Nonduality The
Papalagi
Introduction
by Erich Scheurmann
(Translated
from German into English by Jan Barendrecht.
Those with little time: read Tuiavii's conclusion,
last paragraph. German version at http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Corridor/7180/papalagi.htm)
The
lectures of Samoan chief Tuiavii from Tiavea to the
members of his tribe
The
palm tree will cast off its leaves and fruits when they
are ripe.
The
Papalagi (literally foreigner, meant is white man) is
living as if the palm tree would want to hold on to its
leaves and fruits: "They are mine! You are not
allowed to have them or to eat from it!"
How
could the palm tree bear new fruits?
The
palm tree has much more wisdom then the Papalagi.
It
was never Tuiavii's intention, to publish these lectures
or to have them printed at all; they were exclusively
meant for his compatriots. If nevertheless, without his
knowing and certainly against his will, I am transmitting
the lectures of this native to the world of Europe's
readers, it is happening in the convincement, that it
also for us whites and illumined ones is worthwhile, to
experience, how the eyes of someone close to nature are
looking at us and our culture. With his eyes we
experience ourselves from a perspective, we ourselves
never can have.[...]
About
the stone boxes
The
Papalagi is living like a sea mussel in a fixed housing.
He is living between stones, like a centipede between the
cracks of lava.
[...]
This
way, in Europe as many people are living, as palm trees
are growing in Samoa; yes, even many more. Some do have a
yearning for woods , sun and light; however, generally
this is looked upon as a disease, one has to conquer
oneself. If someone isn't satisfied with this stony life,
it is said: he is an unnatural man; what has to be meant
as: he doesn't know what God has ordained for man. These
boxes of stone are grouped together closely in large
numbers, no tree, no bush does separate them, they are
standing like people, shoulder to shoulder, and in each
one as many Papalagi are living as in an entire Samoan
village. At a distance of a stone's throw, at the other
side, there is an equal series of boxes of stone, again
shoulder to shoulder and here too people are living. So
between both rows there is just a narrow crack, called
"street" by the Papalagi. This crack often is
as long as a river and covered with hard stones.
[...]
The
noise is huge. Your ears are stunned, because the horses
are slamming their hooves on the stone floor, the people
are slamming with the hard skins on their feet on it.
Children are crying, men are yelling, out of joy or out
of horror, all are yelling. You cannot make yourself
understood other than by yelling too. There is a general
buzzing, rattling, stomping, droning, as if you are
standing at the steep surf of Savaii on a day a heavy
storm is raging. And yet that raging is lovelier and
doesn't take your sense away as the raging in the cracks.
Now this all together: the boxes of stone with the many
people, the high cracks of stone coming and going like a
thousand rivers, the people inside them, the clamoring
and raging, the smoke over everything, no tree, no blue
sky, without fresh air and clouds is this, what the
Papelagi is calling a city. His creation, at which he is
very proud.
[...]
Between
all islands of stone is the real land, is that, what one
calls Europe. Here, the land is partly beautiful and
fertile, like with us. There are trees, rivers and woods,
and here also are genuine villages. Even if the huts are
made from stone, they are surrounded with many fruit
trees, the rain can wash them from all sides and the wind
can dry them again. In these villages other people with
other senses are living than in the city. They are called
land-people. They have bigger hands and dirtier
loincloths than the people from the city, although they
are having much more to eat than these. Their live is
much healthier and more beautiful than that of the men
from the cracks. But they themselves don't believe it and
envy anyone they are calling do-nothing, because those
don't have to touch the earth and to put fruits in and
out. They are living in enmity with them, because they
have to give food from their land, have to pick fruits
that the men from the cracks are eating, have to guard
and raise the cattle until it is fat and give him half of
it. Anyhow, they are having the trouble to produce food
for the men from the cracks and they don't see, why those
are wearing more beautiful loincloths than they
themselves are and having more beautiful white hands, not
having to sweat in the sun and to freeze in the rain than
they are.
The
man from the cracks don't care a bit about this. He is
convinced to have higher rights than the man from the
land and that his work is more valuable than fruits
putting in and taking out the earth. This battle between
both parties isn't such, that there would be war between
them.
[...]
However
we, who are free children of the sun and the light, want
to remain faithful to the great Spirit and not burden his
heart with stones. Only confused, sick people, not
holding God's hand anymore, can live happily between
cracks of stone, without sun, light and wind. Let us
grant the Papelagi his doubtful happiness but stamp out
any effort to build boxes of stone on our sunny beaches
and to destroy our joy with stone, cracks, dirt, noise,
smoke and dust, as is his objective.
The
Papelagi doesn't have time.
The
Papelagi loves the round metal and the heavy paper
(Tuiavii's description of money), he loves to fill his
stomach with a lot of liquids from dead fruits and with
meat from pigs, cows and other horrible animals, but
above all, he loves what isn't tangible and that is time.
He makes a lot of fuzz and foolish talk about it.
Although never more is available than between sunrise and
sunset, it is never enough to him. The Papelagi is ever
dissatisfied with his time and accuses the great Spirit
that it hasn't given more. Yes, he is defaming God and
his great wisdom, by dividing a day in certain parts. He
cuts it as if one would go with a machete through a soft
coconut. All parts have names: second, minute, hour and
one has to have sixty minutes or many more seconds to
fill an hour. That is a complicated issue I never
understood, because I get sick, reflecting on those
childish matters. But the Papelagi makes a big knowing
out of it.
Men,
women and even children who can hardly go on their feet,
are carrying in their loincloths small, flat, round
machine, attached to a thick metal chain, from which they
can read the time. This reading however, isn't easy. It
is practiced with the children, by holding the machine to
their ears, in order to get them into liking it. Such a
machine, easily carried on two fingers, looks in their
stomach like the machine in the stomach of large boats
you all know. But there are also large and heavy time
machines, they are standing in the huts or are hanging at
the highest gable, so that they can be seen from afar.
When a part of the time has passed, little fingers at the
outside of the machine will point to that and
simultaneously it will cry out, a spirit beats the iron
in its heart. Yes, an enormous raging noise in a European
city results, when part of the time has passed. When this
timing noise is sounding, the Papelagi complains:
"It is a heavy burden that another hour has
passed." At the same time he puts a sad face, like a
man who is burdened with great suffering, although
immediately a completely new hour arrives. I have never
understood this other than it being a severe disease.
"The time is avoiding me!" - "The time is
running away like a stallion!" - "Give me just
a little more time". Those are the complaints of
white men. I say this could be a kind of disease;
assumed, the white man likes to do something, his heart
is longing to be in the sun(shine) or to sail with the
canoe at the river or to make love with his girlfriend,
this way he will spoil the appetite for it, clinging to
the thought: no time remains to be happy. Yet the time is
there, but he doesn't see it no matter he is trying. He
mentions a thousand things taking time, feeling
resentment and complaining about the job he doesn't like,
that doesn't give joy, to which no one is forcing him the
way he is doing himself.
But
suddenly seeing that he has time, that it is there
nevertheless or that someone gives him time - the
Papelagi are mutually giving each other time, yes,
nothing is so high in esteem - he will fail the appetie,
or he is tired from the unenjoyable job. And frequently
he wants to do tomorrow for which he has time today.
There are Papelagi, asserting they never have time. They
are running around headless, like from the devil
possessed, and wherever they come, create havoc and
uproar, because they have lost their time. This mania is
a horrible condition, a disease no medicine man can cure,
contagious to many and driving them into misery. As every
Papalagi is possessed for fear of his time, he also knows
exactly, and not only every man, but also every woman and
child, how many sun- and moon risings have passed since
he saw the great light for the first time. Yes, this is
playing such a serious role, that it is celebrated in
certain, equal distances with flowers and big eating
parties. How often did I notice, how one was thinking
having to be ashamed of me, when asking, how old I am,
and I laughed and said, I don't know. "You have to
know how old you are". I remained silent and
thought, it's better I don't know. How old, means how
many moons have been living. This counting and figuring
out is full of dangers, because it has been discovered,
how many moons the life of most people will be. Now
everyone is watching carefully, and when quite a number
of moons have been passing by, he will say: "Now
I'll have to die soon". He doesn't enjoy anymore and
will die soon.
[...]
From
the place of the false life
Beloved
brethren of the great sea, your humble servant would have
to say much to you, in order to give you the truth about
Europe. To do that, my lecture had to be like a
waterfall, flowing from morning to evening, and even then
would your truth be imperfect, because the life of the
Papelagi is like the sea, of which one can't see exactly
the beginning and the end. It has as many waves as the
great water; it can storm and surf, laugh and dream. As
no man can empty this with a hollow hand, I cannot carry
the big sea of Europe to you with my small spirit. But I
won't fail from telling you from it, because as the sea
cannot be without water, so European life cannot be
without the place of false life and not without the many
papers. If you take both away from the Papelagi, he
resembles the fish, thrown on land by the surf; it can
only jerk its limbs, but no more swim and play around the
way it likes. The place of false life. It isn't
easy to picture this place, white man calls cinema, to
you, so that you can recognize it with your own eyes. In
every village everywhere in Europe there is such a
mysterious place, the people love, more then a house of
the mission and from which the children already are
dreaming and with which their thoughts affectionately are
occupying themselves. The cinema is a hut, bigger than
the biggest hut of the chief in Upolu, yes much bigger
still. It is dark, also at the brightest day, so dark,
that no one can recognize anyone. So one is blinded when
entering, more blinded when leaving. Here people are
sneaking in, groping their way until a lady with a spark
of fire comes and takes you there, where room is left
free.
Close
together one Papelagi sits next to another in the
darkness, no one is seeing the other, the dark space is
filled with silent people. Everyone is sitting on a
narrow board; all boards are pointing in the direction of
the same wall.
From
the bottom of this wall, as if from a deep canyon, loud
sounds and buzzing comes along, and as soon as the eyes
have adapted to the darkness, one recognizes a Papelagi,
sitting down and fighting with a box. He hits it with
spread hands, on many little white and black tongues,
stretching out from the big box, and every tongue yells
loudly, everyone with another voice at every touch, so
that it causes a wild and crazy yelling like at a big
village fight. This ordeal should distract our sense,
rendering it weak, so that we believe what we are seeing
and don't doubt if it is real. Straight in front of the
wall beams a light, as if a strong moonlight were shining
on it, and in the shine are people, real people, looking
like and dressed as real Papelagis, moving, coming and
going, who are laughing, jumping, like one is seeing it
all over Europe. It is like the mirror image of the moon
in the lagoon. It is the moon, and yet it isn't.
Likewise, this is just an image. Everyone is moving the
mouth, one doesn't doubt that they are speaking, and yet
one doesn't hear a sound or a word, no matter how well
one listens and no matter, how torturing it is, to hear
nothing. And this is the main reason, why that Papelagi
is hitting the box; he should create the semblance, as if
one only couldn't hear the people because of his noise.
And for that reason letters occasionally appear on the
wall, proclaiming what the Papelagi has said or is going
to say. Nevertheless - these people are semblance people
and not real people. When touched, one would recognize
that they are consisting just of light and aren't
tangible. They are only there, to show the Papelagi all
his joys and suffering, his foolishness and weakness. He
is seeing the most beautiful men and women very close to
him. Even when they are silent, he sees their movements
and the twinkling of the eyes.
[...]
But he also sees, how the Papelagi steals the girl
from a man. Or how a girl betrays her lover. He sees how
a wild man grabs a rich gentleman at the throat, how his
fingers are pressing deep in the flesh of the throat, the
eyes of the gentleman are bulging, how he is dead and the
wild man grabs the round metal and the heavy paper from
the loincloth. While the eye of the Papelagi is seeing
such joys and horrors, he has to sit very still; he isn't
allowed to yell at the unfaithful girl, to help the rich
gentleman in order to save him. But this doesn't cause
the Papelagi any pain; he is looking at this all with
great delight, as if he wouldn't have a heart at all. He
doesn't feel frightened or horrified. He observes
everything, as if he himself were another being. Because
the one, who is observing, always has the firm opinion,
he is better than the man, seen in the shining light and
he himself would evade all foolish acts, shown to him.
Silent and without breathing, his eyes are glued to the
wall, and as soon as he is seeing a strong character and
a noble portrait, he draws it into his heart, thinking:
this is my portrait. He is sitting totally unmovable on
his wooden seat and stares at the steep, smooth wall, on
which nothing is living but a deceptive light beam that a
magician throws through a narrow slit at the back wall
and upon which yet so much is living as false life.
Assimilating
within, these false portraits, that do not have a real
life, is what offers the Papalagi such a high enjoyment.
In this dark space he can without shame and without other
people seeing his eyes, make himself part of a false
life. The poor can play the rich, the rich the poor, the
diseased can imagine himself healthy, the weak strong.
Here in the darkness, everyone can assimilate and
experience, what he hasn't in real life and never will.
Giving way to this false life has become a great passion
of the Papalagi, often it is that great, that he forgets
his real life. This passion is sick, because a right man
doesn't want to have a life of semblance in a dark room,
but a warm, real life under the bright sun. The
consequence of this passion is, that many Papalagi,
leaving the place of false life, no longer can
distinguish it from real life and having become confused,
think themselves rich when poor, or beautiful when ugly.
Or commit atrocities they would never have done in real
life, but are doing, because they no longer can
distinguish what is real and what isn't. It is a very
similar situation like you all know from the European,
when he has been drinking too much European kava, and
thinks to be going on waves.
[...]
The
newspaper is also a kind of machine, it daily makes a lot
of thoughts, many more than a single head can make. But
most thoughts are weak thoughts without pride and power,
they will fill our head with a lot of food, but don't
make it strong. We could just as well fill our head with
sand. The Papelagi is overfilling his head with such
useless paper food. Before he can throw away one, he is
assimilating a new one already. His head is like the
mangrove swamp, suffocating in its own mud, where nothing
green or fertile will grow, where only bad vapors are
bubbling up and biting insects are thriving.
The
place of false living and the many papers did make the
Papelagi to what he is; to a weak, erring man, who loves
what isn't real and that what is real no more can
recognize, who holds the image of the moon for the moon
itself and a mat on which is written, for life itself.
The
severe disease of thinking
When
the word "spirit" enters the mouth of a
Papalagi, his eyes grow big, round and fixated; he raises
his himself, starts breathing heavily and stretches
himself like a warrior who has slain the enemy. Because
this 'spirit' is something he is particularly pride on.
We aren't speaking from the vast, powerful Spirit, which
the missionary calls "God", from Whom we are
but a needy image, but from the little Spirit, belonging
to man, who is creating his thoughts. When I'm looking
from here at the mango tree behind the church, that isn't
Spirit, because I only see it. But when I recognize that
he is bigger than the church from the mission, well, that
has to be Spirit. So I just don't have to see something,
but I have to know something as well. This knowing is
what the Papalagi is practicing from sunrise to sunset.
His spirit is always like a filled gun or like an ever
active fishing rod. Therefore he pities our people of the
many islands, because we aren't practicing this knowing.
We are poor spirits and dumb like a wild animal.
It
may be true, we are little practicing this knowing, what
the Papalagi is calling 'thinking'. But the question is,
which one is dumb; the one thinking little or the one
thinking too much. The Papalagi is thinking continuously:
"my hut is smaller than the palm tree, the palm tree
is bowing from the storm, the storm is speaking with a
loud voice." That is the way of his thinking, be it
in his way of course. But he is thinking about himself
too: "I am small. My heart always rejoices when
seeing a girl. How I love it to go to Malaga." And
so on...
That
is merry and good and may have many hidden uses for the
one, loving this game in his head. But the Papalagi is
thinking so much, that thinking became a habit,
necessity, even a compulsion. Ever he has to think. Only
with great difficulty, he manages not to think, and to
live with his entire body. Often, he is living just with
his head, while all senses are completely dormant,
although he is going, speaking, eating and laughing. The
thinking process, the thoughts - these are the fruits of
thinking - keep him imprisoned. It is a kind of
intoxication from his own thoughts. When the sun is
shining beautifully, he is thinking immediately:
"how beautifully it is shining!" Always he
thinks: "how beautifully it is shining at this
moment." That is wrong, fundamentally wrong and
foolish. Because it is better, not to think at all, when
it is shining. An intelligent Samoan stretches his limbs
in the warm light and doesn't think at it. He doesn't
absorb the sun just with his head, but also with hands,
feet, thighs, stomach, with all limbs. He lets his skin
and limbs think for themselves, and certainly are they
thinking, be it different than the head. For the Papalagi
however, thinking is in many ways like a big chunk of
lava he can't get out of the way. He is thinking in a
merry way but doesn't laugh; he is thinking sadly but
doesn't cry. He is hungry but doesn't take Taro or
Palusami. Mostly he is a man, whose senses are living in
hostility with his spirit; a man, split in two. The life
of a Papalagi resembles in many ways to a man, making a
journey by boat to Savaii and, leaving the shore,
immediately thinks: "How long will it take before I
arrive at Savaii?" He is thinking, but doesn't see
the pleasant scenery through which the journey is going.
Soon, at the left bank, he sees a mountain ridge. As soon
as his eyes capture it, he can't get away from it:
"What could be behind the mountain? Is it a deep or
a narrow bay?" By thinking in such a way, he forgets
to sing along with the youngsters, he doesn't hear the
merry jokes of the young women. Hardly the boat is lying
in the bay behind the mountain ridge or he is tortured
with a new thought, if a storm will start before the
evening. Yes, if a storm will be coming. At a clear sky
he is looking for dark clouds. He is ever thinking of the
storm that possibly could arrive. The storm doesn't come,
and he arrives at Savaii in the evening, unharmed. But
now it is to him, as if he didn't undertake the journey
at all, because always his thoughts were far from his
body and outside of the boat. He could have stayed in his
hut in Upolu just as well.
A
spirit however, torturing us that way, is a devil and I
don't understand why so many are loving it. The Papalagi
loves and honors his spirit and feeds his spirit with
thoughts from his head. He never lets it fast, but at the
same time he isn't troubled when the thoughts are
mutually feeding on each other. He makes a lot of noise
with his thoughts and allows them to be loud as
uneducated kids. He behaves as if his thoughts were as
exquisite as flowers, mountains and woods. [...]
He
behaves, as if there would be a command that man has to
think much. Yes, that this command would be from God. But
when the palm trees and the mountains are thinking, they
don't make such a noise with it. And certainly, if the
palm trees would think as loudly and wild as the
Papalagi, they wouldn't have beautiful green leaves and
golden fruits. (Because it is firm experience, that
thinking accelerates aging and makes ugly). They would
fall (from the tree) before they would be ripe. However,
it is more probable that they are thinking very little.
This
thinking should make the mind great and high. If someone
is thinking much and fast, in Europe they say such a one
is a great mind. Instead of having compassion with such
great minds, they are extraordinarily honored. The
villages make them to their chiefs, and wherever a great
mind comes, he has to think publicly what to all affords
pleasure and is admired a lot. When a great mind dies,
there is grieving in the entire country and a lot of
wailing for what has been lost. An image of such a great
mind is made in natural stone and installed before all
eyes at the market place. Yes, these heads of stone are
made much bigger than they were in life, so that the
people really admires them and can reflect on the own
little mind.
If
one asks a Papalagi: why do you think so much? he
answers: because I don't want and am not allowed to stay
stupid. Worthless , every Papalagi who doesn't think;
although essentially he is prudent, he doesn't think much
and yet finds his way. However I think, this is just a
pretext and the Papalagi just goes after his urge. That
the real purpose of his thinking is, to find out the
forces of the great Spirit. An occupation, he himself
calls eloquently "acknowledge". Acknowledge,
that means to have a thing so clearly before one's eyes,
that one is touching it with the nose, yes is piercing
it. This piercing and ransacking is a tasteless and
contemptible desire of the Papalagi. He takes a
centipede, pierces it with a little spear and tears a leg
away. How does such a leg, separated from the body, look
like? How was it fixed to the body? he breaks the leg in
order to measure the thickness. That is important, is
essential. He removes a splinter the size of a grain of
sand from the leg and lays it under a long tube with a
secret force enabling the eyes to see much more sharply.
With this big and strong eye he ransacks everything, your
tears, a shred of the skin, a hair, everything and
everything. He divides all these things, until he arrives
at a point, where there remains nothing to break or to
divide. Although this point is the smallest of the
smallest, it is anyhow the most essential, because it is
the entrance, only the great Spirit does possess. This
entry is also denied to the Papalagi, and his best
sorceries still haven't revealed it yet. The great Spirit
doesn't have its secrets taken away. Never. Never did
anyone climb a palm tree, higher than that palm tree his
legs surrounded. At the crown he has to turn; the trunk
would fail to climb higher. The great Spirit doesn't love
the curiosity of mankind, therefore he has put big lianas
that are without beginning and end. Therefore anyone,
investigating all thoughts, certainly discover, that in
the end he will always remain stupid and will have to
leave those answers he can't give himself to the great
Spirit. The most intelligent and courageous of the
Papalagi actually acknowledge this. Nevertheless most
thinking-diseased ones don't desist their passion, and so
it comes, that the thinking leads man on his way so
manifoldly astray, as if he would be going in the jungle
where no path has been made yet.
[...]
Serious
and disastrous is therefore, that all thoughts, whether
good or bad, immediately are thrown on white mats.
"They are printed" says the Papalagi. That
means: what those ill ones are thinking, now also is
written with a machine that is mysterious and miraculous,
that has thousand hands and the strong will of many
chiefs. Written not once or twice, but many times,
infinite times, ever the same thoughts. Then, many
thought-mats are pressed together - "books" the
Papalagi calls them - and sent to all parts of the big
country. All are infected, to absorb these thoughts. And
one is swallowing these thought-mats like sweet bananas,
they are in every hut, one piles up entire boxes and
young and old will be nagging at it like rats at sugar
cane. That is the reason, why so few still can think
intelligently in natural thoughts, like every sincere
Samoan has. In the same way as many thoughts are shoveled
into the heads of children as can be. Every day they are
forced to nag their quantity of thought-mats. Only the
healthiest reject these thoughts or let them fall through
their spirit like through a net. But the most overload
their head with so many thoughts, that no more space is
left and no more light can enter. This is called:
"educate the spirit" and the remaining
condition of such a mess "education", that is
common. Education is called: filling one's head to the
brim with knowledge. The educated one knows the length of
palm trees, the weight of a coconut, the names of all his
chiefs and the eras of their wars. He knows the size of
the moon, the stars, and all countries. He knows every
river by name, every animal and every plant. He knows
everything and everything. Put a question to an educated
one and he shoots the answer at you before you close your
mouth. His head is ever loaded with ammunition, is ever
ready to fire. Every European dedicates the most
beautiful time of his life to make his head to the
fastest gun. He who wants to be exempt from that, is
forced. Every Papalagi has to know, has to think.
The
only thing, that all diseased from thinking could cure,
forgetting, slinging away thoughts, isn't practiced:
therefore, only very few are able to do so and most are
carrying a burden in the head, making the body heavy,
powerless and weak before its time. Should we, their
loving, not thinking brothers, after everything I told
you in genuine truth, really imitate the Papalagi and
learn to think as he does? I say: No! Because we should
not and must not do anything, that doesn't make a
stronger body and doesn't give a greater sense of joy and
uplifting. We have to beware from everything, that could
rob us the joy of life, for everything, that darkens our
spirit and takes away its brilliant light, for
everything, that will cause our head to fight our body.
The Papalagi proves us by himself, that thinking is a
severe disease, decreasing the value of a man manifold.
The
Papelagi doesn't have time.
The
Papelagi loves the round metal and the heavy paper
(Tuiavii's description of money), he loves to fill his
stomach with a lot of liquids from dead fruits and with
meat from pigs, cows and other horrible animals, but
above all, he loves what isn't tangible and that is time.
He makes a lot of fuzz and foolish talk about it.
Although never more is available than between sunrise and
sunset, it is never enough to him. The Papelagi is ever
dissatisfied with his time and accuses the great Spirit
that it hasn't given more. Yes, he is defaming God and
his great wisdom, by dividing a day in certain parts. He
cuts it as if one would go with a machete through a soft
coconut. All parts have names: second, minute, hour and
one has to have sixty minutes or many more seconds to
fill an hour. That is a complicated issue I never
understood, because I get sick, reflecting on those
childish matters. But the Papelagi makes a big knowing
out of it. Men, women and even children who can hardly go
on their feet, are carrying in their loincloths small,
flat, round machine, attached to a thick metal chain,
from which they can read the time. This reading however,
isn't easy. It is practiced with the children, by holding
the machine to their ears, in order to get them into
liking it. Such a machine, easily carried on two fingers,
looks in their stomach like the machine in the stomach of
large boats you all know. But there are also large and
heavy time machines, they are standing in the huts or are
hanging at the highest gable, so that they can be seen
from afar. When a part of the time has passed, little
fingers at the outside of the machine will point to that
and simultaneously it will cry out, a spirit beats the
iron in its heart. Yes, an enormous raging noise in a
European city results, when part of the time has passed.
When this timing noise is sounding, the Papelagi
complains: "It is a heavy burden that another hour
has passed." At the same time he puts a sad face,
like a man who is burdened with great suffering, although
immediately a completely new hour arrives. I have never
understood this other than it being a severe disease.
"The time is avoiding me!" - "The time is
running away like a stallion!" - "Give me just
a little more time". Those are the complaints of
white men. I say this could be a kind of disease;
assumed, the white man likes to do something, his heart
is longing to go in the sun(shine) or to sail with the
canoe at the river or to make love with his girlfriend,
this way he will spoil the appetite for it, clinging to
the thought: no time remains to be happy. Yet the time is
there, but he doesn't see it no matter he is trying. He
mentions a thousand things taking time, feeling
resentment and complaining about the job he doesn't like,
that doesn't give joy, to which no one is forcing him the
way he is doing himself. But suddenly seeing that he has
time, that it is there nevertheless or that someone gives
him time - the Papelagi are mutually giving each other
time, yes, nothing is so high in esteem - he will fail
the like, or he is tired from the unenjoyable job. And
frequently he will do tomorrow for which he has time
today. There are Papelagi, asserting they never have
time. They are running around headless, like from the
devil possessed, and where ever they come, create havoc
and uproar, because they have lost their time. This mania
is a horrible condition, a disease no medicine man can
cure, contagious to many and driving them into misery. As
every Papalagi is possessed for fear of his time, he also
knows exactly, and not only every man, but also every
woman and child, how many sun- and moon risings have
passed since he saw the great light for the first time.
Yes, this is playing such a serious role, that it is
celebrated in certain, equal distances with flowers and
big eating parties. How often did I notice, how one was
thinking having to be ashamed of me, when asking, how old
I am, and I laughed and said, I don't know. "You
have to know how old you are". I remained silent and
thought, it's better I don't know. How old, means how
many moons have been living. This counting and figuring
out is full of dangers, because it has been discovered,
how many moons the life of most people will be. Now
everyone is watching carefully, and when quite a number
of moons have been passing by, he will say: "Now
I'll have to die soon". He doesn't enjoy anymore and
will die soon.
[...]
From
the place of the false life
***
those with little time: read Tuiavii's conclusion, last
paragraph ***
Beloved
brethren of the great sea, your humble servant would have
to say much to you, in order to give you the truth about
Europe. To do that, my lecture had to be like a
waterfall, flowing from morning to evening, and even then
would your truth be imperfect, because the life of the
Papelagi is like the sea, of which one can't see exactly
the beginning and the end. It has as many waves as the
great water; it can storm and surf, laugh and dream. As
no man can empty this with a hollow hand, I cannot carry
the big sea of Europe to you with my small spirit. But I
won't fail from telling you from it, because as the sea
cannot be without water, so European life cannot be
without the place of false life and not without the many
papers. If you take both away from the Papelagi, he
resembles the fish, thrown on land by the surf; it can
only jerk its limbs, but no more swim and play around the
way it likes. The place of false life. It isn't easy to
picture this place, white man calls cinema, to you, so
that you can recognize it with your own eyes. In every
village everywhere in Europe there is such a mysterious
place, the people love, more then a house of the mission
and from which the children already are dreaming and with
which their thoughts affectionately are occupying
themselves. The cinema is a hut, bigger than the biggest
hut of the chief in Upolu, yes much bigger still. It is
dark, also at the brightest day, so dark, that no one can
recognize anyone. So one is blinded when entering, more
blinded when leaving. Here people are sneaking in,
groping their way until a lady with a spark of fire comes
and takes you there, where room is left free.
Close
together one Papelagi sits next to another in the
darkness, no one is seeing the other, the dark space is
filled with silent people. Everyone is sitting on a
narrow board; all boards are pointing in the direction of
the same wall.
From
the bottom of this wall, as if from a deep canyon, loud
sounds and buzzing comes along, and as soon as the eyes
have adapted to the darkness, one recognizes a Papelagi,
sitting down and fighting with a box. He hits it with
spread hands, on many little white and black tongues,
stretching out from the big box, and every tongue yells
loudly, everyone with another voice at every touch, so
that it causes a wild and crazy yelling like at a big
village fight. This ordeal should distract our sense,
rendering it weak, so that we believe what we are seeing
and don't doubt if it is real. Straight in front of the
wall beams a light, as if a strong moonlight were shining
on it, and in the shine are people, real people, looking
like and dressed as real Papelagis, moving, coming and
going, who are laughing, jumping, like one is seeing it
all over Europe. It is like the mirror image of the moon
in the lagoon. It is the moon, and yet it isn't.
Likewise, this is just an image. Everyone is moving the
mouth, one doesn't doubt that they are speaking, and yet
one doesn't hear a sound or a word, no matter how well
one listens and no matter, how torturing it is, to hear
nothing. And this is the main reason, why that Papelagi
is hitting the box; he should create the semblance, as if
one only couldn't hear the people because of his noise.
And for that reason letters occasionally appear on the
wall, proclaiming what the Papelagi has said or is going
to say. Nevertheless - these people are semblance people
and not real people. When touched, one would recognize
that they are consisting just of light and aren't
tangible. They are only there, to show the Papelagi all
his joys and suffering, his foolishness and weakness. He
is seeing the most beautiful men and women very close to
him. Even when they are silent, he sees their movements
and the twinkling of the eyes.
[...]
But
he also sees, how the Papelagi steals the girl from a
man. Or how a girl betrays her lover. He sees how a wild
man grabs a rich gentleman at the throat, how his fingers
are pressing deep in the flesh of the throat, the eyes of
the gentleman are bulging, how he is dead and the wild
man grabs the round metal and the heavy paper from the
loincloth. While the eye of the Papelagi is seeing such
joys and horrors, he has to sit very still; he isn't
allowed to yell at the unfaithful girl, to help the rich
gentleman in order to save him. But this doesn't cause
the Papelagi any pain; he is looking at this all with
great delight, as if he wouldn't have a heart at all. He
doesn't feel frightened or horrified. He observes
everything, as if he himself were another being. Because
the one, who is observing, always has the firm opinion,
he is better than the man, seen in the shining light and
he himself would evade all foolish acts, shown to him.
Silent and without breathing, his eyes are glued to the
wall, and as soon as he is seeing a strong character and
a noble portrait, he draws it into his heart, thinking:
this is my portrait. He is sitting totally unmovable on
his wooden seat and stares at the steep, smooth wall, on
which nothing is living but a deceptive light beam that a
magician throws through a narrow slit at the back wall
and upon which yet so much is living as false life.
Assimilating
within, these false portraits, that do not have a real
life, is what offers the Papalagi such a high enjoyment.
In this dark space he can without shame and without other
people seeing his eyes, make himself part of a false
life. The poor can play the rich, the rich the poor, the
diseased can imagine himself healthy, the weak strong.
Here in the darkness, everyone can assimilate and
experience, what he hasn't in real life and never will.
Giving way to this false life has become a great passion
of the Papalagi, often it is that great, that he forgets
his real life. This passion is sick, because a right man
doesn't want to have a life of semblance in a dark room,
but a warm, real life under the bright sun. The
consequence of this passion is, that many Papalagi,
leaving the place of false life, no longer can
distinguish it from real life and having become confused,
think themselves rich when poor, or beautiful when ugly.
Or commit atrocities they would never have done in real
life, but are doing, because they no longer can
distinguish what is real and what isn't. It is a very
similar situation like you all know from the European,
when he has been drinking too much European kava, and
thinks to be going on waves.
[...]
The
newspaper is also a kind of machine, it daily makes a lot
of thoughts, many more than a single head can make. But
most thoughts are weak thoughts without pride and power,
they will fill our head with a lot of food, but don't
make it strong. We could just as well fill our head with
sand. The Papelagi is overfilling his head with such
useless paper food. Before he can throw away one, he is
assimilating a new one already. His head is like the
mangrove swamp, suffocating in its own mud, where nothing
green or fertile will grow, where only bad vapors are
bubbling up and biting insects are thriving.
The
place of false living and the many papers did make the
Papelagi to what he is; to a weak, erring man, who loves
what isn't real and that what is real no more can
recognize, who holds the image of the moon for the moon
itself and a mat on which is written, for life itself.
Epilogue:
Although
I only translated a minor part of the lectures, it will
give an idea. It is clear that Tuiavii is somewhat
appalled by Western society and that was in the beginning
of the century; things didn't improve since then. The
clarity of mind he has, the "light in the head"
he mentions, "enlightenment", is natural or
default. The conditioning and subsequent attachment
causes one to forget it. So roughly 25 years of life are
used to fill the head, another 25...40 to use its
content, and who knows how many years to clean the
resulting mess, only in order to recognize what had been
forgotten all those years. And those getting a glimpse,
still addicted to thinking, often proclaim that to be
final through clever thought constructions. Fortunate is
(s)he, whose mind resembles a net, as such a mind doesn't
accumulate conditioning. Fortunate is (s)he, who can give
up the entire mess in one go and fortunate (s)he, who
never forgets the Source at all. What a pity Tuiavii
didn't speak to a realized yogi or Zen master. It could
have revealed much more :)
As
the German used in the lectures is from the beginning of
this century, translation into modern English wasn't
easy, particularly because neither English nor German is
my native language. I hope there weren't too many typos
and "weird" expressions :)
Jan
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