Telesa – Covenant Keeper

Lani Wendt-Young. Telesa – Covenant Keeper. CreateSpace Publishing, 2012. ISBN 9781466253711.

Lani Wendt-Young, niece of Albert Wendt, is doing something of what I hoped to find when I set out on this journey – producing modern writing with a Pacific sensibility. She’s also been credited with getting young Pacific Islanders interested in reading, which I guess makes her the JK Rowling of the Pacific.

Here is where I get to proclaim/confess that I’ve not read a single Harry Potter book, so I’m not able to make detailed comparisons. Except, perhaps, to say that both authors have lured young readers in by creating an exciting realist-fantasy world, where incredible things can happen on the school oval. Both Harry Potter and Telesa’s Leila and Daniel live in a world that is somewhat familiar to their readers. If you squint a bit you can almost see yourself there.

The familiar, real world in Telesa is a high school in Samoa. The fact that the setting is Samoa is both incidental and essential to the story. Incidental, because Telesa is a fantasy romance novel for young adults, where an ordinary young woman discovers that she has extraordinary powers. She must learn to harness and control them, while also learning more about herself and why she has this gift, or perhaps curse. Could happen anywhere.

But this is absolutely, essentially a Samoan story. Drawing on Samoan legend, rooted in Samoan culture, fixed in the Samoan landscape. While this story could happen anywhere, it is happening here.

Leila’s beloved father has recently died, and Leila has defied her grandmother to leave Washington for Apia to learn more of the Samoan mother she never knew. She has come to stay with Aunty Matile and Uncle Tuala, who insist that, even though Leila has finished high school, Matile and Tuala insist that while she is in Samoa she attend school. She is to go nowhere but school, home and church.

Even in this confined world, for Leila, and us along with her, there is plenty to learn about life in modern Samoa. To begin with there is Simone, Samoa College’s glamorous fa’afafine and Leila’s first friend:

I studied Simone out of the corner of my eye as he preened next to me. Almost as tall as me, skinny, beautiful liquid black eyes (was that a hint of forbidden eye liner?), glossy hair combed in an Elvis style bouffant and carrying a shiny red handbag on one perfectly bent arm. (Don’t ask me how he fit any text books in that tiny thing.) Noticing my scrutiny, he stopped mid-wave to look me up and down, one hand on his hip, Kate Moss style.

Wendt-Young is able to subtly introduce us to so many small but important aspects of Samoan life without ever giving the impression of lecturing. We get glimpses of Samoan households and home life, cooking, important crafts such as fine mat making, obsessions with netball and rugby, the beautiful singing of a Samoan church congregation, and the tensions between Christianity and traditional beliefs. We even get a glimpse of the fia fia night at Aggie Grey’s for good measure (although interestingly, no mention of the fire show at the end).

Fia fia night at Aggie Grey's

Fia fia night at Aggie Grey’s

Of course, the most exciting thing in Apia and at Samoa College is head boy and football star Daniel. Leila is drawn to this young man “all golden red in the sunlight, all heat, muscle and warmth. Always ready with that crooked smile”. But, as she learns more about the mother who has been hidden from her, and about the strength of her connection with the earth of Samoa, it becomes clear that Leila must push Daniel away.

As, it seems, for so many stories I’ve come across through Raintree Café, much of Telesa is about identity, fitting in, working out where you belong. Leila has been an outsider in Washington: “Too brown to be white but too white to be brown.” But in Apia Leila is amongst friends:

I was exulting in this new sensation. Is this what belonging felt like? Is this how it felt to fit in somewhere? I wasn’t sure. I had never been just one of the crowd. No different from my peers.

Wendt-Young, although now resident in Australia, also belongs in Samoa. It is clear in every part of Telesa that this is a treasured home, and one that she wants to share. She written a story that both goes beyond a single place and yet is deeply part of one. It’s a story that’s not really about Samoa, and yet is really about nothing else.

Posted in Action/Adventure, Contemporary Fiction, Romance, Samoa, Speculative Fiction, Women Writers, Young Adult | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Short Stories from Small Islands

Alan Dean Foster (editor). Short Stories from Small Islands: Tales Shared in Palau. Secretariat of the Pacific Community, 2005. ISBN: 9820000998

I’ve observed through friends and colleagues the painstaking preparations that go into hosting a Pacific Arts Festival, and the enormous pride in participating in one. Like the Olympics, they are held every four years, and they seem from a distance to be Olympian in scale.

The 9th festival, held in 2004, has left a lasting mark on its host country, Palau, at least to the casual visitor. When I was last in Palau (I think it must have been around 2009) there was still a gallery at the Belau National Museum dedicated artworks associated with the Festival, and I think the museum building itself was constructed in time for the 2004 celebrations. A 2010 review of the legacy of various Festivals of Pacific Arts (FOPAs) (careful, it’s 192 pages) noted particularly the benefits the festival had engendered for Palau, including a revitalisation of sailing and navigation courses and “youth interest in traditional skills of weaving, carving, tattooing, traditional food-making, traditional healing and boat-building.”

On a much smaller but no less important scale, it left us Short Stories from Small Islands. In his introduction to the book, editor Alan Dean Foster explains that these stories are the product of a creative writing seminar held during the 2004 FOPA. For most of the authors this is their first publication.

The theme of the 2004 FOPA was Otlobed A Malt – to nurture, regenerate, celebrate. A writing workshop is a wonderful way to nurture talent, regenerate stories and celebrate cultures, and Foster says that he was impressed enough with the quality of the work that came out of the seminar to bring a collection of offerings together for publication.

Many of the authors seem to have been very much influenced by the context in which they were writing – an arts festival aimed at preserving and sharing Pacific cultures. The author biographies at the back of the book suggest that two contributors are Palauan locals, four have come from elsewhere to live and work, and another is a visitor from Vanuatu. Most of their stories are conscious of their Pacific context, and eager to say something about Pacific cultures.

While, like Foster, I found something to like in all of the stories, some were a little earnest, others a little too lecturing in my view. One particularly short vignette, “Revealing Experience” by Carla Polloi, was a bit of fun and, I thought, did interesting things in saying something about Pacific cultural norms while just telling an amusing story. “Tropicbird Feathers”, by Tova Harel Bornovski, was the pick of the bunch, with a strong voice and an intriguing story of tradition, ritual and magic that had me wanting to follow on with whatever might happen next:

Night was falling fast. Sky was turning shades of purple that grew darker and darker. The old lady was taking the orchids out of her hair. She started to pull the feathers out. The long white feathers did not get the yellow turmeric stains. They remained white and bright as they were. Nana held the feathers with a wondering look on her face. She called the other ladies in. They were silent. They felt the magic.

Palauan carvings and storyboards

Palauan carvings and storyboards

Apart from presenting some good new writing, Short Stories From Small Islands is a beautiful object in itself. The cover image shows a Palauan storyboard, this glorious one by Ling Inabo. Each story is illustrated with a lovely image by an artist named Jipe Le Bars. The endpapers are what appears to be a wonderful handmade paper with whole leaves and stems pressed into it. I’ll be sorry to have to return it to the library.

Economic rationalists might say that festivals are a waste of time and money in an underprivileged region where there are so many priorities competing for funding. How can you fund an arts festival when so few of the United Nations’ Millennium Development Goals are being met? I’m not going to mount a defence or otherwise of the economic benefits of FOPA. But culture and its survival underpin all of our aspirations. It’s not an either-or prospect. And without the Festival and Short Stories From Small Islands, I would not have been able to find any fiction at all from Palau. Otlobed A Malt indeed.

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Port Vila Blues

Garry Disher. Port Vila Blues. Allen & Unwin, 1995. ISBN 1864480254

Port Vila is my favourite town in the Pacific. If anyone is looking for a pacific island holiday I always recommend Vanuatu over the other places I’ve been (and that includes a lot of the major touristed ones). If you are after the lie by the pool resort holiday, Vanuatu has resorts to match Fiji and New Caledonia. It has some of the best food in the Pacific, in part due to the lingering French influence, bolstered by the fantastic seafood you usually expect in the islands, plus the mouth-watering addition of locally grown Vanuatu beef and good Tanna coffee. There is plenty of island adventure possible in the form of waterfalls, cultural visits, diving and snorkelling, even an active volcano on the southern island of Tanna and one of the world’s best dive sites further north off Espiritu Santo. And the ni-Vanuatu people, like people all over the Pacific, are warm and welcoming.

On top of all of that, Port Vila is a nice town to wander around in. If I’m being honest, I couldn’t truly say that of many of the major towns I’ve visited in the Pacific. They all have their charms and their interesting features, but Port Vila has a waterfront area you can easily access, fabulous fresh food and handicraft markets, a marina full of yachts in the middle of town, some not bad shopping, a great little museum and cultural centre, and on a lazy afternoon you can watch the locals play boules in the middle of it all. At night you can visit any of the fabulous restaurants, go to a nightclub if that is your thing, or visit the night market without feeling unsafe. Sorry to my Solomon Islander, Samoan, Palauan and Fijian friends, Port Vila wins.

Have I convinced you? Strangely enough, it appears that very few fiction writers have been convinced of the possibilities of Vanuatu, at least not ones who write in English. Despite the long period of colonialism (Vanuatu became independent in 1980), the sordid history of blackbirding, the huge number of Americans throughout the islands during World War II, and the steady stream of Australian tourists and tax dodgers, all of them forming, one expects, links between Vanuatu and the western world, almost no one has seen fit to set a novel in this wonderful place.

Chief's Nakamal, Port Vila

Chief’s Nakamal, Port Vila

Crime is not my favourite genre of fiction. In looking for a genre to read my way into Port Vila, crime wouldn’t normally be my first choice. But Port Vila Blues is set in the modern Vila that I knowa little, rather than the historical depictions in the other couple of books I’ve found (interestingly, all three by Australian writers).

The plot line of Garry Disher’s Port Vila Blues could be a allegory of Australians’ relationships with Vanuatu. A corrupt Australian magistrate uses his aid-funded role as a circuit judge in the islands to launder money and other stolen goods in Vanuatu’s tax haven. His network draws on the thriving tourist trade – regular plane loads of Australian and other tourists touching down to spend a brief time in tropical paradise. In his lovely home in the hills above the marina at Port Vila he believes himself more or less untouchable, above the law, able to manipulate and use those around him as he sees fit. That includes everyone from local politicians to his ni-Van housekeeper Grace. But the ni-Vanuatu aren’t helpless creatures without agency of their own, and they know what is in their interests and what is not.

While Judge De Lisle’s set-up in Vanuatu is key to the plot, it’s not the centre of the action. Instead, we follow career criminal Wyatt, mostly back in Australia, as he tries to find out why someone wants him dead over a stolen Tiffany brooch, and what might be in it for him. While there’s a bit of obligatory sex and violence, the main focus is Wyatt’s always-on suspicion and readiness, his careful preparation for every possibility. For a guns and murder crime novel Port Vila Blues actually felt quiet and thoughtful for much of the time. The blustering of the dumbly violent Baker, who stumbles blindly into the middle of a crime much more sophisticated than anything he has in mind, is an interesting counterpoint.

Disher’s writing is purposeful and workmanlike. There’s little waxing lyrical about ocean vistas and tropical sunsets here. Rooms and landscapes are noted in careful detail, but it’s all in the context of Wyatt’s wary sizing up of his surroundings, making sure he has at least two escape routes planned. It’s a well-paced page turner and an easy enough way to spend a couple of lazy reading afternoons. And it gave me an excuse to try to sell Vanuatu to you. Perhaps I’ll just have a peek at the current airfares myself…

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Kathleen Tyau. Makai. Farrar Straus Giroux, 1999. ISBN 0374200009

Some say we are shaped by the places we have lived. And yet we are each essentially ourselves, no matter where we live, and lifelong friends can take different paths and become different people.

Alice Lum and Annabel Lee are Chinese-American girls, growing up in Hawaii in the 1940s. Quiet, timid, sensible Alice is drawn to the beautiful, outgoing and adventurous Annabel, swept along by her daring, and often left in her shadow. Now, in their older, separate lives, Alice is still at home in Hawaii, married to her (and Annabel’s) childhood crush Sammy, worrying for her two daughters, living a life confined by geography, and by her fears and anxieties. But Annabel Lee is coming to stay, and Alice is both excited and fearful of what this visit might bring. Annabel Lee is at once her closest friend and her feared rival. Looking at Annabel’s life causes Alice to wonder about what she has made of her own.

We know early on of the Big Water – a flash flood – that swept Alice and her young daughters away in their car all those years ago. The story slowly reveals the impact it has had on them. More slowly again, we understand the extent of the quiet bravery, strength and resilience of Alice Lum.

I loved reading Makai. It has the gentle, thoughtful, lilting rhythm in its writing that I find a delight to float along with. It is sad and wistful and also joyous and hopeful. It’s about teenage girls and love and rivalry and coming of age and community and identity and learning to live our own lives. It is a story of the Chinese-American and Hawaiian communities during World War II, brought suddenly and violently into the reality of war by the attack on Pearl Harbor.

As each of the young men in their lives departs for war, Alice and Annabel make leis to say farewell. Eventually, it is the turn of Sammy, who they both love, and who loves them both, although perhaps he loves Annabel Lee the most.

We laughed so hard we started crying. Annabel blew her nose and said, Don’t throw your leis in the water. Wear them, and then let them dry out on your cot.

She was thinking about what people often did when they left the islands by ship. They tossed their leis into the harbour, and if the leis floated back to shore, that meant they would return soon. But if the lei went the wrong way, makai, then what?

“Makai” in Hawaiian means “towards the sea”. “Makua” means away from the sea, towards the mountain, inland. Annabel’s mainlander son Wick struggles with the concept – surely in Hawaii everywhere is eventually towards the sea? Alice gives up trying to explain “You better ask somebody. You better ask for help”, she says. Wick is right. Life on an island is always looking makai. Life on an island is always somehow constrained. But Alice knows where she is going. It is a direction that a non-islander perhaps can’t understand, and she doesn’t need to ask for help.

Posted in Contemporary Fiction, Historical fiction, Uncategorized, United States of America, Women Writers | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Burn My Head in Heaven

John Pule. Burn My Head in Heaven. Penguin, 1998. ISBN 13579108643

If for Alistair Campbell the spirit world is potentially a delusion, for John Pule it is real and active and alive. In The Frigatebird we are never quite sure if the gods are real or just part of our narrator’s increasing mental instability. In Burn My Head in Heaven there is no doubt whatsoever that the ancient gods and spirits are about the villagers of Liku, continuing to both shape and respond to the world.

There was so much of this book I didn’t understand. Early on, with so many unfamiliar Niuean people’s names, place names, spirit names intertwined, I found the story very hard to follow. Even as the names of characters and places started to become clear and distinguishable to me, I think it took me quite a bit longer to understand that for Potau and his family and community, in and around their land at Pia, the past is not a long-distant memory, but part of the here and now, being played out and echoed in the land around them:

Laufoli came down, married a king’s daughter and lived there until old age. Three moons disturbed her manava. Then Laufoli discarded his wife, and was banished back to Niue. Still powerfully built to topple over trees with his shoulders, he collected them for the umu. When the stones were red with heat, he taunted the young warriors to push him in.

Potau shifted his body around. Where he stood he could see Laufoli clearly jump into the umu pit. The earth felt the pain and screamed. The fuata ran back to Liku.

Potau picked up two filled sacks and took them to the side of the track where, under the shade of the forest, Lamahina was weaving baskets for the loku and talo. Toa, their first-born, was crying nearby, mimicking the calls of the kulukulu.

Ironically (or perhaps not) the first passage of Burn My Head in Heaven I really understood was this one. Potau’s father witnesses the ceremony annexing Niue as a British protectorate:

King Togia sat in the shade of a house built especially for the occasion. He asked Thompson if the Queen knew that he existed, that he was King of Niue, all of Niue. He did not understand a thing that was being said, even though an interpreter was trying hard to translate Thompson’s speech. It all came out wrong but Togia, like many of the Niueans on that day, thought only of the honour and the greatness the white man was heaping onto Niue. The King shook away his sovereignty. Easy….

Potauhata rode the nine miles back to Liku. What was rushing through his head like lightning was the way the Annexation was conducted. Not one Niuean knew what was being said.

Burn My Head in Heaven is very much about Niuean attachment to land, and the people’s dispossession of it under white settlement. It speaks of the importance of the culture’s creation stories to the present day. The first half or more of the book is a work of magic realism that conjures this oneness of past and present, people and land.

New Zealand is referred to a number of times by Niueans as ‘the land of milk and honey’. The phrase is also used often in the musical The Factory, written by another Niuean, Vela Manusaute, which I had the joy of seeing in Canberra in the last month or so. The economic attraction of the new country is obvious, where working in an abattoir seems easier than toiling over a taro garden, although it seems hard to reconcile with the clearly evident, strong attachment to home, to which few seem to plan to return.

Eventually most of Potau’s relatives end up in New Zealand, where the story, with the gods left behind in Niue, takes on a more familiar realism form. A Niuean community gathers in the suburbs of Auckland and elsewhere, keeping up the traditions of dancing and ceremony as though they were at home. While Nogi survives and thrives and builds a life and gathers her family around her, her brother Potau and others (mostly men) seem to sink further and further into anger, alcohol and depression.

Why does Nogi so seamlessly make the transition while Potau seems unable to do so? Neither of the siblings is any less connected with or committed to their Niuean culture and family, and yet they take very different trajectories in their new home. Burn My Head in Heaven seems to me to be very distinctly saying that identity, land and culture are the keys to a life lived well and contentedly. So why is Nogi able to live her culture in both countries, and Potau in neither?

At the base of it, I just didn’t understand Burn My Head in Heaven. I haven’t been able to work out what the title means. I wasn’t able to get inside the minds of its characters enough to understand their motivations, and as a result the story seemed to me to be a series of somewhat directionless accounts of the comings and goings of an immigrant community in New Zealand. What was the significance of Mr Loeb’s discussions with Atalagi? Why did Potau hide the identity of Aifai’s father from him? Why did he turn to drink? And then why did he stop? The story was interesting and revealing, particularly of the hard work that immigrant Pacific Islanders faced in New Zealand in the 1960s and later, and also of the routine racism they endured, but it was not something I could get inside and feel for myself. Burn My Head in Heaven offers the opportunity of a first-hand account of Niuean thought and culture, but it was one that I’m not sure I had the skills to fully grasp.

Posted in Contemporary Fiction, Magic realism, New Zealand, Niue | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Frigate Bird

Alistair Te Ariki Campbell, The Frigate Bird, Heinemann Reed, 1989. ISBN: 0790000466

Reality, delusion, religion, belief. All are intertwined in Cook Islands poet Alistair Campbell’s first novel, The Frigate Bird. If we are given the name of The Frigate Bird’s narrator I’ve forgotten it already, and in fact it hardly seems to matter. Would it be real, and what would it signify? In this first person voice we have only our narrator’s view of reality, and if ever reality was subjective, it is in The Frigate Bird.

Our narrator knows that he is mentally ill and not coping with the world:

I was now in a state of panic—the rats were in the house. I had the heebie-jeebies. I was going nuts again. I was certainly not in the right frame of mind to fly to Rarotonga and from there take a boat to Penrhyn, my mother’s homeland. Only yesterday my sister asked me why I was going. Good question, I thought, but aloud I told her I had promised my editor a story about our childhood in the Islands.

And clearly he’s not in the right frame of mind. The boat journey to Penrhyn is a series of delusions, persecutions and paranoias, as our narrator’s mental state seems to continue to deteriorate. Despite his early clarity about his own condition, he seems no longer able to judge the motivations of those around him or to make sense of his own thoughts and feelings.

On Penrhyn he feels persecuted, with people following him, throwing rocks at him. His anti-depressant medication is running out, mosquitos plague, and there are rats in the rafters. He heads straight back home, spending time in the Banana Court bar in Rarotonga while he waits for a flight back to New Zealand, where he promptly finds himself in a mental asylum.

But what is real here and what is imagined? What can be attributed to the spirits, to God, and or to the unbalanced mind? For me this is Campbell’s achievement in The Frigate Bird, keeping the reader always just off-balance, always unsure of what to believe. He juxtaposes Polynesian and Christian beliefs beautifully, leaving us, perhaps, with the feeling that neither can be entirely relied on to explain our own minds to us, or the outside world.

On the boat to Penrhyn the narrator is overwhelmed by terrors:

God help me! There was a roaring in my ears, and I gabbled the Lord’s Prayer over and over, made mistakes and panicked.

Then I thought that the spooks were Polynesian and couldn’t understand English, so I babbled the Cook Islands benediction, Te Atua, te Aroha.

It seems obvious early on that these terrors are of his mind’s own making. While the narrator is sure that bad spirits are to blame, his cousin, who is hosting him in their grandfather’s house on Penrhyn, is puzzled:

There was a long silence, and then my cousin said, “No bad places here. No evil spirits. Nobody here throws rocks. Why would they throw rocks at you?”

Later, though, once we are in the habit of accepting our narrator’s madness, Campbell causes us to doubt ourselves, just as the narrator has doubts about his own mind. Back in Rarotonga, the crash of a frigate bird into the narrator’s motel window seems certain to be hallucination, except that his American neighbour has also seen it. In the asylum in New Zealand the spirit visit of his sister to his room at night can’t be real, except that a guard hears her voice: “You’ve got a sheila in here… I heard her speaking”. And, while the narrator’s stories of persecution seem confused and unlikely, some of the people around him understand them and their causes, while others harbour fears of their own, equally unlikely and unreal.

On the plane back to New Zealand a fellow passenger diagnoses his problems:

“I know your trouble,” she went on. “It is Tia’s also. Your soul is unhappy. That’s no good. Come and sit beside me. You change places with Ina.”

“You should listen more to your grandfather,” said Mere gently, as I settled into the seat beside her.

“Listen to Grandfather,” I mumbled, obtusely. “How can I when he’s dead?”

Mere sighed at looked at me. “I can’t believe you’re saying that. You are blood of the land. He isn’t dead. He’s reaching out to you, but you push him away, and that makes him sad.”

Just in case we are tempted to put such ideas down to outmoded ancient mythology, Campbell gives us other examples of similar, perhaps misplaced and confused, faith. Such as the child Cathy Linton and the farmhand Inchcliffe, who our narrator meets in the remote New Zealand high country, and their belief in the White Maiden. Such as Cook Islanders’ missionary faith in the power of prayer to prevent hurricanes.

Alistair Campbell’s mother was a Cook Islander, his father a papa’a. Both died when Campbell was young, and he grew up in New Zealand. Scholars have written about the autobiographical nature of The Frigate Bird, and there is much of the contest between one mode of belief and upbringing and another in Campbell’s book, and of finding a neglected identity. Straddling competing ways of life and faiths as Campbell does, The Frigate Bird suggests to me that finding a middle road between two lives is essential. Choosing one part of heritage and culture at the expense of another is not an option, because down that path madness lies.

Posted in Contemporary Fiction, Cook Islands, New Zealand | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment


Jane Turner Goldsmith, Poinciana, Wakefield Press, 2006. ISBN: 1862546991

Poinciana was shortlisted for the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for the best first novel from the South East Asia and South Pacific region, so I was quite troubled to find myself reminded, as I read it’s opening chapters, of a Mills and Boon I read last year called Always the Boss. In both books a slightly lonely young woman finds herself in a foreign country, not really certain of herself and making social and cultural gaffes along the way. To get where she needs to be she finds herself relying on an older, somewhat jaded and hardbitten journalist. He may be making advances but she has trouble reading him correctly. And of course she starts to fall for him.

To be fair, the potential romance between Catherine and Henri in Poinciana is very definitely a subtext, and there is none of the tortured language or swooning of a Mills and Boon. I think, though that the romantic sideline was an unnecessary distraction from the main game, which is an exploration of identity and belonging in New Caledonia.

Noumea, New Caledonia

Noumea, New Caledonia

Catherine has come to Noumea to find her father, who she had long believed was dead. Now her mother has told her that he may still be alive and living somewhere in the islands of New Caledonia. After years of being almost without family – she is largely estranged from her very French mother and sister – Catherine of course wants answers. Why did this mysterious father leave her, never come to find her?

Interleaved with Catherine’s story is that of Robert. Found as a newborn on a riverbank beside his dead Kanak mother, Robert has been fostered by a Caldoche family, Gaetan, Dominique and their other sons. His first nurse calls him ‘café au lait’, and it is clear his father is white. Robert lives something of an idyllic childhood with his family in rural Grand Terre and falls in love with his childhood friend, Tahitian beauty Rosina. In his teenage years he becomes increasingly interested in connecting with his Kanak heritage and his tribu. This interest coincides with the rise of Kanak independence movement, which was to lead to such bloodshed.

Poinciana’s narrative moves back and forth between these two separate stories, and skips about also in time. It gives the novel something of a mysterious feeling – is this foretelling or memory, history or imagining? It doesn’t take long for it to become clear, though, that Robert and Catherine are almost certainly linked by more than just geography.

Both Robert and Catherine are on individual journeys of exploration, trying to understand where they fit. While Poinciana is primarily Catherine’s story, it is Robert’s that is more compelling. Having spent his childhood being loved and nurtured by a white family, raised as one of them, he begins to wonder about the darker faces around him, and what their lives might be, like Tante Lucie, wife of Gaetan’s station hand Oukanou:

Half asleep in the early morning, Robert hears Tante Lucie moving about before anyone else rises. She will be busying herself with the kettle and the wood fire. When the sun comes up he hears the creak of the back door and the chickens complaining. He imagines her out on her hard bare feet, wide and grained like old wood paddles, off to her tarodiere, her own small taro terrace, where she will break the earth and watch the water flow down the levels. Or cleaving the taro leaves, those needed to wrap the fish for lunch.

She stands in the earth. She belongs to it.

Robert has a place in each world, in each part of the community, and is able to straddle the divide for some time, to play peacemaker or to at least see the issue from both sides. But, as the chasm grows between the traditional owners of the land, now in the minority, and the white settlers, it seems that Robert will have to choose, or have a side chosen for him.

Author Jane Turner Goldsmith sketches for us the outline of the rising conflict in New Caledonia in the 1980s, and shades in some of the corners within that outline. Those portions of the picture she is able to draw for us are largely from the white perspective. Robert’s story gives us glimpses of the Kanak cause, but he has been brought up away from it, in a family unwillingly but increasingly opposed to it. Turner Goldsmith gives us a sensitive, sympathetic depiction of the divide, but it is of necessity a depiction from one side only of that divide.

Posted in Contemporary Fiction, New Caledonia, Uncategorized, Women Writers | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment