THE HEART OF THE SOUTH PACIFIC

23.9.2000, Saturday

I am in a backpacker hostel in APIA, the capital of Western Samoa on the island of UPOLU.

Today I plan to search for the Heart of Samoa. I want to impose myself on Samoans in a remote village and find out how they react.

In my folding bag I carry a pair of undies, a Lavalava (wrap around), washing gear, my camera and some TALA, the local currency. Then I take a taxi to the central bus station next to the fish market. The driver drops me at the bus to the village of SALANI at the eastern end of UPOLU. It is the last bus of the day and will not return to Apia. It means that I will get stuck there for the weekend not knowing where I will sleep. That is what I want.

In three weeks I have seen only two Europeans who travelled on the local buses. Most tourists rent cars and don’t mix with Samoans. It takes two and a half hours before the bus departs. In the meantime I sit by the window and admire the life around me like a cultural movie. There are lots of young people on the bus enjoying the contents of the beer bottles in their hands. They laugh and sing while the bus travels along the coast and climbs up the winding road onto the mountain range in the centre of UPOLU, the main island of Samoa.

After two hours the road is finished and the bus ends up jumping and dancing through plantations and rain forest. The wooden bench of the bus does not hurt my behind. I took an air cushion along. Finally we end up on another stretch of sealed road.

I had asked the driver if he will return to Apia. He said “Yes”, but not on which day. A Samoan lady asks me where I want to get off. I reply: “At the end station where the driver gets off.” – She: “It is the last bus of the day. It will return to Apia only on Monday.” – I ask: “Great. Do you have a bed for me in your house?” She is married and refuses. But she tells me to ask the pastor in SALANI for help. I thank her for this advice. I am married too.

After some more villages and lots of bends on the winding road we finally reach SALANI. I notice some huts of a luxury resort built on stilts in the mouth of the river. It is a favourite haunt for young Americans who come here for surfing. A German built the resort, married a girl from the village, took her to Germany and sold the place to an American.

Just for fun I ask for the cost of a bed for the night. The manager leans back in his arm chair, plants his legs on the table and says: “65 US-Dollars without surfing.” I reply that we are in independent Samoa where bills get paid with TALA and that I prefer to give my money to Samoans. “Have a happy day” I remark and head for the house of the village mayor.

Note: Further East is PAGO PAGO (American Samoa), an American colony for the last 100 years. A Samoan told me that the locals there get treated like second class people. “Uncle Tom” sends his regards.

The PULENU’U (village mayor) sits in his shop behind an electric fan and does not even get up when I introduce myself. He has an interpreter who tells me that there is no cheaper accommodation in Salani. Tourists have to pay in US-Dollars. That is village policy.

At this moment the very last bus of the day arrives and stops at the shop. I imagine that the Americans have the mayor on their payroll. Without saying good-bye I walk to the bus and ask the driver if there is a family which takes in paying guests. I know already that the going rate is Tala 20.00 per night. “Come with me” replies the driver. A few minutes later I sit with him at a table in his house and with the fingers eat PALUSAMI (spinach and corned beef), drink black tea. His wife is sick, rests on a chair and does not seem to notice what is going on around her.

Two adolescent sons, an older daughter and a nine year old daughter introduce themselves. They understand very little English. It gives me a chance to use my few words of Tongan. Tongan and Samoan are related like German and Dutch. I take the Bible, the only book in the house, and read the story of the creation in Samoan. Everybody listens quietly. Then they give me an orange, probably imported from Australia.

The name of my host is TAALA. He is a MATAI (Chief) and 56 years old. For the last ten years he has driven the bus three times a day to Apia, for very modest wages, six days per week and up to ten hours per day.

FEALOFANI, the little daughter, asks me to write the names of my wife and children on a piece of paper and sticks it into a school book like a treasure. She squats at my feet, massages my feet and legs. And she blows big bubbles with the chewing gums I gave her. Until my departure she stays near me like a little pussy cat and fulfils every wish, patiently fans me with her palm leaf fan in the oppressive heat near the Equator.

After dinner I walk with SAUAO, one of the brothers, along the beach. At one stage we have to swim through the mouth of the river which is not wide but fast flowing. SAUAO holds my camera and wallet in a plastic bag high above the water. Does he want to test if I trust him?

Back in the house we watch a video of the TEAUILA festival, an annual festival which is the reason why I am in Samoa. I have enjoyed many of the dance performances and take a video of it back to Australia.

The house has brick walls, louver windows and a tin roof and consists of one room of about 12 by 6 metres. In the centre of each long side is a door. It is living room, kitchen and bedroom at the same time. Stereo equipment, TV and video player were sent by relatives in New Zealand. Shower and toilet are separate rooms near the house. TAALA hangs a light bulb there. Else I might fall off the stairs behind the house and stumble over dogs and pigs which sleep out there. I also receive the best mattress in the house and clean bed sheets. I mention that I am an honorary chief in Tonga, called MATAI in Samoa and MATAPULE in Tonga. So I receive the same food. It is rather fat. But I carry stomach tablets to pacify gall and liver.

24.9.2000, Sunday

It is the Day of the Lord. After breakfast my host gives me a white Lavalava, a white shirt and a necktie. With the Bible and book of songs in hand we head for the Methodist Church. I count about 30 people who attend. The others are probably in New Zealand and Australia to earn some money. I notice that the women in their white dresses are wearing beautiful hats, kneel in front of the benches and turn their behinds to the Pastor while they pray. If I were the Pastor it would distract me from my prayers.

Fealofani with breakfast   Taala and Manfred go                                                       to Church

FEALOFANI, my little friend, takes a coin and scrapes the word “MAN” on the freshly painted wooden bench, a short form of “MANFRED.” The Pastor in English welcomes the PALANGI (foreigner) in his church. He assumes that I have been sent to Samoa by a foreign government to conduct important business, and he apologizes for the long Samoan prayers. The children around me are very surprised when they hear me singing the songs in Samoan. Fealofani puts her coin in the collection tin. Afterwards the Pastor gives it back to her. No Bank will take it. It is an American coin.

After the service I join the people who have a meal on the patio of the Pastor’s house. A dozen visitors sit cross-legged on mats along the walls. The food gets served on palm leaves on the floor. Everybody looks at me. Will the Palangi eat without knife and fork? No problem for me. The crust of fried breadfruit serves as a spoon. I earn smiles of approval.

Prior to the church service I give TAALA most of my money – TALA 100.00. He says: “This is a lot of money. I should not take it.” I reply: “I am not paying you. If we would be in Tonga I would give you a TAPA cloth (made from mulberry tree bark) or would give you a mat. I am sorry. I only have some money.” Half of my money TAALA hands to the Pastor and gives some more notes to members of the church board.

I tell the Pastor how deeply I am moved by the Samoan hospitality. He replies: “You Palangis build stone boxes with little windows and thick doors with locks to hide from other people, hardly know your neighbours. Our houses have no walls, and our arms and hearts are open for visitors – be they Palangis or Samoans. We don’t expect any money for our hospitality. God gives everything. He will take care of us.”

I spend a few more hours in Church. Children are taught songs and dances. It is great entertainment and reminds me of our own Polynesian Dance Group in Sydney.

Afterwards a young lady walks along the beach with me. There are no Adult shops or fashion shop windows here like on Kurfürstendamm in Berlin. But one can admire the sunset, the warm sand under the feet and the gentle murmur of the waves rolling up the beach while the evening breeze dries the sweat caused by the tropical sun during daytime. A metal rod makes the propane gas bottle hanging outside the church sound like a bell. There is no money for a real bell. The Pastor noisily clears his throat and spits on the church stairs to get ready for the evening prayers.

In the dark I walk along the road with two American Peace Corps volunteers.  Suddenly a big conch shell gets blown on, a warning sound. We rush into the home of the Americans. The sound of the shell means that everybody has to attend evening prayers for half an hour with his family. The guy who does the blow job is a kind of police officer. He collects a couple of dollars as a fine from “Non-believers” who stay on the road. Later on the conch shell gets blown again indicating that the road is free to be used. I say to the Americans: “It is like Berlin before and after the bomb raids in 1944.” One of the girls gives me a juicy apple for that remark. Welcome to Paradise!

Back on the road I meet FEALOFANI who was looking for me. She takes my hand and guides me home while the moon smiles on us.

Before I fall asleep I enjoy the night life of SALANI, flick bugs and insects from my pillow, watch cockroaches marching up and down the walls, smile about the giggling of the geckos on the ceiling and enjoy the honking of the pigs fighting around the house. Dogs conduct territorial fights. They are yelping when one of them loses some of his fur or part of an ear in the struggle. Roosters in the village and surroundings seem to sleep only short periods. Then one of them starts crowing. From all directions come the replies, loud and soft depending on the distance, one rooster crowing at a time. Under my bed I have “green tigers” and “double rabbits” – incense coils to repel mosquitos. The blood suckers have to struggle hard for every drop of my blood.

25.9.2000, Monday

In the morning at 6.30 a.m. TAALA climbs into his bus. He is ready for another trip to APIA. Before we leave he presents me with a beautiful Lavalava and a shirt with TAPA design. He does not take any money from me for the trip. We hold our hands and in South Sea style press the cheeks together.

I was searching for the Heart of Samoa and found the Soul of the South Pacific.

( postcard)

PS.: The Surf Resort and most of the houses of Salani were washed away by a Tsunami on 30.9.2009. The resort has since been rebuilt. See Google: “Latest news from Salani, Samoa.” But what happened to my friends? Did they drown?

I lived in the Hörselberg

Hörselberg is a mountain in the state of Thurengia (Thüringen) in the heart of Germany. It is only some 350 m high. Nearby is the Wartburg castle where Martin Luther long ago translated the Bible from Latin into German. The mountain became famous because Richard Wagner used it as a background for one of his Operas. There are also lots of fairy tales connected to this mountain. “Hörsel” is a river nearby and “Berg” means Mountain in German.

I am not a figure from a Wagner Opera or a hero from a fairy tale.  But I actually lived in a cave in the Hörselberg off and on. And this is how it came about:

The family of my mother originated in Thurengia. Great grandfather came from Bavaria. We lived in Berlin until World War II. From 1943 until 1945 a lot of bombs were dropped, enough to destroy 75% of the City.

The families of father and mother lived in rented flats. Both flats went up in flames. We lost most of our belongings. In 1943 the Government evacuated us to a village called Wutha at the foot of Hörselberg. We spent some time with an aunt in Wutha, but lived mainly with a family which had to take us in. That was in Weinberg Street at the bottom of the “small” Hörselberg.

Nearby was a stone quarry with a cave, a refuge for residents during bomb raids. There was not much talk about a “Final Victory” any more.

That is Ralph, a friend of mine. The photo was taken many years after the war.

In 1943 I was three years old. I therefore remember only bits and pieces of events around me. My mother later on explained it all and added her own memories.

One day I stood at the fence of auntie’s house. A troupe of the Hitler Youth marched past, the swastika flag in front, with drums and trumpets. Suddenly a stone from the garden of our neighbours hit my head. Mother had to dry the blood and the tears. Maybe I was the only spectator. Was the Hitler Youth not popular anymore? At the end of the village, towards the village of Schönau, was a camp for prisoners of war and for slave labourers from Ukraine. Some of them spoke German and were allowed to spend their pocket money in the shops in Wutha. My mother used to talk to them.

By law everyone had to greet each other in public with “Heil Hitler” and lift the arm up in military fashion. Mother used to say “Heil Hi” and only slightly moved the hand. One day she was called to the village mayor. He said: “Don’t you know that you are not permitted to talk to the prisoners? And please greet properly. Else you may end up in Buchenwald.” That was a Concentration Camp in the vicinity.

On 13th February 1945 I sat with my mother on a bench behind the house of aunty.

From the West we heard a frightening roar which got louder as it approached. As per Internet some 722 heavy bombers of the Royal Air Force and 527 American planes were on the way to bomb the city of Dresden. They flew in a V-formation like flocks of birds. It seemed to last an eternity until they disappeared behind the horizon in the East. My comment: “Mum, look at all the little silver fish in the sky! Why do they make so much noise?”

Above Inselsberg, a 900 m high mountain in the distance, white puffs appeared in the sky, cannons shooting at the planes. A British pilot hanging on his parachute landed on the meadow behind the Hörsel River. Mother told me that later on the people in the village threw pieces of ice at him.

When the planes returned there were still a few bombs left over. They landed on the mountain slope behind the house, were probably meant for the Autobahn (Highway) which ran along the mountain. One of them exploded behind the house. Luckily the pressure wave passed over the roof. But the house was shaking down to the foundations.

Later on my father climbed the slope with me. He cut up one of the trees which had fallen. I helped to carry the pieces of wood. For some time we had enough firewood.

“To be or not to be – that is the question…” (Hamlet)

Behind the other house we lived in. When the bomb hit the ground the detonator broke off. In 1996 it was still lying there. When the Highway got demolished the bomb ”happened” to lie on the road and was taken away by the Government removal service. If the detonator had remained I might not be here to tell the story.

Not long before the end of the War I walked along Weinberg Street with my mother. On a slight slope a truck overtook us. My mother quickly covered my eyes with her hand. But between her fingers I saw the pile of corpses on the truck. Most of them were probably clothed and all of them originated from the prison camp at the end of the village. One of the corpses slipped off the truck and fell in front of our feet. My mother pulled me to the side and we kept walking. I turned around and bumped into a telegraph pole. A big lump on the head and lots of tears were the result.

From 1944 the bomb alarm sirens were howling more often. Every time we ran as fast as we could to the cave in the quarry. In front of it a rock wall had been erected. Usually a French officer, a prisoner of War, was sitting there. His comrades had to fortify the embankment of the Hörsel River with white rocks standing up to their bellies in the water which was very cold in winter.

The Frenchman looked very much like my father. I sat on his knees, and he wrapped his army coat around me and kept me warm. When there was no one else around my mother stuck sandwiches in his pockets, another “crime.”

The cave was shaped like an “S”. From the entrance one had to walk to the left and turn around a bend to the right. On the left, near the entrance, was a curtain. Behind it a shaft led to a cave further down. That was the retreat for the party officials. Maybe some 50 people could fit into the cave. Light was provided by some kerosene lamps or by Dynamo-torches. They had a handle which one had to squeeze all the time. It provided light for a distance of about one meter.

In those days my mother often disappeared in the cellar. On a chair she had a “Volksempfänger”, the typical radio at the time. She hid the radio and herself under a blanket and listened to the German news of the BBC in London. So she always knew how far the Russians and Americans had advanced in Germany.

Listening to the news was a crime which led to arrest and transfer into a Concentration camp. Special care was needed. Only closest relatives were informed.

Mother and I along with the people from the village spent many hours in the cave, sometimes the whole night. On 6th April 1945 a white bed-sheet was hung over the wall at the entrance. The Americans had already arrived in the city of Eisenach nearby. During the night some women started screaming. My mother put me on her arm, walked to the entrance, and stood in front of a black American soldier. He held a torch-light and a submachine gun. Mother knew a little bit of English and said: “Don’t shoot.  Only women and children  in the cave.”  That was not quite true. In the back of the cave some wounded soldiers were hidden under blankets. But the American retreated.

According to American War reports the soldier belonged to the 89th division and 353rd Infantry battalion. Near Wutha they met with resistance from handguns and bazookas and “removed” the resistance.

Next morning we left the cave. Outside half a dozen German soldiers lay in crooked positions. I said to my mother: “Why don’t they go home and sleep there?” Up on the mountain near the highway was a machine gun nest. That did not help against the American tanks. In the valley a whole army was on the move. There was no escape for the German soldiers.

Mother walked into the village with me. Along the road from the quarry to the railway station American army vehicles were parked. On the footrest of a truck sat that black American soldier, let his colt rotate around his index finger and gave Mother a big smile. I was scared and hid behind her skirt.

During the following days every now and then trains filled with soldiers passed through Wutha towards the city of Erfurt. We kids stood by the railway line and fought over lollies and chewing gums which the soldiers threw from the windows of the trains. Sometimes before the trains arrived we put the now useless aluminium coins of the German Mark on the rails and enjoyed it when the wheels of the trains flattened them.

On 1st July 1945 the Americans retreated from this part of Thurengia. This part of Germany was apparently exchanged for West Berlin. I stood by the road in the village center with my mother when the Russians arrived.  A small cart appeared with two small wheels in front and two big ones in the back. A tired horse pulled the cart with two Russian soldiers on the seat, cigarettes in the corner of the mouth, a cap sitting sideways on the shaved head. Behind them German soldiers dragged their feet on the cobblestone road. There must have been thousands. They had bandages around their heads, arms in slings or limped on crutches, many of them. Their faces were void of expressions. Every now and then there was a Russian soldier walking along the column with his rifle hanging over his shoulder. I saw all this with the innocent eyes of a child and remained silent like the villagers next to me, had no idea of what was going on.

Later on two Russian soldiers followed my mother from the village. She barely managed to quickly lock the door of the house before they could get in. Next day she visited the army commander. She said something like: “Thank you for liberating us from the Nazis. But now the war is over. Your soldiers should behave better if you expect sympathy from the population.”  The following day two officers from one of Stalin’s elite divisions moved into our house for protection. They were real gentlemen. Father was probably still a prisoner with the Americans. He had been an “Oberzahlmeister”, a Senior Paymaster, and never fired a shot. Mother had buried his swastika armband and other decorations in the garden of aunty.

The Russians now began to distribute army bread to the hungry population. It was dark rye bread with water rings. But with topping of brown sugar or lard with onion and apple pieces it was quite tasty. When I was crying because of being hungry my mother gave her own ration to me. Our coffee was “Muckefuck”, as it was spelt, made from tree bark and improved with sweetener tablets. There were no vaccinations in those days. Soon I lay in hospital with diphtheria and typhoid fever. I also had measles and smallpox, not necessarily in this sequence. I must have had a good guardian angel. Else I would not have survived.

The lawn between the quarry and the railway line in the meantime had been subdivided into gardening plots. My father lost it there with a pickaxe and spade and let the soil feel his anger about the lost war. Soon we harvested peas, carrots, tomatoes, green beans and potatoes.

In 1946 I was supposed to go to school, but had no shoes. After a few months my mother found a pair of army boots for me. She stuffed them with newspaper. Then they fitted more or less. I attended the primary school in Wutha until 1947 when we returned to Berlin.

Wutha, Weinbergstreet, “Small” Hörselberg

At that time I often climbed the Hörselberg, the small and the big one. And there I sat and dreamt of far-away places, a better life with good food and many adventures. I also visited a large cave in the village of Farnroda or walked the six kilometres to the city of Eisenach. My parents were often looking for me. Well, the hunger brought me home.

My father often travelled to a village called Sonneberg in a large forest and returned with chests of wood carvings. During winter once he pulled a chest on a toboggan from Eisenach to Wutha in the snow. I had to push. The wood carvings ended up in Berlin where they were well paid for by the foreign soldiers who bought them.

One day the Russians retreated into army barracks and let their German vassals run the country. The new communist village mayor called for my father, showed him his Nazi Party membership book, and asked: “Isn’t it about time for you to join our party?” That did not appeal to father. So we returned to the British sector of West Berlin.

And again a new time began. The view of the Hörselberg was sometimes spoilt by advertising boards. It became very hard for people from West Berlin to obtain a visa to visit Wutha. An iron curtain had come down over Eastern Europe. I could only take a photo from a train as I passed through on my way from West Berlin to West Germany.

“The policy of the Socialist Party of Germany is the policy of the whole Nation”. Auntie’s house is the second from the left.

Many years later this period ended too. The last comrade of those days exchanged his spot on a wall in the local pub with a wall in the workshop of a genuine son of a worker. The Hörselberg does not seem to mind.

That is about all I can remember. I hesitated to put this story in my BLOG. But in between the lines it may contain some lessons for young people who hopefully never in their lives will have the sort of experiences I had.

With grandmother at the foot of the Hörselberg after 1945. I had forgotten how to laugh.

MISSIONARIES IN TONGA

The most successful European explorer to undertake a scientific expedition to the South Pacific was Captain Cook.

He visited Tonga in 1773,1774 and 1777. The Tongans treated him and his men very well. Accordingly he called Tonga the "Friendly Islands" not knowing that the Tongans of Ha'apai planned to attack and kill him. They could not decide if they should attack during the day or night and abandoned the plot.

Sunset in Ha'apai 

After his return to England the London Missionary Society studied Captain Cook's diaries and decided to send missionaries to the Pacific. An amount of 10,000 Pounds was set aside for the purpose. A ship called the "DUFF" was purchased. In it they sent out 30 missionaries who were to commence working in the Marquesas, Tahiti, and the Friendly Islands. The ship had a crew of 22 seamen, mostly religious people. Captain Wilson was in charge.

The DUFF left Portsmouth in England on 23. September 1797 and surviving a very rough trip around the Cape of Good Hope arrived in Tahiti on 6. March 1797. After dropping a number of missionaries and their families Captain Wilson continued the voyage to Tonga and arrived at Tongatapu on 9. April 1797. The ship anchored near the island of Pangaimotu off the shore of Nuku'alofa.

Soon after two Englishmen by the name of Benjamin Ambler and John Conelly visited the Duff. They had jumped an American ship and lived with the Tongans. They were both young men in their twenties, had several wives and lived as idle beachcombers. Ambler spoke Tongan quite well. He served as interpreter. Later on, due to the very different attitude of the missionaries, the convicts became bitter enemies.

The High Chief of Tongatapu permitted the missionaries to stay in Tonga and allocated them a plot of land in Hihifo, the western district of Tongatapu. Ten missionaries were landed by the Duff. The ship departed on 15. April 1797 and sailed to the Marquesas.

Quote from: "The life of the late George Vason of Nottingham":

"The circumstances were very inauspicious when the missionaries took up their residence at Tongatapu; for it was a time of scarcity, and fearing one chief might not be able to supply the necessary provisions, if the missionaries continued to dwell together, this and also that they might more extensively mix with the natives - the sooner acquire their language and make their friendship, induced them to agree that they would distribute themselves among the different clans that inhabited the island under the protection of their respective chiefs. For three years they lived among them without receiving any particular injury except unhappy VASON, but they all endured great privations. But Messrs. BOWEL, GAULTON and HOOPER, pious and devoted missionaries, were barbarously murdered by the natives on 10. May 1799, in the breaking out of a general war. To the Christian World they became the first martyrs of Polynesia and their worthiness and piety have been dutifully recorded. The other missionaries were plundered of all they had and saved their lives by flight. The ship BETSY arrived soon after and conveyed them free of charge to New South Wales except for VASON who preferred to stay behind. Having been the grave of three missionaries this Mission was abandoned for a time."

Tongan family life

A few notes about George VASON. Soon after his arrival in Tonga he took up residence with the family of MULIKIHA'AMEA who was the last Tu'i Ha'atakalaua and a former Tu'i Kanokupolu. Vason started doing things "faka Tonga." In his own words: "The temptation of my situation, uniting with my natural depravity, now no longer restrained by the presence of others, but fostered by all around, gradually corrupted my soul and overcame me." 

With other words - the Tongans converted him to "Heathenism." He was a young man and probably not unattractive. He married the 18 years old daughter of Mulikiha'amea, took a second wife, and contracted a ceremonial marriage with a third chiefly woman in Ha'apai. Although succumbing completely to Tongan ways deplored by the other missionaries, he worked hard and established a model plantation of plantains, taro and sugarcane.

But Vason's idyllic rural existence and the missionaries' temporary security under Tuku'aho were rudely shaken by the murder of the Tu'i Kanokupolu on 21 April 1799, and Mulikiha'amea was assassinated in Ha'ateiho on 29 May.

Life among the Tongans became very precarious now. In August 1801 Vason happened to be in Vava'u when an English ship arrived. It was an East-Indiaman called the ROYAL ADMIRAL. He barely managed to escape the Tongans and safely returned to England. There he wrote the book about his "sinful" life in Tonga, regretting it all of course.

From "Friendly Islands: A History of Tonga":

The missionaries were an unusual category of men. In class background they had much in common with their beachcombing rivals. For the most part they were lower class aspiring to the next rung up on the social ladder; they were provincial, and enthusiastic in a religious sense. Followers of Whitefield's disciples, they ranged from the hyper-Calvinist James Cooper to the more broadly Methodist Independent William Shelley. That they saw themselves as saved sinners and as apart from worldly men was no great advantage in their dealings with others, weather indigenous or expatriate.

All were artisan missionaries, but one, SETH KELSO, was much older than the rest and had been ordained in Tahiti in order to administer the sacraments.

The other missionaries were all young men in their twenties. Their dedication, piety and studious character are revealed in the journals of their remarkable ministry."

It is doubtful that this first group of missionaries managed to convert many or any Tongans to Christianity. But their European property like iron tools and firearms became more and more desirable to the Tongans.

The missionary experiment had also largely failed due to the lack of contact with the outside world. Due to the fighting and instability foreign ships kept away from Tonga for some years. But there were some beachcombers and other Europeans living in Tonga who explained the Christian religion. One beachcomber, Samuel Blackmore, who arrived in Vava'u in 1824, had the distinction of being "the first runaway sailor to teach the people about God."

One of the trading vessels which most frequently visited Tonga was the ST. MICHAEL, commanded by Captain Beveridge. On its voyage in June-August 1822 the St. Michael took Wesleyan missionary WALTER LAWRY and his party of artisans and servants to Tongatapu. Lawry purchased a site at MU'A naming it "Cokevernal" in honour of the Reverend Thomas Coke, father of the Wesleyan missions. Lawry had learned from the mistakes of the London missionaries. The St. Michael was to make regular visits, and Tongan chiefs were to be taken to Sydney as virtual hostages. But there was still considerable opposition to the mission. The old belief that the missionaries killed people with their prayers was widespread. There was also a belief that the missionaries were political agents. When religion was discussed the Tongans had a standard reply: "Your religion is very good for you, and ours is very good for us." 

Probably Hikule'o, goddess of Pulotu

The Tongans after all had their own religion for a very long time with a multitude of Gods and numerous temples where priests communicated with the Gods. At a later stage especially the Catholic brand of Christianity supplanted the old Gods with a large number of Saints. Christianity finally succeeded probably because before God all people are equal, and a forgiving God loves all human beings. Tongans had to be scared of their Gods, constantly had to make gifts and ask for favours. Love was not known to those Gods.

Traditional priest prays in healing ceremony for a sick child

Soon more beachcombers and whaling ships arrived. There were also some missionaries from Tahiti. In the period 1796-1826 Tonga met the outside challenge of European ideas and skills, made its adjustments and, on the basis of the experience of thirty years, opted for Christianity. Island missionaries and thoughtful beachcombers, perhaps more than European missionaries, had helped towards this outcome. Intelligent chiefs, familiar with the European world, also saw fit to abandon a system of religious and social ways that was falling apart and adopt new values as their own.

On 28 June 1826 Lawry's successor, the Reverend John Thomas and the Reverend John Hutchinson, arrived in Tonga. The chief of Hihifo, ATA, made a piece of land available, but refused to join the new religion and forbade his people to do so. The mission met more difficulties and in 1829 abandoned the teaching once more. Thomas was transferred to Ha'apai in 1830.

Tongans, especially the traditional priests, not only resented anything new, but also wanted to safeguard the traditional standards and values and their deep loyalty and respect for their ancestors and their beliefs. However, the property of the Europeans was most desirable.

The missionaries were also despised by expariates living in Tonga or arriving on trading ships. Due to the influence of the missionaries it became very hard to buy for instance a large pig for a rusty nail or some glass pearls. ATA died unconverted in 1833. The mission in Hihifo was reopened in 1837.

First Tongan built church at Lifuka in Ha'apai