion of what they have called the “Buin Land System”–the alluvium of which contains eroded boulders of volcanic origin identical to those used in the construction of capstones. Boulders and smaller stones are to be found, in fact, on or partially within the ground surface throughout the northern part of the survey area. Where rivers have cut through the alluvium, it is often possible to find huge boulders buried deep in the ground or lying exposed in river channels (Pl. 1b). Frequently the upper surfaces of capstones and naturally-positioned boulders have a distinctive “pocked” appearance. Locally such stones may be identified as “nutting rocks” where generations of villagers have cracked open Canarium almonds. Perhaps some of these stones have been used in this fashion, but the pitted surfaces are the result of the weathering of phenocrysts which are part of the volcanic composition of the rock.

68Originally we assumed that these numerous capstones were a kind of burial monument, as Thurnwald had inferred they were. Excavation below two small capstones at the Loiai Site (BoP-3) near Luaguo Village, however, failed to discover pits or burial remains of any description. With rare exception, no one in Buin today can say what function these monuments may have served. Some reported, nonetheless, that the capstones were “pudding tables” used in food displays at feasts. The best hypothesis at the moment appears to be that Thurnwald was only partially right in his interpretation.

Kennamoalutuaku

Kennamoalutuaku

Fig. 2

69It is my suspicion that Thurnwald was correct to be impressed at the labor which must have gone into building especially the larger capstones. It seems a good guess that they are prestige symbols directly comparable to the great timber “slit gongs” that “big-men” in both Buin and Siwai commission to have made for them as monuments to their growing renown and which are transported by their followers to their club-houses with pomp and feasting (Oliver 1955 : 379-386 and Figs. 38-40 ; Thurnwald 1910 : 114-115). “Gong-carrying is one of the Siuai’s most spectacular activities. One occasion I witnessed involved some two hundred men ; and a twenty-five-foot-wide trail had to be cut through the forest and grove to get the gong to the club-house” (Oliver 1955 : 385).

70The fact that Thurnwald may have found human remains below the capstones he excavated does not necessarily refute this sociological hypothesis. As far as we can tell at present, capstones and the types of burial structures called stone circles by Thurnwald were, in reality, contemporary culture traits during at least part of their periods of fashion in the prehistory of the Paubake area. In other words, it appears that Thurnwald was wrong to suppose that a practice of inhumation below megaliths came before cremation burial in stone circles. Nonetheless, it seems entirely plausible that the burials he found were the dedicatory remains of victims slain at the inauguration of new capstones : a romantic notion, perhaps, but a practice actually describe by Thurnwald as part of the inauguration of chieftain’s halls (Thurnwald 1912, Vol. 3 : 51-53). It is at least intriguing that he reports skulls were removed from the hapless victims so that such trophies could be displayed in the new club-houses. In any case, it remains for future excavations to determine whether or not capstones are likely to be found in association with club-house remains : an association which would strengthen this particular hypothesis .

71Thurnwald’s “stone-circles” were also investigated in 1969-1970. It is now possible to recognize three general types, which we have designated : (a) the rectangular type with prominent corner-stones or “wings” (Fig. 4) ; (b) the simple rectangular type (Fig. 5) ; and (c) the irregular type, apparently indentical to what Thurnwald called stone circles (Fig. 6).

72Once again, these stone monuments are also found in the north where there is natural stone readily available for their construction–including in this case, however, the stone outcrops at Malabita Hill near the coast (Fig. 7).

73Unlike Thurnwald, we did encounter some opposition to the excavation of these burial grounds, which today are locally called tsigoro . By agreement, we excavated only a single tsigoro at the Loiai Site (Fig. 8). As chance had it, however, we did come across burials in other excavations. It is thus possible to sketch tentatively the history of burial rites over a period of perhaps a millennium or more.

74Formerly, the word tsigoro seems to have meant only a place where a funeral pyre (tsigo) has burned. It has now replaced the traditional word for grave site today familiar only to a few old people, the term tiririno or tsiririno. Thurnwald tells us (1912, Vol. 3 : 22-23) that after a cremation, the remaining bones and ashes were collected in a taine or carrying-bag and then buried in a defined cemetery or tsiririno. A wooden framework called a bare was erected at the place where the cremation had occured, a place he says was called a tsigo. Food offerings to the dead were then burned at the bare each day for a month after the funeral.

75The tsigoro in Area 2 at Loiai was excavated because it seemed to be a well-preserved example of the winged-rectangular type of burial site which–like all other stone tsigoro–was said to be the burial place of a “big-man”. First, two scattered human cremations were discovered in the topsoil within the tsigoro (Bone Scatters A and B in Fig. 8). Further excavation revealed a primary burial pit well below the zone of active soil formation. Within the pit we found an urn burial of (probably) a man estimated to be 20-40 years of age (Fig. 9 and Pl. 1c). Associated with his remains were drilled canine-teeth of an as-yet-unidentified mammal, presumably from a necklace, which had been burned along with the body. A stratigraphic section along the north wall of the tsigoro confirmed the added fact that the burial structure had been erected in an area previously the site of a poststructure (s), perhaps a house of some description. Of particular interest were, however, a number of small post-holes more or less around the burial pit, at least some of which post-dated the infilling of the pit.

76After we excavated this urn burial, local people did tell us that they had heard of such things. But this burial rite is, as far as I can tell, totally unreported in the ethnographic record for the southern Bougainville plain. At the time of excavation, we did not know of the Buin custom of constructing a bare or framework at the site of cremation. The small post-holes just mentioned which were found around the primary burial pit might, of course, be so interpreted. The fasccinating point, nonetheless, is that this kind of urn burial appears to be paralleled very closely by the type of burial given high-status individuals on the islands in the Bougainville Strait and in the Melanesian-speaking Torau villages of the east coast of Bougainville : localities where, apparently, cremation was a rite reserved for persons of rank, while lesser individuals were interred or buried at sea (Frizzi 1914 : 12-14 ; Guppy 1887 : 51-52 ; Parkinson 1898-99 : 9 ; Parkinson 1907 : 484 ; Wheeler 1914 : 64-78 ; Woodford 1890 : 37).

77This parallel is surprising because of the suspected age of the Loiai burial urn. My luck in getting radio-carbon dates that are easy to interpret is not very good. There are two for this obviously well-defined event : 1710 B.C. ± 180 (GX-2218, uncorrected) and 1140 A.D. ± 130 (uncorrected, GX-2219). I think the latter comes closer to the truth, particularly if seemingly related evidence from the Shortlands, including one carbon date of 1040 ± 95 B.P., is taken into consideration (Irwin 1972 : 103). Whatever interpretation is made of these carbon dates derived from two different charcoal samples, it does look as if we should think in terms of an age of at least 600-1, 000 years.

78If this one tsigoro is typical of the type we have called the winged-rectangular tsigoro, then it appears that this ancient burial pattern combines elements both of historic Buin tsiririno and bare, and also of the historic burial customs followed on the islands in the Strait but not found in Buin or Siwai (Oliver 1955 : 212). In sum, the Strait islanders during the early decades of European contact were still practicing burial customs seemingly little changed from the pattern suggested by the Loiai Area 2 tsigoro. The Buin (and Siwai ?) in historic times, on the other hand, were following customs that were only a dim reflection of their own ancestral pattern.

79I should add that there is one obvious difference between the old Buin pattern and the historic rite in the Bougainville Strait. Historic monuments seemingly “cognate” to stone tsigoro were wooden structures built at the site of cremation. Considering that tsigoro occur in Buin where there is stone readily at hand for their construction, this apparent difference seems insubstantial. Yet it is a unique characteristic of the Buin rite worth keeping in mind (note however : Ribbe 1903 : Fig. 15).

80Now if the historic Buin burial pattern was, in fact, a derivative of the ancient tsigoro pattern found at Loiai, then it may be possible to document the course of change or drift in the archaeological record. It appears that archaeology can be used to do just that. But it must not be forgotten that the evidence available is still limited. Perhaps more important, the changes we can infer may have occurred only in the burial tradition for high-status individuals.

81When the dimensions of the area enclosed within a tsigoro are plotted for every tsigoro found in 1969-1970 which could be measured (Fig. 10), it is apparent that the irregular type is, on the average, smaller than either the winged-rectangular type or the simple rectangular type. Moreover, rectangular tsigoro of either form are rare ; irregular tsigoro are more common. All three types, nevertheless, are uncommon enough to suggest they were not the sort of monument built for every man or woman in Buin : i.e., they were, as they are today said to be, burial sites of individuals of high-status. Further, irregular tsigoro are normally found clustered together, as in Figure 6. In those cases when two or three types occur at the same cemetery, as at Turiboiru (Fig. 11), it sometimes looks as if an original winged-rectangular or simple rectangular tsigoro was later added to through the construction of more irregular tsigoro walls, as at Nigeriai (Fig. 12). Our present interpretation of these observations is that winged-rectangular type is the oldest form, the simple rectangular type is a close derivative from the winged variety, and the irregular type is a further derivative from the simple rectangular type. It seems reasonable at this point to accept the local claim that the individuals buried in grouped tsigoro were all patrilineally related, or were at least kinsmen. This assumption then may explain the apparent “additive” configuration of many of the tsigoro found in Paubake.

82The excavation of three cremation burials quite by accident in 1970 at the Bekuinotu Site (BoP-34), seen in conjunction with the cremation burials found scattered in the topsoil at several locations at Loiai, permits a tentative extension of this proposed sequence of changes in tsigoro ritual down to historic times. The burials at Bekuinotu were all in basin-shaped pits, as at Loiai. But the cremated remains were not in pots or urns. They were not marked with stone tsigoro walls. While they have been dated as “less than 200 years” (GX-2216, GX-2217), stratigraphically the oldest burial is associated, nonetheless, with a tsigoro-like ring of small cobbles found actually within the burial pit. The two other cremations lacked even this feature. Now the stratigraphic position of the cremation scatters at Loiai certainly seems to imply that they may be even younger than the Bekuinotu burials. Thus it looks as if burial ritual in Paubake (assuming we are not mixing high-status and low-status burials) went through a course of “devolution” starting with changes in the construction of tsigoro(hypothetically), at least, a change from winged-rectangular to simple rectangular to irregular tsigoro), leading to the eventual cessation to tsigoro construction altogether (except perhaps in the form of a small ring of stones within the burial pit), and ending with the practice of simply scattering cremations over the ground in a place designated as a tsiririno, resulting in the incorporation of cremations into topsoil. At some point, too, the use of burial urns must have ended, but we cannot even guess when that occurred.

83A similar and far more reliable “devolutionary picture” could also be drawn tracing the history of pottery-making in the Paubake Survey Area (Terrell 1976). It seems likely that pottery appeared in Buin about the same time that we also find the development of tsigoro and capstones. There is no evidence to infer, however, that these three culture traits appeared in Buin at one and the same time, although our knowledge is still so fragmentary that we cannot rule out the possibility altogether.

84What does this all mean ? More to the point, having gotten this far from the topic which began this narrative–the origins of the state and of civilization–can we get back to that larger issue ?

CONCLUDING PROPOSITIONS

85There is reason to be confident in the belief, based not only on the new archaeological knowledge of Bougainville but also on our rethinking of earlier theories and beliefs, that trade, travel, settlement and marauding among the islands in the Bougainville Strait (including Choiseul) and the tribes of southern Bougainville all have a most respectable antiquity behind them : at least 1,000-1,500 years by present estimate, if not even farther back in prehistory (Black n.d. ; Irwin 1972 ; Terrell and Irwin 1972). Thurnwald and others have been wrong, I think, to believe instead that contact between Buin and the Shortlands was established only recently and was necessarily hostile. It appears certain from Thurnwald’s writings that he was led himself to speculate about a Mono-Alu invasion in part because of tales and traditions locally popular concerning events in the latter part of the nineteenth century when “King” Gorai and other Mono-Alu chieftains were expanding their hegemony over the southern shores of Bougainville. His error lay in reading too much into those events.

86Most of Thurnwald’s “invasion hypothesis”, therefore, is now entirely suspect. It is improbable that we will ever be able to define a “period of invasion”. Even if an invasion of some kind did occur at some point in the past, it is unlikely that the conquerors were in fact racially distinct from the Buin “aborigines”. On a priori grounds alone it seems most unlikely that we could now identify a foreign genetic component in Buin or that the invaders swarmed into Buin in numbers large enough to establish a chiefly stratum which was also an ethnic stratum.

87Yet there is now also enough archaeological evidence from the Paubake Survey Area to believe that contacts between Buin and the Strait islanders have indeed been influential in the course of local prehistory. I would argue, however, that in every case now known where borrowing or conquest might be surmised we see this distinctive pattern : Buin culture traits such as pottery, burial rites, prestige pudding-tables, and the like may owe some inspiration to external sources (or vice versa ?), but they are, nonetheless, local expressions or realizations. Culture traits appear in the prehistoric sequence, change and, in some instances, are forgotten : all in unique ways.

88I have already observed that one of the characteristics of culture change in Buin seems to be “devolution” or drift in isolation. As Oliver long ago remarked, the broad moat of swampland at the coast throughout most of southern Bougainville has probably been a barrier discouraging intensive contact with the outside world. Geography favors the conquest of settlers and conquistadors in this part of the world, regardless whether they arrive on friendly or unfriendly terms. As I have previously argued (Terrell 1972a), there is only a limited amount of habitable land directly at the southern shores. Once coastal settlers move inland behind the swamps, either because of inclination or “population pressure”, they are faced with the same environment, regardless whether they be friend or foe. They become isolated by the broad swampland from ready contact with the coast. Given time, it seems inevitable that they will be assimilated by the “aborigines” and lose their separate identity. Any innovations they may bring about in Buin culture may also suffer absorption, re-interpretation and perhaps ultimate obliteration. Moreover, changes in Buin probably tend to be felt for only short distances away, because of the difficulties of travel across the southern plain, which is greatly dissected by streams and rivers flowing down from the central volcanoes.

89What about “big-men” ? If my interpretations of capstones and tsigoromonuments are correct, it does look as if what Oliver has called “renown” has been around in Buin for a very long time. It does not seem unreasonable to suspect that tiririno or cemeteries comprising a number of a nearby or contiguous tsigoro, such as those in Fig. 5, 6, 11 and 12 are just what they are today locally said to be : the burial places of “big-men” and their sons. It does not seem necessary to belador the likely “patrilineal” implication of such a cemetery configuration.

90Was the (apparently) hereditary leadership system of the Buin established by conquest, or by foreign inspiration and local potentiality ? It really does not seem to matter. In either Oliver’s interpretation or in Thurnwald’s interpretation the eventual result is the same : “the institution of feast-giving for renown exists side by side with one of inherited rank.”

91But are the mumira “big-men” ? Or have they made the great leap in the evolutionary direction toward statehood and civilization ? I think Service and others are in error to emphasize the origination of ascribed offices as an important advance in the evolution of civilizations, i.e., as the origin of the state. Jay Callen argues that anthropologists writing about “primitive” political associations generally and Melanesian “big-men” in particular have usually laid emphasis on the personalities of politics. They have not given sufficient attention to what leaders do for those they lead. I believe much the same criticism could be made of Service’s proposition.

92Using data drawn from Oliver’s monumental study of the Siwai, Callen suggests that the spatial distribution of leader’s settlements in Siwai before World War II was not random and, in fact, the distribution of politically significant villages there can be predicted using Christaller’s Central Place Theory. He asks :

93What goes into the making of a “big-man” ? The traditional replies by Pacific anthropologists stress a leader’s personal qualities (ambition, charisma, generosity, cunning, etc.) and the small core of followers, usually close kinsmen, who support his political career. “Big-men”, however, are members of a political organization which displays a spatial as well as a sociological structure. It is this spatial patterning of political phenomena which suggests that, in Siwai, leaders were as much a function of the central places they inhabited as vice-versa. In a certain sense, potential political centers may be said to have “created” the “big-men” to occupy them (Callen 1976 : 23).

94This last thought brings me back full-circle to the beginning of this discussion and to the premise introduced at that time. I think Service is right to see the origins of the state exemplified by institutions such as that of competitive feast-giving among the Siwai. But what is portrayed by such social-climbing is not the evolutionary potential of getting hold of an office and keeping it in one’s family. Instead, I think what is revealed is simply that that is all the use the Siwai have for leaders. Their political system is no more complex apparently than it need be. If “hierarchical control” among the Buin is, in truth, more elaborate, then the question to be asked is not : “What are the origins of social stratification in southern Bougainville” ? Instead, it is : “What purposes does it serve” ?

Pl. I. – a) Stone megalith, b) Huge boulders buried deep in the ground or lying exposed in river channel, c) Burial urn of probably a man estimated to 20-40 years of age.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

DOI are automaticaly added to references by Bilbo, OpenEdition’s Bibliographic Annotation Tool.
Users of institutions which have subscribed to one of OpenEdition freemium programs can download references for which Bilbo found a DOI in standard formats using the buttons available on the right.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

ADAMS, R. McC. (1966) : The Evolution of Urban Society : early Mesopotamia and prehispanic Mexico. London : Weidenfeld and Nicolson.

BERNATZIK, H.A. (1935) : South Seas. New York : Henry Holt and Company.

BLACK, S. (n.d.) : “The excavation at Teobebe, Teop Island”. Reports of the Bougainville Archaeological Survey, 10. Chicago : Department of Anthropology, Field Museum of Natural History.

BLACKWOOD, B. (1935) : Both Sides of Buka Passage : an ethnographic study of social, sexual, and economic questions in the north-western Solomon Islands. Oxford : Clarendon Press.

BUSACKER, R.G. and SAATY, T.L. (1965) : Finite Graphs and Networks : an introduction with applications. New York : McGraw-Hill Book Company.

CALLEN, J. (1976) : “Settlement patterns in pre-war Siwai : an application of Central Place theory to a horticultural society”. Solomon Island Studies in Human Biogeography, 5. Chicago : Department of Anthropology, Field Museum of Natural History.

CARNEIRO, R.L. (1970) : “A theory of the origin of the state”. Science, 169 : 733-738.

FLANNERY, K.V. (1972) : “The cultural evolution of civilizations”. Annual Review of Ecology & Systematics, 3 : 399-426.
DOI : 10.1146/annurev.es.03.110172.002151

FRIED, M.H. (1967) : The Evolution of Political Society : an essay in political anthropology. New York : Random House (Studies in Anthropology).

FRIEDLAENDER, J.S. (1975) : Patterns of Human Variation : the demography, genetics and phenetics of Bougainville islanders. Cambridge, Mass. : Harvard University Press.

FRIZZI, E. (1914) : “Ein Beitrag zur Ethnologie von Bougainville und Buka mit Spezieller Berücksichtigung der Nasioi”. Baessler-Archiv, Beiheft 6. Leipzig and Berlin : B.G. Teubner.

GUPPY, H.B. (1887) : The Solomon Islands and Their Natives. London : Swan Sonnenschein, Lowrey & Co.

IRWIN, G.J. (1972) : An Archaeological Survey in the Shortland Islands : B . S . I. P. Unpublished Master’s Thesis, University of Auckland.

JOHNSON, M.P. and RAVEN, P.H. (1970) : “Natural regulation of plant species diversity”. Evolutionary Biology, 4 : 127-162.

KRADER, L. (1968) : Formation of the State. Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey : Prentice-Hall, Inc. (Foundations of Modern Anthropology Series).

LEVINS, R. (1973) : “The limits of complexity”. Pp. 109-127 in : H.H. Pattee (ed.), Hierarchy Theory : the challenge of complex systems. New York : George Braziller (The Inter-national Library of Systems Theory and Philosophy).

MAIR, L. (1964) : Primitive Government. Baltimore, Md. : Penguin Books.

OLIVER, D.L. (1943) : “The Horomorun concepts of southern Bougainville : a study in comparative religion”. Pp. 50-65 in : C.S. Coon and J.M. Andrews, IV (eds.), Studies in the Anthropology of Oceania and Asia. Cambridge, Mass. : Papers of the Peabody Museum of American Archaeology and Ethnology, Harvard University, 20.

OLIVER, D.L. (1949) : Studies in the Anthropology of Bougainville, Solomon Islands. Cambridge, Mass. : Papers of the Peabody Museum of American Archaeology and Ethnology, Harvard University, 29, Nos. 1-4.

OLIVER, D.L. (1955) : A Solomon Island Society : kinship and leadership among the Siuai of Bougainville. Cambridge, Mass. : Harvard University Press.

OLIVER, D.L. (1968) : “Southern Bougainville”. Anthropological Forum, 2 : 158-179.
DOI : 10.1080/00664677.1968.9967225

OLIVER, D.L. (1973) : Bougainville : a personal history. Honolulu, Hawaii : The University Press of Hawaii.

PARKINSON, R. (1898-99) : “Zur ethnographie der nordwestlichen Salomo Inseln”. Abhandlungen und Berichte des Königlichen Zoologischen und Anthropologisch-Ethnographischen Museums zu Dresden, 7, No.

PARKINSON, R. (1907). Dreissig Jahre in der Südsee : Land und Leute, Sitten und Gebräuche im Bismarckarchipel und auf den deutschen Salomoinseln. Stuttgart : Strecker & Schröder.

RIBBE, C. (1903) : ZweiJahreunterdenKannibalenderSalomo-Inseln : ReiseerlebnisseundSchilderungenvonLandundLeuten. Dresden-Blasewitz : Hermann Beyer.
DOI : 10.2307/198478

RIESENFELD, A. (1950) : The Megalithic Culture of Melanesia. Leiden : E . J. Brill.

SCOTT, R.M., HEYLIGERS, P.B.,

McALPINE, J.R., SAUNDERS, J.C. and SPEIGHT, J.G. (1967) : LandsofBougainvilleandBukaIslands, TerritoryofPapuaandNewGuinea. Land Research Series No. 20. Melbourne, Australia : Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organization.

SERVICE, E.R. (1962) : PrimitiveSocialOrganization : anevolutionaryperspective.

New York : Random House (Studies in Anthropology).

SERVICE, E.R. (1975) : OriginsoftheStateandCivilization : theprocessofculturalevolution. New York : W.W. Norton and Company.

SIMON, H.A. (1969) : The Sciences of the Artificial. Cambridge, Mass. : Massachusetts Institute of Technology Press.

SPECHT, J.R. (1969) : Prehistoric and Modern Pottery Industries of Buka Island, T.P.N.G. Unpublished Doctoral Thesis, Australian National University (2 volumes).

TERRELL, J.E. (1972a) : “Geographic systems and human diversity in the northern Solomons” . Reports of the Bougainville Archaeological Survey, 5. Chicago : Department of Anthropology, Field Museum of Natural History.

TERRELL, J.E. (1972b) : “A tale from the south Pacific”. Field Museum of Natural History Bulletin, 43, 3 :12-18.

TERRELL, J.E. (1976) : PerspectivesonthePrehistoryofBougainvilleIsland, PapuaNewGuinea : astudyinthehumanbiogeographyofsouthwesternPacific. Unpublished Doctoral Thesis, Harvard University.

TERRELL, J .E. (n.d.) : “The birth of civilization and the state in the south Pacific : Melanesia’s legacy to the world”. (Paper in preparation for the Annual Meetings of the American Anthropological Association, Washington DC, 1976).

TERRELL, J.E. and IRWIN, G.J. (1972) : “History and tradition in the northern Solomons : an analytical study of the Torau migration to southern Bougainville in the 1860’s”. Journal of the Polynesian Society, 81 : 317-349.

THURNWALD, H. (1934) : “Woman’s status in Buin society”. Oceania, 5 : 142-170.
DOI : 10.1002/j.1834-4461.1934.tb00138.x

THURNWALD, H. (1937) : MenschenderSüdsee : CharaktereundSchicksale, ErmitteltbeieinerForschungsreiseinBuinaufBougainville, Salomo-Archipel, Stuttgart : Ferdinand Enke.

THURNWALD, H. (1938) : “Ehe und Mutterschaft in Buin (Bougainville, Salomo-Archipel)”. Archiv für Anthropologie und Völkerforschung, (n.s.) 24 : 214-246.

THURNWALD, R. (1909) : “Reisebericht aus Buin und Kieta”. Zeitschrift für Ethnologie, 41 : 512-532.

THURNWALD, R. (1910) : “Im Bismarckarchipel und auf den Salomo-inseln 1906-1909”. Zeitschrift für Ethnologie, 42 : 98-147.

THURNWALD, R . (1912) : ForschungenaufdenSalomo-InselnunddemBismarck-Archipel. Vol. 1 : “Lieder und Sagen aus Buin”. Vol. 3 :”Volk, Staat und Wirtschaft”. Berlin : Dietrich Reimer (Ernst Vohsen).

THURNWALD, R. (1934a) : “Pigs and currency in Buin : observations about primitive standards of value and economics”. Oceania, 5 : 214-217.

THURNWALD, R. (1934b) : “Stone monuments in Buin (Bougainville, Solomon islands)”. Oceania, 5 : 214-217.

THURNWALD, R. (1937) : “Ein vorkapitalistisches Wirtschaftssystem in Buin : Ein Beitrag zur Kenntnis primitiver Wirtschaft und von Frühgeld”. Archiv für Rechtsund Sozialphilosophie, 31 : 1-37.

THURNWALD, R. (1951). “Historical sequences on Bougainville”. American Anthropologist, 53 : 137-139.

WHEELER, G.C. (1914) : “An account of the death rites and eschatology of the people of the Bougainville Strait (western Solomon Islands)”. Archiv für Religionwissenschaft,

17 : 64-112.

WOODFORD, C.M. (1890) : ANaturalistAmongtheHead-Hunters. Melbourne and Sydney : Petherick.

NOTES

1 Thurnwald gives further details, also (1937 : 4-5). Frau Thurnwald has reconstructed the process of conquest in detail :
Von der Küste aus erblickt man die Shortland-Inseln Alu und Fauro, und das weiter westlich gelegene Mono. Die Bewohner dieser Insein haben entscheidend Ln das Schicksal des Buin-Volkes eingegriffen. Es waren Banden der kriegerischen seefahrenden Mönner aus Mono und Alu, wahrschein-Lich auch noch von Roviana auf der Insel New-Georgia (zentrale Solomonen), die vor ungefähr zwei Jahrhunderten anfingen in Buin einzudringen. Sie holten aus der dort ansässigen Bevölkerung zunächst Frauen und junge Männer als Sklaven herüber nach Alu, kamen wieder und wieder und ein Teil von ihnen siedelte sich schliesslich in Buin an. Mitteis ihrer überlegenen kriegerischen und zivilisatorischen Ausrüstung gelang es ihnen in Buin ein Herrschaftssystem aufzurichten, das die ansässige Bevölkerung zur abhängigen Unterschicht, ja zu Hörigen mochte und ihre alte Lebensordnung weitge-hend abwandelte (Hilde Thurnwald 1938 : 214-215).

2 As this paper was being completed, and after Kothleen Fine had typed the final draft of all but the concluding section, I received a copy of Professor Jared Keil’s dissertation, “Local Group Composition and Leadership in Buin” (Harvard, August 1975), kindly sent me by Dr. Keil after a delay created by a Canadian postal strike. His study is based on field work in Buin from November 1971 to September 1973. He indicates that Buin society is, indeed, stratified into two classes, as Thurnwald reported. He believes the invasion hypothesis, however, is unwarranted and unnecessary. If it is rejected, Keil feels that the evidence recorded by the Thurnwalds, in fact, illustrates many of the processes he examines in his own study. Keil’s discussion is elegant and his conclusions dealing with so-called “big-man politics” are of porticular interest. He finds the conduct of political life in Buin between (rather than within) Local neighborhood groups to be, in many respects, quite similar to the situation detailed earlier by Oliver for the Siwai, a conclusion implicit in what has been said here as well. Even at the local Level where a difference between ascribed vs. achieved status Looms Large, he observes that the actual functioning of neighborhood groups in Buin much resembles the workings of Siwai men’s societies.

3 Thurnwald gives further details, also (1937 : 4-5). Frau Thurnwald has reconstructed the process of conquest in detail :
Von der Küste aus erblickt man die Shortland-Inseln Alu und Fauro, und das weiter westlich gelegene Mono. Die Bewohner dieser Insein haben entscheidend Ln das Schicksal des Buin-Volkes eingegriffen. Es waren Banden der kriegerischen seefahrenden Mönner aus Mono und Alu, wahrschein-Lich auch noch von Roviana auf der Insel New-Georgia (zentrale Solomonen), die vor ungefähr zwei Jahrhunderten anfingen in Buin einzudringen. Sie holten aus der dort ansässigen Bevölkerung zunächst Frauen und junge Männer als Sklaven herüber nach Alu, kamen wieder und wieder und ein Teil von ihnen siedelte sich schliesslich in Buin an. Mitteis ihrer überlegenen kriegerischen und zivilisatorischen Ausrüstung gelang es ihnen in Buin ein Herrschaftssystem aufzurichten, das die ansässige Bevölkerung zur abhängigen Unterschicht, ja zu Hörigen mochte und ihre alte Lebensordnung weitge-hend abwandelte (Hilde Thurnwald 1938 : 214-215).

4 As this paper was being completed, and after Kothleen Fine had typed the final draft of all but the concluding section, I received a copy of Professor Jared Keil’s dissertation, “Local Group Composition and Leadership in Buin” (Harvard, August 1975), kindly sent me by Dr. Keil after a delay created by a Canadian postal strike. His study is based on field work in Buin from November 1971 to September 1973. He indicates that Buin society is, indeed, stratified into two classes, as Thurnwald reported. He believes the invasion hypothesis, however, is unwarranted and unnecessary. If it is rejected, Keil feels that the evidence recorded by the Thurnwalds, in fact, illustrates many of the processes he examines in his own study. Keil’s discussion is elegant and his conclusions dealing with so-called “big-man politics” are of porticular interest. He finds the conduct of political life in Buin between (rather than within) Local neighborhood groups to be, in many respects, quite similar to the situation detailed earlier by Oliver for the Siwai, a conclusion implicit in what has been said here as well. Even at the local Level where a difference between ascribed vs. achieved status Looms Large, he observes that the actual functioning of neighborhood groups in Buin much resembles the workings of Siwai men’s societies.

Leadership Styles and Strategies in a Traditional Melanesian Society

Harold M. Ross

ABSTRACT

The conventional distinction mode by cultural anthropologists between Melanesian and other Pacific Islands leaders is inaccurate and misleading. Melanesian Leadership accomplishes a variety of complex and valuable community functions, achievement of status has been overemphasized, cooperation and altruism are at least as important as competition, and Melanesian Leaders are both respected and liked. The stereotype of “Big-Man” has been dysfunctional and non-heuristic.

FULL TEXT

Source: http://books.openedition.org/

One of the less fortunate legacies that we who practice ethnography in Oceania have given the scholarly world is the stereotype of the Melanesian leader as “Big Man”. The designation “Big Man”, derived literally from the metaphor commonly used in Austronesian languages or from the Neo-Melanesian Pidgin lexicon, has come to denote a “pure type” or “species” of leadership, authority and government. (Rightly or wrongly, ethnographic sources usually ignore women’s role in government, although they may have significant impact). In countless introductory anthropology courses students are asked to accept and perpetuate the cliches that Melanesian leaders typify achieved rather than ascribed status, that Melanesian leaders are archetypal symbols of primitive capitalistic competition, and that Melanesian leadership represents an inferior form.

Anthropology textbooks reify these professional myths by presenting them in written form. Keesing and Keesing (1971 : 273) note that “the Melanesian big man has become one of the almost stereotyped figures in modern political anthropology”, but proceed to use him as an example of achieved status (1971 : 341) and to explain that his “influence, authority, and leadership in secular affairs come from success in mobilizing and manipulating wealth” (1971 : 272), from being “a more successful capitalist than his fellows” (1971 : 273). Haviland (1974 : 457) describes the Melanesian Big Man as a leader who “combines a small a-mount of interest in his tribe’s welfare with a great deal of self-interested cunning and calculation for his own personal gain”. Pearson (1974 : 220) also emphasizes the exploitive aspect of Melanesian leadership by relating that a population “works to breed and feed pigs which are then slaughtered and given by the “Big Man” or leader as gifts to another “Big Man” representing a neighboring clan group”. Swartz and Jordan (1976 : 494) describe the “potential big-man” as “the manipulator of the system” who “takes advantage of a position of economic strength — to put others in his debt”.

The theoretical basis for such views derives, albeit imperfectly, from earlier scholarly works by Mead (1937) and Sahlins (1963). In his brilliant classic essay, Sahlins compared the “quality of leadership” in Melanesia and Polynesia (1963 : 288), much to the detriment of the former, contending that because of its fundamental defects, “the Melanesian big-man political order brakes evolutionary advance at a certain level” well below that of their Polynesian cousins (Sahlins 1963 : 293-4). But even more controversial has been Sahlins’ characterization of the Melanesian big-man as a capitalist, who : “— seems so thoroughly bourgeois, so reminiscent of the free enterprising rugged individual of our own heritage. He combines with an ostensible interest in the general welfare a more profound measure of self-interested cunning and economic calculation. His gaze, as Veblen might have put if, is fixed unswervingly to the main chance. His every public action is designed to make a competitive and invidious comparison with others, to show a standing above the masses that is product of his own manufacture” (1963 : 289).

Sahlins’ article, reprinted in various anthologies (Hogbin and Hiatt 1966 : 159-179, Harding and Wallace 1970 : 203-215) and further elaborated by Sahlins himself (1968), has been especially influential.

As long as what we wrote was read only by other western anthropologists, there was no call to question its accuracy or significance. But with the spread of self-government and education in the South Pacific, “native informants” have learned to read, and some do not like what we have been saying about them. Literate young Melanesians have been particularly unhappy with our published conceptions of the Melansian Big Man. These are, they say, a distortion which they resent and reject. Epeli Hau’ofa, who is both an anthropologist and a Pacific Islander, articulates this feeling. Dismissing the quoted excerpt from Sahlins as “a clever, thoughtless and insulting piece of writing” (Hau’ofa 1975 : 285), he charges that “we (anthropologists) have projected onto Melanesian leaders the caricature of the quintessential Western capitalist : grasping, manipulative, calculating, and without a stitch of morality” (Hau’ofa 1975 : 285), that we have denied “that traditional Melanesian leaders have any genuine interest in the welfare of their people” (Hau’ofa 1975 : 285), and that we (as a profession) have presented “incomplete and distorted representations of Melanesians,— bastardized our discipline, denied people important aspects of their humanity in our literature, and — thereby unwittingly contributed to the perpetuation of the outrageous stereotypes of them made by ignorant outsiders who lived in their midst” (Hau’ofa 1975 : 286).

In some ways this is ironic. Many anthropologists do present a balanced, reasonable assessment of Big Man leadership in both introductory texts (Harris 1975 : 375-6, Kottak 1974 : 157-8) and their more scholarly works (Fried 1967 : 131-2 and 146-7, Service 1975 : 72-3). Even Sahlins, whom some are so quick to condemn as arch-villain and author of the Melanesian Big Man stereotype, asked rhetorically of his own work, “Or is it caricature ?” (Sahlins 1963: 288-9), acknowledging that he had emphasized and simplified (hence “distorted”) empirical reality in order to do a comparative study. Still more germane, earlier influential ethnographic reports, such as Oliver’s (1955) highly regarded work on the mumi among the Siuai of Bougainville and Hogbin’s (1939) work on the ngwane-inoto among the To’abaita of Malaita (both of whom qualify as Big Men), present a balanced and humane picture of traditional Melanesian leaders .

  • 1 Research for this essay was supported by the University of Illinois Center for International Compar (…)

In the hopes of furthering a more accurate and acceptable understanding of Melanesian leadership, let us add to their good foundations some more recent observations from another Solomon Island society, the Baegu of Malaita1.

THE BAEGU OF MALAITA, SOLOMON ISLANDS

Today there are some 2300 Baegu speakers living in the tropical rain forests in the highlands of northern Malaita. The Solomon Islands stretch from Bougainville on the northwest to San Cristobal in the southeast and include Choiseul, Santa Isabel, the New Georgia group, Guadalcanal and Malaita. All except Bougainville lie within the British Solomon Islands Protectorate, which is soon to achieve independence.

The Baegu are a horticultural people of the interior, who trade fruits and vegetables for fish with their coastal neighbors. They live in small hamlets, practice swidden farming, and raise swine. Like many Melanesian cultures, their social organization includes both unilineal and cognatic elements, and their political organization features hamlet autonomy, loose factions, and an absence of higher lever political integration. Most of them adhere to one of four Christian mission denominations (Roman Catholic, Anglican, Seventh Day Adventist or the fundmentalist South Seas Evangelical Church), but about a third still worship the ancestral ghosts of the pagan religion. Almost all are outside the mainstream of modern Solomon Islands development, and they tend to be conservative in their attitudes to the outside world.

10 The Baegu dialect is one of several comprising the Lauic language. Their neighbors speaking other Lauic dialects include the To’abaita to the northwest, the Baelelea to the north, the lowland Lau of the coast and lagoon to the east, and the Fataleka to the south. Further south in Malaita are the Kwara’ae, Langalanga, Kwaio, ‘Are’are and Sa’a.

BAEGU LEADERSHIP STYLES

11 In the ethnographic present and the remembered past, the Baegu recognized several different kinds of leaders as a traditional elite (Deutsch 1970: 39-69); who severally ran Baegu affairs and in effect made the basic political decisions of who gets what, when and how (Fried 1968: 409). All are labeled wane baita, meaning literally wane = man and baita = big or (in metaphoric usage) important.

12 One of these is the wane initoo, whose title is glossed by Ivens (1934: 51) as both “in the middle” and as “glorious or renowned”, the first being directly comparable to Hogbin’s (1939 : 62) rendering of “centre man” for the To’abaita title ngwane-inoto. These are the hereditary, titular landowners. They are said to own the land, but Baegu property law and land tenure are different from ours (Ross 1973 : 154-175), and it would be wrong to expect them to behave as landlords. For example, they cannot forbid use of their land by fellow clansmen or certain kin, they cannot give permission to outsiders to use the land unless they have the consent of their clans, they cannot give away parcels of land with clear and undivided fee simple title (residual title always remains with the clan), and they are virtually constrained by norms of generosity to grant permission to use the land to any needy person who requests it. Nevertheless, a wane initoo is respected as the most important member of his clan, and his opinions carry great weight. He is the symbol of the land and of his clan or lineage segment. The office of wane initoo is strictly hereditary, with succession based upon primogeniture and seniority according to birth order of siblings. Ideally, the office would pass from father to eldest son, but if an incumbent died without leaving a mature son, his eldest brother or male parallel cousin would succeed him. No clearcut procedures exist to resolve disputed successions. The most apt western analogy for the wane initoowould be that of a chief of state with the right to participate in legislative debate, rather than that of a chief of government ; a titled aristocrat with a seat (or even a portfolio) in parliament, rather than an executive. Wane initoo bear themselves with the quiet, aloof dignity of those who expect deference as their birthright.

13 The wane nifoa, meaning “man who offers prayers”, is a priest of the ancestral spirit cults. (Priests are called fata’abu in southern Baegu clans influenced by Fataleka speech habits or arai nifoa near the east coast where Lau usages predominate). A priest presides at the maoma mortuary festivals in honor of the ghosts of deceased priests. There he slaughters by strangulation the pigs offered to the ancestors ; recites a litany composed of genealogies, lists of donors, and prayers for the continued good fortune of participants ; supervises the cooking of pork in leaf ovens ; and acts in general as director of ritual. Priests also officiate at lesser sacrifices to other ancestral spirits, expiatory offerings by sinners, and first fruits offerings for the opening for harvest of new gardens.

14 In Baegu theology a man can offer sacrifices to any of his ancestors, and a priest can pray to any of his and conduct rituals at shrines where they are buried. A woman contributes sacrifices to the spirits through her father, husband, son or brother according to her relevant status as young girl, wife, widow or spinster. In theory, each agnatic clan or recognized patrilineage segment should have its own priest to conduct its ancestor worship and other ritual affairs. In practice, cognatic descent groups and coresidents tend to form ritual congregation centered about a shrine and a priest who is qualified to sacrifice there.

15 Ideally a priest’s eldest son should succeed to the priesthood upon his father’s death, however, knowledge and demeanor are more significant than genealogical criteria, and priesthoods usually pass to the best qualified of the potential heirs. Baegu informants say that a priest should look and act like a priest, and should know how to do sacrifices properly.

16 They are expected to be dignified, worthy of respect, wise, and professional. A man becomes a priest only if his fellows trust him to make sacrifices and offer prayers for them. Priests are, in effect, elected by consensus of the ritual communities they serve.

17 The wane ramo, meaning “strong man”, is (or rather was) a traditional war leader. Ivens (1934 : 88) translates the term from the Lau dialect as “champion” as well. The role no longer functions, but men recognized as ramo are still living. Prior to British pacification of Malaita about 1920, the ramo Led war parties and did killings for hire. They enjoyed brief reflorescences in 1927-28, when they were recruited by British officials for a punitive expedition against the Kwaio around Sinerango, who had assassinated District Officer Bell (Keesing 1965 : 25-27), and again in 1942-44, when Allied commanders used Malaitamen as part of a British Solomon Islands Self-defence Force against the Japanese during the Solomons campaign.

18 In traditional times, ramo served useful purposes as military commanders, providers of defense, agents of social control, and executors of justice. If a man were injured or insulted by another, he (or a Big Man supporting him) could offer a bounty (called finisi) for vengeance. The bounty and casus belli, which was usually adultery or utterance of a traditional curse, would be announced at a feast. A local strong man, or pretender to that title, would then ambush and kill the alleged offender or, if he were too powerful to attack directly, one of his weaker kinsmen. Proper form required a would-be killer to brag publicly of his intention. Subsequently the killer would collect his reward, which was usually shell valuables or produce, although parcels of land might be offered for avenging the murder of a rich man’s son. One who felt he was being unjustly accused could also employ the military skills of a strong man to defend himself. In these ways, effective warriors could amass wealth and achieve bigness.

19 Again, ramo was supposed to be an inheritable title, but non-bellicose sons could easily lose the distinction, while aggressive rivals could attain and defend the position. Baegu and Baelelea informants define a ramo simply as one who kills people. This was a hard way to gain success, for competition was keen and there were obvious hazards in the lifestyle. Rivals, hearing a strong man boast of the revenge he was to carry out, might perform a killing first and claim the bounty. Worse yet, Baegu norms held that deaths ought to be avenged. Hence the life of a strong man, who acheived and kept his position by killing, was always in danger. Only the toughest, strongest, most wary, most dominating, and most awe-inspiring succeeded and survived. Current leaders said to be like the ramo of old tend to be aggressive, domineering mesomorphs.

20 Besides these well defined roles of landholder, priest and war leader, there are other Big Men. These are de facto neighborhood leaders, who organize communal work projects, to whom people turn for help, and who mobilize and articulate public opinion. They, too, are called wane baita, although they do not fit into the three more obvious categories. Perhaps the best diagnostic feature of their status appears in the distribution of roast pork and taro from the sacrificial ovens at mortuary feasts. Officiating priests do not feed the communicants directly, but divide the food into portions that are assigned to important men, who in turn feed shares to their clients and associates. Titular landholders, other priests, war leaders, and these neighborhood organizers all receive such public recognition. Leaders who are de facto Big Men are usually gregarious, aggressive men of action.

21 Logically, the semantic domain of contemporary, traditional Baegu leadership has a superordinate category of wane baita (big man). This includes the lower order categories of leaders who are wane initoo (titular landholders). wane nifoa (pagan priests), wane ramo (war leaders), and wane baita (big men of other sorts).

22 From folklore and interviews with aged informants, it appears that in the past the Baegu recognized other kinds of Big Men and that the taxonomy of leadership may have been more complex. Perhaps the warrior ramo should be treated as legendary, for the role is certainly no longer a feasible one. An exceptionally powerful pagan priest, called foa ni gwou (prayer at the head), gwouna foa (head of prayer), or fata’ abu baita (big priest), was able to make sacrifices at several shrines. He could pray for more than one lineage, he could call upon priests of lesser shrines for assistance, and he was said to be a priest for toa ka sui, “everybody” in a district or clan. Presumably, he was a chief priest, sacrificing to a higher order of clan ancestral spirit (one nearer the apical ancestor) as well as to the lower order ancestral spirits served by lineage and lesser shrine priests. The wane taloa, whose title means “man of renown or fame”, was a Big Man whose prestige extended beyond his own district and clan, and whose right to prestige was certified by formal investiture by a chief priest (Ross 1973 : 201). He was a leader who controlled many people for making big gardens and giving the biggest feasts. Another bigger than usual man was the wanesarea (to feed or foster) or wane saungia (to kill), who was said both to care for his people and to have the power of life or death over them. A wane sarea or saungia was to the people of his district as a farmer is to his pigs, whom he feeds and cares for as pets until he sacrifices them to the ancestors. Finally, the title of wane ‘aofia, described for the Fataleka by Russell (1950 : 8), belonged to the most prestigious man of all, who is described in Melanesian Pidgin as “Em i olsem king” (“He is like a king”). None of these, bigger than today’s Big Men, exist except in memory or myth.

23 With the coming of western influences, new types of leaders joined, but by no means replaced the Baegu leadership corps. Catholic and Anglican clergymen, Elders of the South Seas Evangelical Church, and some Seventh Day Adventist teachers have assumed the functions of traditional Big Men for mission villages. Sifi or “custom chiefs”, who hold high offices in one of the cargoist movements that have followed the nationalistic Marching Rule and nativistic Doliasi Custom Movement in northern Malaita (Cochrane 1971 : 67-118), have considerable power in cult affairs, but this does not always carry over into other aspects of life. Popularly elected members of the Malaita Council may have prestige among their constituents, and headmen appointed by the Protectorate administration to represent it at the sub-district level can be influential, but they rarely are.

24 There are also numerous lesser leaders who have some status, but by no means enough to be considered Big Men. Christian mission teachers and catechists fit into this category, as do minor government functionaries such as police constables, clerks of the various administrative departments, and most of the appointed village or sub-district headmen. The present Custom Movement also has its clerks, genealogists, masters-at-arms, and lesser chiefs. More traditional communities might recognize specialists as wane filo doo or wane filu (a wise man, usually in a genealogical sense), wane toli(specialists at dividing pork and taro among communicants at mortuary feasts), wane anifoa or refoa (priest’s assistants who help kill and cook sacrifical pigs), wane sili (experts in singing, dancing and panpipe music who know the traditional epic chants and dance patterns), wane ilala(diviners and soothsayers), and wane gura (herbal curers and magical healers). All of these defer to true Big Men.

BAEGU LEADERSHIP STRATEGIES

25 One of the more obvious generalizations is that although achievement and mobility are important, so too is pedigree. Titular landholders, who are heads of lineages, succeed to office following regular rules or primogeniture and agnatic seniority. The Baegu feel that eldest sons of other kinds of Big Men (priests, warriors and neighborhood organizers) ought to succeed their fathers. Furthermore, they entertain a naive conception of heredity which assumes that such traits as intelligence, strength, grace, and beauty are heritable and which explains (for them) why the children of leading men exhibit talents similar to their parents. Some Baegu men can recite lengthy talisibara, formal genealogies of up to 38 generations in depth, that purport to trace father to son successions to Big Man positions. When all else fails, they fall back upon the potentially self-fulfilling explanation that regardless of the details of inheritance or succession, Big Men always come from good families.

26But even in the absence of anything truly genetic or of any explicit rule of succession, a favorable pedigree confers advantages. Real property rights derive from descent group membership (Ross 1973 : 158-169). Males inherit personal property, including the all important shell valuables and sacrificial swine, patrilineally (Ross 1973 : 173-5). So, one can either inherit or fail to inherit the assets upon which subsequent status rivalry depends.

27Other significant aspects of pedigrees are the networks to which they give a person access and the quantity and quality of potential allies they provide. A man whose bilateral personal kindred contains numerous wealthy, powerful kinsmen to whom he can turn for help has a distinct advantage. Similarly, it is helpful to be part of a descent group that has enough good land to forestall competition, yet which is numerous enough to defend its rights through effective possession and impressive public rituals. A strategic position in the kinship web gives a man grandparents, parents and mother’s brothers of the age and status he needs to help him launch his career most effectively.

28In former times a traditional Baegu leader could assist his son, especially his wela wane inao or first-born son, by performing the faabaita (make big) ritual in his behalf. Sometime in adolescence the boy would be dedicated to a leader’s carecr. He would retire to a hut in the forest, where he would make a taro garden, observe food taboos, and refrain from bathing while he remained in isolation. When his taro matured, the boy would harvest it for a public feast given by his father in his name. The young man, now bathed, oiled, groomed and dressed most splendidly in the best shell and teeth jewelry his father could provide, watched while the guests ate fish, vegetables and puddings. Besides food, the father might distribute shell valuables provided by the son’s kinsmen. These gifts, made in the son’s name, then became debits to his accounts receivable, assets which he could collect to further his subsequent ceremonial career.

29Besides pedigree, certain personality and character traits are essential prerequisites for leadership, and not all who would be Big Men have them. The special characteristics associated with priests and war leaders were mentioned previously.

30The ethic of generosity is foremost in the behavior expected of leaders. A leader is obliged to give those who depend upon him whatever assistance they require, even (in theory) impoverishing himself if need be. Hospitality is customary in northern Malaita, and the Baegu consider European and American commercial restaurants and hotels barbaric. I was often advised by my Baegu friends not to ask or offer payment for favors and not to haggle over prices ; these are demeaning practrices for important men, who just give when asked. The father and children analogy of a benevolent authority generously feeding and supporting his dependents is frequently invoked to explain proper leadership. There was a sense of noblesse oblige, but I also have the impression that the big and not-so-big men who entertained, fed and instructed me were warmhearted and outgoing persons who truly enjoyed giving.

31People also expect leaders to be hardworking, to have a pronounced sense of responsibility, and to have oratorical skill in the use of language. Big Men are supposed to use certain words, constructions and semantic ploys that children (and ethnographers) cannot. One presumes, too, that the people expect their leaders to possess practical and specific skills of organization and management, for they defer to Big Men in novel situations, and they rely upon them to cope with sometimes incomprehensible requests of government and visiting researchers. In addition to these practical talents, Baegu Big Men often exhibit charismatic attributes of leadership that cannot be measured or even defined. In the vocabularies of our executive suites and military officer corps, these are “bearing” and “command presence”. As the Baegu say, “If you see them, you know them”. Finally, Baegu leaders carry with them an aura of success. In the cosmology of northern Malaita, they have mamanaa–power, truth, efficacy, potency, and good fortune (Ross 1973 : 234-5). One of the common Baegu synonyms for Big Men is wane lakea, which is in other contexts obviously the English loan word “lucky”.

32Once an ambitious, potential leader gets his start and meets the character tests, he can maintain and enhance his position through competition ; but this is not the free-wheeling unregulated competition of our stereotypes.

33There is a formal friendship institution, called kwaimani, that involves competitive giving of sorts. A man who wants another as friend or ally will make a formal presentation to him of shell bead or porpoise teeth money. Like many other gifts, this can be classified as doo mouri (something live), which should be repaid, or doo maena (something dead), which need not be. Gifts between kwaimani partners can be construed as competitive, because (even though it is expensive) ambitious men seek to acquire as many kwaimani partners as possible, and because (by making the gift) the donor coerces his friend into accepting the duty of reciprocation. But it is not fighting with property, since the purpose of the gift is to honor the donee, not to outclass or shame him. One gives to gain an ally, a man who will aid his friend when needed. Other things being equal, a man who has many kwaimani friends is a powerful man.

34Virtually all achieved prestige and upward mobility come not through open competition but through contributions to and organizing of maomamortuary feasts in honor of deceased priests and ancestors. These feasts are given by agnatic clans for their own greater glory and to assert their real property interests in tracts of land around sacred shrines in the forest where their ancestors are buried. Contributors to the feast are essentially a cognatic stock or stem kindred descended from the ancestors in question and for whom the priest being honored was ritual leader. They grow a special garden of sacred taro, donate sacrificial pigs (which they have raised as pets from infancy and which may have been dedicated to the ancestral ghosts from the beginning), erect a temporary thatched shrine, perform sacred woodcarvings, and hire the singers, panpipers and dancers needed for a good feast. For the actual feast itself, which takes place in a sacred forest grove where the shrine is and usually lasts about four days, the officiating priest must collect vast amounts of pigs, taro and puddings to feed the communicants, and shell valuables to pay the performers.

35 In contributing food or money to a feast, men activate their rights to membership in a cognatic descent group and assert their claims to shares in the group’s land interests. Contributions prove a donor’s commitment to the group’s welfare and qualify him for leadership.

36Upward social mobility operates in the context of the mortuary feasts. Men first achieve public recognition by contributing to and receiving shares of food from feasts. Eventually some men move up in public reputation by becoming major contributors of pigs and money and major claimants of portions of food from the ovens. When a major contributor and claimant is recognized by the community as a Big Man, he will be looked up to as an organizer or sponsor of future feasts, as a source of help for the weak, and for his leadership.

37 Weddings are another traditional arena for competition and route for upward mobility. Among other events (Ross 1973 : 146-7), weddings feature the creation and discharge of prestations between two bilateral personal kindreds through exchange of food and an expensive bride price of shell valuables and other ornaments. The groom’s father assembles the bridewealth and ceremonial foods from contributors who are members of the young man’s kindred, and when the time comes, presents these formally to the bride’s father for distribution to her kindred. Meanwhile, the bride’s father has been soliciting contributions of food from her kinsmen for ceremonial counter-presentation to the groom’s father (and kindred). Vegetables, fruits and fish are the usual wedding foods, since pork is among pagans reserved for sacrificial purposes. Christian weddings (where pork may be served), church feasts on religious holidays, and large-scale meals served to workers on community projects are more recent innovations that permit sponsors to display their generosity.

38Competition, such as it is, and the feasting cycle are constrained by certain economic facts of life. To begin with, no one has enough wealth to finance feasts and weddings by himself. Only by borrowing from relatives and friends can a man accumulate enough shell money to obtain a wife for his son or find enough pigs for a decent mortuary festival. One establishes credit by giving to others when they are in need. By generous contributions to others, a man spreads a net of obligations for repayment, which he can collect at appropriate times to enable him to sponsor feasts.

39Thus cooperation is an essential prerequisite for competitive success. The primary arena for competition is a public festival conducted by a social group for corporate and general public benefit. A potential leader must have the active support of kin and friends to enable him to sponsor a feast. He must, therefore, get his group to cooperate, to organize to support his project, and to contribute wealth in some form. In staging the feast and the displays that accompany it, his group competes with other clans, kindreds, shrine congregations, churches or communities. Each tries to conduct a better and more impressive ritual than the others, with the glory from success going to the group. Direct personal competition between rivals does not occur. A Baegu leader is like the captain of a sports team ; he may be an individual star, and he may receive the lion’s share of his team’s glory, but he achieves real success only if his team has a winning season. A Baegu leader succeeds in competition only if he first succeeds in cooperative endeavor.

40Putting together a large number of statements about leaders from Baegu informants reveals a composite guide to political strategy, or at least a descriptive explanation of how Big Men become big. There is a general consensus that favorable genealogical position and the connections this provides, inherited land rights, and inherited wealth are the primary factors that give entree to leadership. Certain other personal endowments, either inherited or developed from family and peer group experiences, enhance a man’s potential for leadership : intelligence, cleverness, wit, humor, physical strength and grace, good looks, energy, ambition and will, pleasing personality traits, eloquence, social skills, and charismatic leadership qualities. With luck, a young man can gain other intangible assets as he matures : esoteric knowledge, magical skills, traditional technical skills, military prowess, western education, and further social and political abilities. A faabaita ceremony from a fond parent accelerates a potential leader’s progress. In young manhood one begins to possess social capital in the form of reputation as a farmer and trader, respect as an artisan, sophistication from off-island plantation labor, influence form ritual or cargo cult participation, government or mission favor, and friendships. Hard work to accumulate wealth from gardening and other labor, a proper marriage to a hardworking and virtuous girl, and exploitation of genealogical ties to borrow financial capital are the all-important initial steps in a leadership career. To promote himself, a man begins contributing to weddings and religious feasts and using his knowledge and skills for constructive public purposes. As his reputation grows, he will continue to be a good citizen, make wise investments as loans to younger kinsmen, acquire allies through formal kwaimanifriendship gifts, and make speeches at public festivals. Older leaders may ask him to serve as a priest’s helper, dance or chant leader, leader of a section of a communal work project or (in the old days) war party. Having begun his career as a protegee of older men, a man eventually begins to attract followers of his own. At some stage in his career, a successful aspirant to leadership becomes a full participant in feasting, with a portion from the oven to distribute to his own associates. Specialized leaders, such as priests and warriors, begin to go their separate ways. Other Big Men become sponsors of feasts and patrons of larger hamlets containing foster children, affiliated relatives, and miscellaneous clients. After public acceptance as Big Men, leaders continue to participate in feasting and community affairs, to be good citizens, to help their kin and neighbors, and to validate their status by continued evidence of luck and supernatural favor.

41The Baegu assume that heirs of Big Men will continue participation in community affairs at the same level as their fathers. Whether or not they do so is hard to tell from the short range perspective of an ethnographer, for all Baegu are active in pagan feasting or church activities, and upward or downward mobility are not readily apparent.

SOCIAL FUNCTIONS OF BAEGU LEADERSHIP

42In general, leaders are those who initiate action, take precedence in public, are listened to by others, and receive general respect. They enjoy certain perquisites of their status, such as the portion of food from festival ovens, widespread public recognition and visibility, the right to wear elaborate jewelry on formal occasions, the right to use fancier than usual betel chewing apparatus, the honor of drum rolls on slit gongs at death, and the opportunity to marry polygynously. They command a higher bride price for their daughters. On the other hand, they have obligations that common people do not. Big Men must satisfy more rigorous codes of morality and decorum, laws are more strictly applied to them, and penalties for transgressions are more severe. They must pay more bridewealth for wives for their sons, they are expected to launch their sons’ careers with proper ceremonies, they are obliged to be eternally generous, and they support large establishments of foster children and clients. They cannot be stingy or too authoritarian, or they will lose the constituency of followers upon which their position rests.

43The Baegu people like their leaders. They respect and admire Big Men, rather than resent them. Big Men are valued as a community resource ; they are the ones to whom a person turns in times of need, the ones who can get things done. With the exception of the ramo warriors, who were feared, Big Men have both prestige and esteem. Any decent Baegu has the esteem of his family and friends but little prestige, and many specialists and westernized strivers have prestige but little esteem, but Big Men have both.

44Baegu Big Men perform a number of socially useful functions. They manage and expedite community activities like feasts, new gardening projects, housebuilding, trail clearance after storms, and public works. They accomplish desired tasks and keep morale high through their influence, oratorical skills, and personal example. They are powerful agents of social control ; they mobilize public opinion, lead in shaping consensus, articulate decisions, speak for and enforce the general will, control gossip, and control deviance through disapproval or military action against sorcerers and transgressors who refuse to make compensation. As agents of justice they mediate compensation payments in tort cases, execute and enforce judgments among their followers, serve as spokesmen for legislation growing out of litigation, act as repositories of tribal jurisprudence, hear appeals from their people, seek revenge for aggrieved associates who cannot collect compensation, and defend their followers against revenge from outsiders.

45In a setting of hamlet and neighborhood sovereignty with no superordinate political authority (before Bristish pacification), Baegu Pig Men conducted whatever “foreign relations” there were with more distant settlements. A resident injured, insulted or threatened by someone from elsewhere could not safely claim compensation or exact revenge directly. Instead, he could appeal to a Big Man in his own vicinity, who could (as he saw fit) protect his client’s interests and person by demanding compensation, threatening the transgressor, sending a war party to attack him directly, or working through some other Big Man in the transgressor’s district to reach some sort of justice.

46Big Men were and are financiers. They are a source of personal credit to whom common men can turn to get money for bridewealth, piglets to raise to enter the ceremonial feasting cycle, and loans for personal and family reasons (such as to pay taxes or to satisfy adverse judgments requiring compensation payments). They also provide the capital that makes weddings and mortuary festivals possible. Per capita annual income for Solomon Islanders is under US$100 per year. Yet bride prices usually exceed A $100, and food for wedding exchanges may cost hundreds of dollars. Mortuary festivals sacrifice dozens of swine costing as much as A$40 apiece and require standard A$10 payments to each of several score singers, panpipers and dancers. No one individual can afford such expenditures, but by sponsoring activities and mobilizing contributors, Big Men can accumulate the wealth that makes ceremonial life possible. They are in a real sense the bankers who support Baegu cultural life.

47This underwriting of community cultural activities and rituals is no mean contribution to their people. Communal work groups (now often called “unions”) have been active in producing water supplies, sanitation facilities, “custom” cult houses, new churches, and schools. Big Men organize and feed them. Formal weddings (with all the traditional negotiations, bridewealth payments, feasts, and exchanges of food) are something the Baegu take seriously as sources of family pride and bases for a married couple’s self-respect. A bride’s kindred enjoy a large bride price as proof of their social standing and the girl’s virtue, while the groom’s kindred point to their ability to raise a large bride price as a measure of their wealth and power. Besides its real estate function, the mortuary feast is the prime context for fine arts performances in music and dance, which are offered along with sacrificial pigs to the ancestral ghosts. This is believed to placate them or make them harmless, which earns blessings of prosperity and good health for their descendants, prevents natural disasters and plagues, assures the fertility and productivity of the earth, and insures the continued proper harmony of the cosmos (Ross 1973 : 233-242).

48Perhaps most interesting for a social scientist is the direct effect Big Men’s activities have on group vitality. The mortuary feast demonstrates the virtue and vigor of an agnatic clan or cognatic descent group. These are about the only occasion when the segmentary lineage system operates, and when members have any sense of community. Weddings enable a personal kindred to coalesce for a time and display their strength and commitment to kinship ideals. Communal work projects enhance the solidarity of neighborhood and factional alignments. By sponsoring, financing and organizing such activities, Big Men build morale and bring group success.

49The possibility that Baegu leaders are collectively a social class is a still open question. There is ambiguous evidence that wane baita (big man) is a salient cognitive category. Linguistically, it is regularly contrasted with wane oewania, “stupid man” or “rubbish man”, but there is no corresponding taxon for the mass of the male population who are simply hardworking farmers and good husbands and fathers. All important men and their immediate families are respected. Because they share a high prestige and esteem based upon public consensus and because there are behavioral correlates to their status (privileges and obligations), they can be said to hold high rank.

50Public expectations are different for leaders. They have certain privileges such as optional polygyny, fancy dress, flamboyance, and extraversion ; but higher standards of performance are demanded of them. They are not permitted many of the human frailties.

51Leaders interact frequently with one another as equals, because of their common involvement in the cooperation and competition of feasting ; a leader’s interaction with his followers is by definition one of inequality. Each leader is the focus of an activity group, and interaction among foci is qualitatively different from other kinds of interaction. With an equal one negotiates or discusses, rather than commands or cajoles. Particularly in the ritual and political sectors, leaders have more in common with one another than with their own lesser associates. Hence, sociometrically leaders form a stratum of interaction.

52The expensive bridewealth demanded for the marriage of Big Men’s children tends to form an endogamous marriage class. No rational father would pass up a chance to ask and get a premium bride price for his nubile daughter, nor would he squander the high price he must pay for his son’s bride on a dubious girl from an unimportant family. Hence there is a statistical tendency (supported by common sense norms) toward betrothal of leader’s children to the children of other leaders.

53Yet, leaders do not under any definition form a corporate group or a caste. As a collectivity they have no legal personality. Declasse marriages are disapproved, but are not aabu (forbidden) and do not subject offenders to punitive action other than token compensation payments. Pretenders to the dress and mannerisms of Big Men are considered amusing ; they may be ridiculed, but they are not censured. Rank boundaries are indistinct and permeable, and they vary with context. It is impossible to distinguish little big men and big little men, and a would-be leader may be big in one situation but not in another. In some respects, bigness is merely a matter of degree, for all men take part to some extent in feasting and exchanges. Although children are supposed to receive their parents’ rank, downward mobility is probably common. Sons of Big Men, who did not inherit a title and who have not been diligent at meeting social obligations, do not seem to enjoy any marked respect. And since according to the rules of the game natural heirs do not always succeed priests and warriors, and men can become bigger through gift-giving and feasting, upward mobility is also a possibility.

54Because there is so much agreement about what leaders are like and how they should behave, and because leadership does seem to run in families, one might speak of a Baegu nobility. In the dialect of the neighboring coastal and Lau Lagoon people, Big Men are arai, translated as nobleman, chief or elder by Ivens (1921 : 30). To the Baegu the Lau seem numerous, rich and sophisticated, so many coastal Baegu adopt Lau practices and hope to lose the stigma of being hill people. Some use the Lau terms arai ni foa (priest) and arai baita (important man). In normal Baegu usage, however, arai more often means husband, white man, patron or (in archaic idiom) master of captive slaves kept for cannibal feasting.

55Considering all this it is probably best to say that Baegu Big Men are a linguistic and cultural category, leaving resolution of the social class problem to comparative sociologists to whom stratification is more familiar.

Conclusions

56From this field data (acknowledging that the Baegu are a very small sample, indeed) and earlier ethnographic work, I would like to suggest several compensatory generalizations about the traditional Melanesian Big Man style of leadership. I would argue that (1) the idea of achieved status can easily be overemphasized ; (2) Cooperation may be at least as important as competition ; (3) Such leadership is not simply monotypic, but can be functionally divisible ; (4) Traditional Big Men were not necessarily selfish exploiters, but more likely responsible, useful, and wellliked members of their communities ; and (5) This style of leadership is not necessarily limited or inferior.

57Addressing first the contention that achieved status has been overemphasized in studies of Melanesian politics and leadership, note the Baegu insistence upon primogeniture and birth order seniority for succession to the office of titular landholder and head of lineage, their supposition that sons should and ought to succeed their fathers as priests and warriors, their assumptions about inheritance of desirable attributes, and their self-justifying concept of “good” families as the source of Big Men of other kinds. In his study of the Mekeo of the Central District of Papua New Guinea (about 70 miles northwest of Port Moresby), Hau’ofa (1971 : 153 and 167) stresses the importance of hereditary succession and privileges for Mekeo chieftainship. As long ago as his 1938-39 study of leadership in southern Bougainville, Oliver (1967 : 441) noted that kismen to support him, a highranking kinsman (real or classificatory) to sponsor him, and a powerful matrilineage are crucial elements needed by a man who aspires to become one of the traditional Big Men called mumi by the Siuai. To ignore inheritance and pedigree, portraying Melanesian leadership as an archetype of achieved status, is to distort reality.

58Turning second to the suggestion that cooperation may be as significant as competition, note that Baegu competition for leadership occurs almost solely in the context of mortuary feasting, where the goal is group success and cooperation is essential to that end. Competition is between groups, and success in competition comes only if people cooperate successfully. To the Baegu, a Big Man is one who gets people to work together, who makes groups successful. Their other lavish public displays, formal friendship presentations and weddings, are to create alliances or stimulate family (kindred) loyalties. Hogbin’s description of attempts to outdo one another by ngwane-inoto or “centre men”, who are Big Men among the To’abaita of northern Malaita, makes it appear that they compete by being generous, by giving more to worthy causes and by contributing more for public purposes than their rivals (Hogbin 1939 : 72). Siuai mumi candidates must exhibit generosity, cooperativeness, and a genuine liking for working with others (Oliver 1967 : 397). This sort of “competition” hardly accords with the aura of social darwinism and vulgar conspicuous consumption evoked by the more extreme renderings of our anthropolgical stereotype of the competitive Melanesian.

59Considering third the proposition that there are varieties of Melanesian leadership, note how the Baegu recognize several types of Big Men. Various leaders have different functions and reasons for being. The wane initoo is symbolic head of his clan or lineage segment, personifies land rights, and is a focal point for kinship and descent ideology. Pagan priests give absolution, purify or sanctify celebrants, help people expiate sins, conduct sacrifices and funerals, and serve as ritual leaders. Specialized war leaders exercise military command, use police powers, and lead in matters of defense and revenge. Other Big Men of more general role organize feasts and weddings, manage action groups, protect markets, finance community projects, and play leading roles in mobilizations to exploit natural resources. Furthermore, there is hierarchical structure to Baegu leadership. Some wane initoo head whole clans, lesser ones head lineage segments. Priests have helpers who assist them in ceremonies, and the chief priests could sacrifice at several shrines of lesser priests. A very Big Man can have other Big Men among his associates. Mekeo chiefs have specified areas over which they have the right to exercise public power (Hau’ofa 1971 : 166). The To’abaita ngwane-inoto initiated feasts only for his own descent group (Hogbin 1939 : 105), and the To’abaita, too, had ramo who led raiding parties and executed revenge for a price (Hogbin 1939 : 91). It would a appear that Melanesian societies have not just general purpose leaders, but diverse ones who have specialized functions, and that Melanesian leadership can be hierarchically organized and internally complex.

60It is easy to support the fourth contention that Melanesian Big Men are responsible leaders rather than selfish exploiters. The often cited observation that Big Man leadership is limited, because people will desert a leader who is too greedy or authoritarian, can be interpreted as proof that the role of Big Man is one the public values. A candidate or an incumbent has to convince a perpetually skeptical electorate that he is useful, responsible, and worthy. Baegu leaders perform valuable and essential services as bankers, judges, entrepreneurs, agents of charity, scholars, and public executives for a semi-literate, subsistence level society. Hogbin reports that To’abaita ngwane-inoto organized enterprises that concerned all (1939 : 74), maintained public order and harmony (1939 : 77), were mediators and peace-makers (1939 : 79), and dealt with the government District Officers imposed as magistrates over the people of Malaita (1939 : 146). Both To’abaita and Baegu use the banyan tree allegory to dramatize the Big Man’s support of his circle of associates. According to Oliver, the Siuai mumi intensified and vitalized social relations in their neighborhoods (1967 : 441), functioned as important instruments of social control (1967 : 442), stimulated economic activity in both production and distribution (1967 : 446), promoted territorial organization (1967 : 420), managed community relations with outsider (1967 : 407-8), and organized warfare beyond the level of inter-personal violence (1967 : 413).

61The whole community, or at least a significant faction, benefited from Big Men’s activities. A whole To’abaita district would be exalted by a local ngwane-inoto’s success (Hogbin 1939 : 73). Siuai neighborhoods having active high-ranking mumi possessed more esprit de corps and better morale than most others (Oliver 1967 : 445).

62For all this they assumed real burdens of leadership, accrued few exceptional legal rights, and realized little material gain. Baegu leaders have decided obligations, are subject to unusually strict legal interpretations, and must conform to high public expectations. Siuai mumisuffer deprivation in the course of accumulating capital, restrictions on personal freedom of public figures that hampers their sex-adventuring, constant political pressures, public demands that their conduct be beyond reproach, and magical or actual physical danger from rivals (Oliver 1967 : 409-10). For the Siuai public, “Becoming a leader is difficult ; remaining one is dangerous” (Oliver 1967 : 408). The mumi produced their food and traded for other goods just as ordinary people did ; their standard of living was not significantly higher than other men’s, nor did they possess such rights as eminent domain or sexual access (Oliver 1967 : 420). Although they gave the feasts, To’abaita ngwane-inoto did not receive shares of food from the ovens “The giver of the feast has honour, not meat” (Hogbin 1939 : 66).

63To become Big Men, Melanesian leaders had to be respected and admired. Baegu parents point to Big Men as exemplars for children. To’abaita ngwane-inoto work harder than other men (Hogbin 1939 : 73). The Siuai believe that high-ranking leaders possess to a marked degree the attributes of ambition, skill, industriousness, and goodness, which includes generosity, cooperativeness, geniality and decency (Oliver 1967 : 396-7). Objectively, Oliver says that a would-be mumi must have intelligence, industriousness, charisma, executive ability, mastery in the use of non-physical coercion, and diplomacy (Oliver 1967 : 441).

64And above all, the people themselves like their leaders. Baegu Big Men enjoy both prestige and esteem. One explanation of postwar cults in Malaita such as Marching Rule among the southern ‘Are’are and the Doliasi Custom Movement among the Baelelea in the north, has been that they were nativistic attempts to coerce outside authority into recognizing the legitimate status of traditional Big Men (Cochrane 1970 : 144).

65These descriptions are scarcely the portrait of an unpopular tyrant, exploiter, or capitalist drone. They suggest instead that Melanesian leaders did have a genuine interest in the welfare of their followers, and that the people appreciated their interest and sense of responsibility.

66The final argument, that traditional Melanesian leadership is not necessarily inferior or limiting, cannot be supported so directly or so surely. One can argue that characterizations of Melanesians as underdeveloped and invidious comparisons of them with other peoples spring from a widespread, longstanding, and perhaps ultimately racist practice of denigrating Melanesians while romanticizing other Pacific Islanders (Hau’ofa 1975 : 285-6). This of course begs the question.

67One can maintain that only in the kingdoms of Hawaii and Tonga did Polynesians create political organizations undeniably more impressive than anything found in Melanesia, while such examples of a Melanesian genius for a real integration as the kula of the Massim Region (Malinowski 1922) and the kinship and marketing organization of the Admiralty Island (Schwartz 1963) are as impressive as any found in Oceania.

68One can suggest that if in fact control by one over an activity, good or domain that another values gives one man power over or influence upon the other (Burns, Cooper and Wild 1972 : 104), then perhaps Melanesian political develoment has been “limited” by other factors than leadership style. Perhaps the availability and distribution of natural resources in Melanesia inhibited growth of power relationships ; perhaps poor communications prevented Melanesian leaders from exploiting the power or influence they had ; or perhaps the Melanesian ideology of free competition encouraged challengers, while elaboration of the mana concept gave Polynesian chiefs a power monopoly. A leader can claim to have access to or control over all the “power” (as sovereigns and states do by definition), but no one can hope to corner all the shell valuables in the Solomon Islands.

69One can speculate that Big Men may not, in fact, be all that limited. It is not too farfetched to say that the popular image of the Sicilian-American “Don” portrayed in literature (Puzo 1969) has many of the traits we ascribe to the Melanesian Big Man, yet not even the most optimistic reformer would call the power of organized crime in America “limited”.

70One can simply assert that there were and are good things about Melanesian leadership.

71The cycle of feasting a Siuai man goes through to acquire renown and achieve mumi status involves manipulation of large numbers of people and vast amounts of wealth (relative to context) ; it is an excellent way to prove a candidate’s executive ability and to assure that leadership roles are filled by men with managerial talent (Oliver 1967 : 422-439). There are far worse qualificiations and selective processes. The structural flexibility of the Baegu system of leadership permits society to realign itself as needed around leaders of proven ability ; its functional specializations enable society to reward various types of useful activity or personality by inclusion in a loose category of directors ; the whole system is resilient, because it does not depend upon having the right man in the right position ; and social climbing, when it is done in socially approved means for approved ends, can be a powerful motivating force for recruiting leaders and accomplishing public purposes.

72Finally, one can ask rhetorical questions about the quality and purpose of government.

73Is power always preferable to influence ? Is efficiency at maintaining and extending itself, capacity to provide for the public welfare, or effectiveness as guarantor of personal liberty a better index of governmental quality ? Are theocracy or the princely tyranny of dynastic government preferable to the popular oligarchy of Melanesian politics ?

74What is needed is a balanced perspective on traditional Melanesian leadership, not a new flattering stereotype, and certainly not the old Big Man stereotype. The caricature of Melanesian leadership as achievement besotted, altogether competitive, simple, exploitive, and limited if not thoroughly inferior, is unreal. It is useful neither to the people of emerging Melanesian nations nor to anthropology. Yet a naive view of Melanesian leaders as exemplars of an ideal government for the “noble savages” of Rousseau would be just as unserviceable. Melanesian Big Men, like leaders anywhere, can be despotic, self-serving or incompetent ; and occasionally, I am sure, some of them realize all the worst qualities of our conventional image. Although it would be less “thinkable” than our stereotype, which can so easily come to represent a class of leadership and be opposed to other types, we ought to try to picture traditional Melanesian leaders as human beings operating in normal social and cultural contexts. Such a portrait, drawn from ethnographic classics like Oliver’s (1955) study of leadership in Bougainville and other contributions to Melanesian ethnology, would (I believe) show that Big Men gain office by demonstrated achievement as well as genealogical position, that they become masters of group cooperation in order to compete with rivals, that they may perform one or more of several possible leadership functions, that they rarely exploit their associates for whom they assume responsibility, that they are well-liked and useful community leaders, and that they do a more than adequate job of helping govern their communities.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

DOI are automaticaly added to references by Bilbo, OpenEdition’s Bibliographic Annotation Tool.
Users of institutions which have subscribed to one of OpenEdition freemium programs can download references for which Bilbo found a DOI in standard formats using the buttons available on the right.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

BURNS, T., M. COOPER and B. WILD 1972. Melanesian Big Men and the Accumulation of Power. Oceania 43 : 104-112.

COCHRANE, G.1970. Big Men and Cargo Cults. Oxford University Press, London.

DEUTSCH, K.W. 1970. Politics and Government. Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston.

FRIED, M.H. 1967. The Evolution of Political Society. Random House, New York. 1968. Readings in Anthropology, Volume II (2nd Edition), edited by M.H. Fried.

Thomas Y. Crowell, New York.

HARDING, T.G., and B.J. WALLACE. 1970. Cultures of the Pacific. The Free Press, New York.

HARRIS, M. 1975. Culture, People, Nature (2nd Edition). Thomas Y. Crowell, New York.

HAU’OFA, E. 1971. Mekeo Chieftainship. Journal of the Polynesian Society 80 : 152-169. 1975. Anthropology and Pacific Islanders. Oceania 45 : 283-289.

HAVILAND, W.A. 1974. Anthropology. Holt, Rinehart and Winston ; New York.

HOGBIN, H.I. 1939. Experiments in Civilization. George Routledge and Sons, London.

HOGBIN, I., and L.R. HIATT, eds. 1966. Readings in Australian and Pacific Anthropology. Melbourne University Press, New York.

IVENS, W.G. 1921. Grammar and Vocabulary of the Lau Language, Solomon Islands. The Carnegie Institution of Washington, D.C. 1934. A Vocabulary of the Lau Language, Big Mala, Solomon Islands. Thomas Avery and Sons, New Plymouth, New Zealand.

KEESING, R.M. 1965. Kwaio Marriage and Society. Unpublished Ph. D. dissertation, Department of Social Relations, Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts.

KEESING, R.M. and F.M. KEESING. 1971. New Perspectives in Cultural Anthropology. Holt, Rinehart and Winston, New York.

KOTTAK, C.P. 1974. Anthropology : The Exploration of Human Diversity. Random House, New York.

MALINOWSKI, B. 1922. Argonauts of the Western Pacific. E.P. Dutton and Company, New York.

MEAD, M. 1937. Cooperation and Competition among Primitive Peoples. Mc Graw-Hill, New York.
DOI : 10.2307/2262419

OLIVER, D.L. 1955. A Solomon Island Society. Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts. 1967. A Solomon Island Society (Paperback Edition). Beacon Press, Boston.

PEARSON, R. 1975. introduction to Anthropology. Holt, Rinehart and Winston ; New York.

PUZO, M. 1969. The Godfather. G.P. Putnam’s Sons, New York.

ROSS, H.M. 1973. Baegu : Social and Ecological Organization in Malaita, Solomon Islands. University of Illinois Press, Urbana and Chicago.

RUSSELL, T. 1950. The Fataleka of Malaita. Oceania 21 : 1-13.
DOI : 10.1002/j.1834-4461.1950.tb00169.x

SAHLINS, M.D. 1963. Poor Man, Rich Man, Big-Man, Chief : Political Types in Melanesia and Polynesia. Comparative Studies in Society and History 5 : 285-303. 1968. Tribesmen. Prentice-Hall, Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey.

SERVICE, E.R. 1975. Origins of the State and Civilization. W.W. Norton and Company. New York.

SCHWARTZ, T. 1963- Systems of Areal Integration : Some Contributions Based on the Admiralty Islands of Northern Melanesia. Anthropological Forum 1 : 56-97.

SWARTZ, M.J., and D.K. JORDAN. 1976. Anthropology : Perspective on Humanity. John Wiley and Sons, New York.

NOTES

1 Research for this essay was supported by the University of Illinois Center for International Comparative Studies (Professor Joseph B. Casagrande, Director) in 1972 and by U.S. Public Health Service predoctoral fellowship MH-30017 and Notional Institute for Mental Health grant MH-12647 during 1966-68. The 1966-68 work was part of the Harvard University Peabody Museum project, supported by National Institute of General Medical Sciences grant GM-13482, which was part of the Human Adaptability section of the International Biological Program. The work was conducted with the permission of the Administration of British Solomon Islands Protectorate, whose kind assistance was invaluable.

Hello world! Hello Melanesia!

This blog is presented to you by an individual in Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea in order to promote the unification and unity of Melanesia by

  1. Self-Identification dan Self-Definition
  2. Declaration of Melanesia-hood.
  3. Promotion of “Melanesia” as One Origin, One People, One Destiny, by getting rid of the colonial maps in our mind that separate us from each other, by calling us different self-identity according to colonial geographical maps.

Melanesia (from Greek, meaning “black islands”) is a region extending from the western side of the eastern Pacific to the Arafura Sea, north and northeast of Australia.Oct 13, 2014

The region encompasses four countries including the Solomon Island, Fiji, Vanuatu, and Papua New Guinea. Also included in Melanesia are New Caledonia (which is a territory of France) and Western New Guinea (a region of Indonesia).Apr 25, 2017

We Pray that finally, one day, all Melanesians will hold a public conference, and DECLARE “Melanesia-hood” as a nation, not just as a race, that consists of many countries in the South Pacific region.