THE MEKE

Dominion, Volume 21, Issue 114, 11 February 1928, Page 24

THE MEKE

A FIJIAN DANCE

To a people without a written language, the perpetuation of events of historical importance is a problem not easily solved (says S. Speight in the "Sydney Moaning Herald"). Usually the chronicling of a bygone age, of a war, a famine, a national calamity, of the doings of some mighty chief, takes the form of a tale that is handed down from generation to generation, from century to century. In time these stories, even to the tellers, become vague and unreal, not so much the record of men and women with human failing and human aspirations as of beings invested with divine attributes and nuracuious powers. Thus we have the legends that still survive in our own language, the folk-lore of the primitive nations, the sagas, those wonderful old songs of the roving vikings. < The Fijian also has his legends, legends concerning the spirits that haunted the woods, the plains, the rivers, the mountains, legends that tell of the origin’ of, weird old customs —strange, strange tales' of long ago. But, whenever he wishes to commemorate for all time something, to him, of paramount importance, he tells it not only in song, but in dance. So have arisen the mekes, or Fijian dances, the word meaning more the story that is told than the actions which accompany it. So old are some of these mekes that frequently the singers themselves cannot tell the meanings of the words they use, as an .Englishman of to-day could only half understand the language of Chaucer.

To an observer at such a meke there is much that is interesting, not only in the dancing itself, but also in the preparations that are rendered necessary. These preliminaries constitute quite an art, the performers sometimes spending hours in self-adornment. Before the dance begins, they can be seen, under the spreading trees that hedge almost every Fijian village, slowly completing their attire. Here one man spins round like a top, while the women wind round his body length upon length of tappa; there another twists it about himself in raws, round his waist, his chest, under his arms, dropping loop after loop of it from each row. till it covers his body completely, shaking or flaring out suddenly as he moves. The Fijians still cling to their old materials, that have served them for centuries. The likus that they wear for these dances, long strips of material that hang in the form, of a skirt, are made from the leaves of the pandanus tree, specially prepared and dyed. Their wonderful "mas: kcs»," or native cloth (generally known to Europeans as tappa, from a name in nse in other of the islands of the Pacific) in an example of their art. To make it they have stripped the fibrous bark from the paper-mulberry tree, and soaked it and beaten it again and again until 'the ensuing product can almos* .compare with woven cloth. Their dyefi are their own (though here there is a growing tendency to make use of the white man’s products), and their perfumes, if such they can be called, are essentially their own—as the nearer approach of the dancers proves most conclusively. The performers, as they file into pOsi•bn for their dance, present a strange, almost weird aspect. Led by the gorgeously attired tuirara, master cf ceremonies. from whose great headdress float jong streamers of the closest, tappa, “‘eV stalk into the enclosure, taking up their places quickly and silently. Some of. them have their hair stained red—red. to the Fijian, being the most beautiful of all'colours— by years and years of the application cf lime. A number have for the occasion dyed it in varying patches of colour, a patch of yellow, or red. ■ortTac'k7or-ivFith’;’<FtTe-rra»alTl' have blackened their faces. Not a few, after rubbing themselves over with cocoanut oil. have sprinkled . over their bodies little ;pvaJ-slianed . petals.- like ..confetti. It is a. baxbacie.JMne;-biit-moje—to be rememfirfrfl“'tWni'“fl>e“ ’flaririg‘"fapiia, the streaks of paint on faces and bodies, the vivid colours, is the sharp pungent scent that clings to the dancers. It.is a blending of strange odours, in which that of cocoanut nil perhans predominates. To a white it is unpleasant, almost overpowering. But to the Fijian it is attar of roses.

The meke is usually held in the day time, during the afternoon, but for its true beauty to be appreciated. it must he seen at night, when the glow from the torches and the moon spreads a peculiar sheen to colour and a sombreness to shadow lacking in the clear light of the sun. It is hard to say which is the ihost beautiful of the varied Tdanees. Each tribe gives its meke, and there are mekes without . number—spoar-mSkes. clubmekes, and the nave-meke... the. batmeke, the snake-meke—and if some of them are rather monotonous, there; are many that are both strange and wonderful. One of the most common of them

all, although at the same time somewhat exceptional in that it is often performed by women, is the meke ni ua, the wavemeke. It is purely descriptive, but as a spectacle never to be forgotten. In time of the "lali" drum) the lithe brown bodies, of the performers posture, bend, and dip and turn, the scene a veritable maze of colour, with at first no evident pattern. ‘ But as dancer after dancer sways to the halting, never-ceasing beat, suddenly the pattern appears. Slowly, slowly, colours that showed bright darken and fade, vivid nues, half hidden before, blaze to the glow of the torches, and a broad wave of colour surges up and down ■lie lines—a rippling change from light to shadow, and from shadow to light, . weirdly, unexpectedly beautiful. And, . re. quite? suddenly, one realises what an artist the brown man can be. For this is the dance of the waves, and looking, one can see why if is so named, •fust so do the long green rollers come swinging grandly in, just so do the crests falter, hesitate, just so do the breakers crash over on to the reef, in a whirl of foam and flying spray. Kings of nuts bound about the arms 1 and legs of the dances rattle softly—and one hears the hissing of the little waves as, almost spent, they run up the sand; straining, .'straining, the stirring of millions of the “finitesimal coral shells that line the beach. Then there is the snake-dance, which "is performed by a writhing, twisting line of .warriors. ' For this dance little .decoration is needed, and the supple limbs show, to advantage, as, with the . hands of one man on the shoulders of the next; and body pressed close to body, the snake moves back and forth in slow rippling movements that pass in waves down his whole sinuous length. He swings to the left, to the right, turns suddenly back, his head darting hither and thither in search of prey, and as he sways to the never-ceasing beat of the drum, and the light flickers on bare brown backs, one can almost see the coils of a great water gata shimmering in the growing light of the moon.

Not less beautiful is the beka dance, the dance of the . flying foxes. ■ The bats have been. robbing the villagers of their fruit, and a number of indignant tree-owners band' themselves together to protect their property and to punish the thieves. There are variations to this, as to nearly all dances. On the occasion when the British fleet visited Fiji the bat was represented by a native who clung to a tree by his feet—ludicrous to us, but to the Fijian mind quite in keeping, for the native enters into the spirit of the dance with considerable fervour. He is a marvellous ,actor, probably because what he does seems to' him not so much acting as reality. But even more interesting, possibly because of their greater variety of movement, are the club-dances and the* spear-dances. These deal with great battles, and the "orchestra," which told of the swirling rush of the waves, the posturings of .the great snake, the depredations of the bats, now speaks of Homeric conflicts fought long ago. But the dancers! There is a new air about them now. This is no time for slow rippling movements, for beautiful patterns. This is man’s dancing. Two opposing factions face each other and go through the very life-like actions of mimic warfare. The warriors swing .forward in quick, short steps, their heels thumping the ground, fjiene halt as one man. The long wicked spears shoot up and forward, the points quivering within an inch of the foe. The excited fighters crouch, and feint, and spring swiftly back. The bunches of mast on their spear-heads, like the pennants on a lance, flutter, stream out, and the likus sway in sudden time to a lunge. Spear-butts 1 and heels meet the ground in a crashing -hud that shakes, the very brain. The voices of the'women rise shriller, more insistent. Harsh and savage beat: the little drum, urging the dahcers to an even greater frenzy of movement. Guttural come their shouts as they hurl their challenge or their reply. Club crashes upon club, or spear upon spear. There is a ferocity about it all that is only half feigned, for the warriors live again the fight of which the women sing. Such is the power of their arms that huge massive clubs whirl like feathers. The supple spears, as they shake them fiercely above their heads, actually whistle in the air. It is a peculiar sound, not a rustling, ■ not a droning, not a whispering, but a combination of all three, terrifying, awe-inspiring . . . And so it goes on, village after village giving its performance, and then making way for its successor, until at last all is over, and the natives prepare for the seemingly interminable final feast which to them is such an important part of the proceedings. But to the white onlooker, at least, the meke is over.