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TRANSLATIONS
Much remains hanging in mid-air, e.g. the idea that there is a similarity in structure between cosmos, hare paega and a clam. I will not repeat what has been said earlier at different points along our quest. It is easy to find the information in Translations and in Index by using a search program (with such search terms as 'hare paega' or 'clam'). Métraux has an interesting first-hand description of hare paega: "... The most vivid description of hut interiors is given by Eyraud ... who slept in them several nights: Imagine a half open mussel, resting on the edge of its valves and you will have an idea of the form of that cabin. Some sticks covered with straw form its frame and roof. An oven-like opening allows its inhabitants to go inside as well as the visitors who have to creep not only on all fours but on their stomachs. This indicates the center of the building and lets enter enough light to see when you have been inside for a while. You have no idea how many Kanacs may find shelter under that thatch roof. It is rather hot inside, if you make abstraction of the little disagreements caused by the deficient cleanliness of the natives and the community of goods which inevitably introduces itself ... But by night time, when you do not find other refuge, you are forced to do as others do. Then everybody takes his place, the position being indicated to each by the nature of the spot. The door, being in the center, determines an axis which divides the hut into two equal parts. The heads, facing each other on each side of that axis, allow enough room between them to let pass those who enter or go out. So they lie breadthwise, as commodiously as possible, and try to sleep." The year has two main parts, the light part and the dark part, that seems to be a universal idea among us who live with seasons. These two parts are though not equal in length and the 'half-years' were therefore defined differently among the ancient peoples. Theoretically the equinoxes may have been used, but people living close to nature knew better. At some point in the cultural development of man another division of the year was introduced, a straight line between the solstices. The main two events of change now were centered on the times when there were no change, when sun had a 'break'. Winter solstice must have caused more worries than summer solstice. Although at both times the sun seemed to stop moving (a sign of death), at winter the fear of the great fire dying out completely must have been worse than if in summer sun should have lingered forever at his highest point. The form of hare paega is similar to the form caused by dividing the year into two equal parts by an imaginary line through the solstices. The door defines where this division in two parts is located. The time of new year is also thought of as a 'door' from one year to the next. Sun moves very slowly at the solstices and very quickly at the equinoxes, and an illustration describing the path of the sun over the year will therefore look like the foundation stones (paega) which have been laid out on the ground as the foundation of the house.
The foundation is not a circle, and neither is the yearly path of the sun. The door to a hare paega is in the middle of one of the long sides: ... An oven-like opening allows its inhabitants to go inside as well as the visitors who have to creep not only on all fours but on their stomachs. This indicates the center of the building ... Only one door is needed. New year became defined as a single point around the cycle of the year, no longer were there so much focus on the two equinoxes (which in a way also were 'doors' between the seasons). But the two 'years' (i.e. winter and summer) kept on living in the minds of people close to nature. To enter in the evening through the door from the outside to inside a hare paega would have felt very similar to a reverse birth, entering through the birth channel into the dark warm womb of mother. In the morning with light returning outside it would surely have felt as if one were being reborn when creeping out again. Nightfall and morning marked a similarity between the diurnal cycle and the yearly cycle. The hour of midnight was preferably a time for sleep, because at that time (equal to new year) there was a 'door' open through which figures of fancy and fear moved. The guardians at the door of a hare paega should therefore be of the same kind, not real creatures but uru, the tapa figures which frightened women and children: "Tepano protested violently against the statement of Brown ... that the images housed spirits or akuaku. He insisted over and over again that 'the manu-uru had no significance at all, that they were only ornaments of the houses and that nobody but children or women were afraid of them ..." (Métraux) Tapa mea and toa tauuru are close in thought. Uru figures (kites etc) are made of tapa, and tapa constructions are just that: constructions. The uru figures at the entrance are constructions, nothing to fear. Metoro seems to have had in mind technical subdivisions of the day and night, presumably fetched from the hare paega house constructions with 'sticks and straw':
Aa1-27 with ki te henua is located at noon, i.e. where we should expect to find the door of hare paega (at the center). The words (ki te henua) implies a movement to (ki) the uterus (henua). Sun at noon possibly retires inside for a while. The other two reversed tapa mea (Aa1-17 and Aa1-34), bluemarked above, are not characterized by uhi. They seem to represent cardinal 'sticks', rather than the 'cover' (uhi) of the 'tent' (uhi). That leaves hokohuki at Aa1-23 and Aa1-29 to explain. Located one at each side of the 'entrance to the uterus' (ki te henua) as they are, the thought quickly runs to the uru figures proctecting the 'door'. In the night there are similar signs of how hare paega may have been mirrored in the thoughts of Metoro:
I have here tried to keep the colour scheme from the description of the day above in order to make a comparison easier, which means for example that the red-marked uhi tapa mea have in the night their corresponding ia toa tauuru also red-marked. Not until now have I realized that ia 'parallels’ uhi, ia ↔ uhi:
Once again we notice 'double-talk', because in the Easter Island idiom ia probably means îa, while the Tahitian ia (= ika, 'fish') is an equally good translation.
The uhi tapa mea and ia toa tauuru terms probably correspond to the main 'sticks'. There are 5 such in the day. However, I suspect the solar 'sticks' should be regarded as 4. Aa1-36 is a man-made construction (uru), not the real sun. These 4 are arranged in a pattern we recognize: 3 (am) + 1 (pm). Maybe the 3 are 'moa' (unable to fly), while the fully grown 1 is 'manu'). The Tahitian fenua (at Aa1-45) is the same yet different from the daytime Easter Island henua (at Aa1-27). We see a canoe and imagine it full of new life (vakaî) to be delivered at the beach (haga) at daybreak. The 'child' is probably generated at noon each day, when sun enters henua for a while. I have blue-marked tapamea and tauuru without uhi respectively ia. I guess they are equal in kind. During the day we find one blue-marked at each end (morning, evening), during the night we find two blue-marked at the end (morning). Possibly, though, also the two ehu in the beginning (evening) should have been blue-marked, for harmony's sake. There is no 'back door' in a hare paega, but the 'spirits' may have one. In GD25 (which we as a hypothesis imagine to be equal to a picture of the yearly path of the sun) there are small openings at the short ends:
"The house figured by La Pérouse ... with a door located in the middle of each side but not directly opposite to each other, was quite exceptional ... One of the old informants of Routledge ... told her that in addition to the main door there was an opening near each end by which the food was introduced, and then passed from hand to hand. Legends tell of characters escaping through this opening ..." (Métraux) Taking a new look at the night a central structure becomes evident:
I have chosen only the discriminating words of Metoro. It appears as if we have a triplet of toa followed by a characterization, similar to one we saw earlier:
We ought to consider making two tables, one with all (non-complex) GD37 (henua) + immediately following glyph, and another table with all (non-complex) GD47 (toa) + immediately following glyph. However, it is more urgent to list all GD25 (pure) in a coherent table. There are 18 such glyphs in Tahua:
After clearing away the complex glyphs there remain 12:
There are 3 triplets of 'twins' (blue-marked in the table) and equally many 'single' glyphs. 3 * 2 + 6 * 1 = 12. 8 lines have no simple GD25 glyph, 8 lines have one or more, and the distribution may be summarized like this:
While this information is beginning to sink in, we could read a piece about the bonito (who is not a fish but a gentleman). In Churchill 2 we find: ... I'a is the general name for fishes,' Pratt notes in his Samoan dictionary, 'except the bonito and shellfish (mollusca and crustacea).' We may forgive the inaccuracy of the biology in our gratitude for the former note. The bonito is not a fish, the bonito is a gentleman, and not for worlds would Samoa offend against his state. The Samoan in his 'upu fa'aaloalo has his own Basakrama, the language of courtesy to be used to them of high degree, to chiefs and bonitos. One does not say that he goes to the towns which are favorably situated for the bonito fishery; he says rather that (funa'i) he goes into seclusion, he withdraws himself. He finds that the fleet which is to chase the bonito has an honourable name for this use, that the chief fisher has a name that he never uses ashore. He will not in so many words say that he is going to fish for bonito, he says that he is going out paddling in the courtesy language (alo); he even avoids all chance of offending this gentleman of his seas by saying, instead of the blunt vulgarity of the word fishing, rather that he is headed in some other direction (fa'asanga'ese). He does not paddle with the common word but with that (pale) which he uses in compliment to his chief's canoe. He will not so much as speak the word which means canoe; he calls it by another word (tafānga), which may mean the turning away to one side. In this unmentioned canoe he may not carry water by its common name, he must call it (mālū) the cool stuff. He will not mention his eyes in the canoe; he calls his visor (taulauifi) the shield for his chestnut leaves. Even the word for large becomes something else (sumalie) in this great game. The hook must be tied with ritual care; it is called (pa) out of the common name for hook; no bonito will take a hook which has not been properly tied; the fastening is veiled under the name (fanua) for the land. There are many rules to observe; their disregard is called (sopoliu) the stepping over the bilges, from the most unfortunate thing that the fisher can do. He may hail the bonito by his name (atu), or he may call him affectionately or coaxingly (pa'umasunu) old singed-skin. If he has the fortune to hook his bonito he must raise the shout of triumph, Tu! Tu! Tu e!, not his whole name but one of its syllables; he triumphs as over a foe honorably slain in combat, but he avoids hurting the feelings of the other gentlemen of the sea. The first bonito caught in a new canoe he calls (ola) life; the first bonito caught in any season bears a special name (ngatongiā), of uncertain signification, and he presents it to his chief. His catch he reckons by a special notation; to his numerals he adds the word (tino) body; he counts them as one-body, two-body, three-body. Parts of the gentleman have specific names of their own; his fins (asa) and his entrails (fe'afe'a) are called in terms nowhere else employed; the tidbit of the belly part, which the fisher must give to his chief, is called (ma'alo) by the honorific title of the chief's abdomen. And if the rites were not duly observed, if the hook was not rightly tied, if the fisher was so incautious as to mention his eyes, if one of a hundred faults was committed and the fishing was in vain, then the fisher acknowledged his ill success abjectly by saying that (maloā) he was conquered. Such is the language Samoans use to the gentleman of the seas, and he is not i'a." It may be impossible to translate the rongorongo texts verbatim because the technical language has been lost forever. |
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