The Ta~nifa of Samoa

Many years ago, at the close of an intensely hot day, I set out from Apia, the principal port of Samoa, to walk to a village named Laulii, a few miles along the coast.  Passing through the semi-Europeanised town of Matautu, I emerged out upon the open beach.  I was bound on a pigeon-shooting trip to the mountains, but intended sleeping that night at Laulii with some native friends who were to accompany me.  With me was a young Manhiki half-caste named Allan Strickland; he was about twenty-two years of age and one of the most perfect specimens of athletic manhood in the South Pacific.[15] For six months we had been business partners and comrades in a small cutter in which we traded between Apia and Sava’ii—­the largest island of the Samoan group; and now after some months of toil we were taking a week’s holiday together, and enjoying ourselves greatly, although at the time (1873) the country was in the throes of an internecine war.

A walk of a mile brought us to the mouth of the Vaivasa River, a small stream flowing into the sea from the littoral on our right.  The tide was high and we therefore hailed a picket who were stationed in the trenches on the opposite bank and asked them in a jocular manner not to fire at us while we were wading across.  To our surprise, for we were both well known to and on very friendly terms with the contending parties, half a dozen of them sprang up and excitedly bade us not to attempt to cross.

“Go further up the bank and cross to our olo (lines) in a canoe,” added a young Manono chief whose family I knew well, “there is a ta~nifa about.  We saw it last night.”

That was quite enough for us—­for the name Ta~nifa sent a cold chill down our backs.  We turned to the right, and after walking a quarter of a mile came to a hut on the bank at a spot regarded as neutral ground.  Here we found some women and children and a canoe, and in less than five minutes we were landed on the other side, the women chorusing the dreadful fate that would have befallen us had we attempted to cross at the mouth of the river.

“E lima gafa le umi!” ("’Tis five fathoms long!”) cried one old dame.

“And a fathom wide at the shoulders,” said another bare-bosomed lady, with a shudder.  “It hath come to the mouth of the Vaivasa because it hath smelt the blood of the three men who were killed in the river here two days ago.”

“We’ll hear the true yarn presently,” said my companion as we walked down the left-hand bank of the river.  “There must be a ta~nifa cruising about, or else those Manono fellows wouldn’t have been so scared at us wanting to cross.”

As soon as we reached the young chief’s quarters, we were made very welcome, and were obliged to accept his invitation to remain and share supper with himself and his men—­all stalwart young natives from the little island of Manono—­a lovely spot situated in the straits separating Upolo from Savaii.  Placing our guns and bags in the care of one of the warriors, we took our seats on the matted floor, filled our pipes anew, and, whilst a bowl of kava was being prepared, Li’o, the young chief told us about the advent of the ta~nifa.