The Papalagi Never Have Enough Time
At the turn of the 20th century,/a Samoan chief named Tuiavii/spoke to his people about Western civilization. He believed that Westerners,/the “Papalagi,”/had become slaves to their technology.
In 1920,/a German writer,/Erich Scheurmann (1878-1957),/published a book of the chief’s speeches. The book was later translated into English/and became a bestseller.
We don’t know/if there ever was a real “Tuiavii,”/but his words give us a new way of looking at our lives.
The Papalagi love the round metal and the heavy paper,/and they love to drink a lot of liquid/made from fruit. But more than anything else,/they love what you cannot hold, yet exists/—time. They say a lot of foolish things about it.
The Papalagi are never happy/with the time they have. They keep complaining/that the Great Spirit has not given them more of it. They divide their day into small units. Each unit is given a name:/second, minute, and hour. Thinking about such childish things/only leaves me in confusion.
To the Papalagi,/however,/this seems to be extremely important. Men, women, and even small children/carry a small, flat, round machine. It seems that they can read the time/from this machine.
Moreover,/there are much larger and heavier time machines. Some of them stand inside the huts;/others hang below the highest roofs/so that you can see them from far off. When a segment of time has passed,/these machines scream/and their spirits strike against the iron/within their hearts. Yes,/there is a great noise/in the Papalagi’s European towns.
When the time noise occurs,/the Papalagi complain,/“Another hour has passed!” They put on sad expressions,/in spite of the fact/that a fresh hour has just begun. I have never understood this strange behavior. Yet,/from my perspective,/it appears to be a serious illness.
This surely is an illness among the Papalagi. When they want to do something/like enjoying the sun/or taking a boat trip down the river,/they will often end up ruining their plans,/thinking “I don’t have time to be happy.” Time is there,/but no matter how hard they try,/they cannot see it. They list a thousand things/which take their time. And they immerse themselves in work,/even though no one but themselves/forces them to do so.
Some Papalagi say/that they never have enough time. They run around without purpose,/making others unhappy/wherever they go. The problem is/that no medicine can cure this illness.
The Papalagi are so preoccupied with time/that they keep track/of how many times the moon and the sun have risen/since they were born. It is so important/that this annual event is celebrated with flowers and feasts. They often asked me my age/and I cheerfully admitted/I didn’t know. This made them feel sorry for me. They kept saying,/“You must know your age.” But I have often thought/ignorance is better.
In Europe,/there are very few people/who really have time/—possibly none. Most people rush through life/like stones thrown through the air. When they walk,/they look down on the ground. They throw their arms/as far ahead of themselves as they can,/trying to move faster.
I once met a man/who had lots of time and never complained. He walked slowly,/and his eyes had a quiet, friendly smile in them. But for some strange reason,/no one respected him. When I asked him about this,/he said sadly,/“I never knew/how to make use of my time,/so I am poor.” This man had time,/but he was also unhappy.
Time escapes the Papalagi/because they try to hold it too tightly. They don’t let it come to them. They always try to catch time with their hands,/and never let it relax/or enjoy itself in the sun.
Oh, beloved brothers! We have never complained about time. We have loved it/as it flows. We have never chased after it. We have never tried to cut it apart. We are happy with time. We don’t need more of it/than we have.
Our task is to free the poor, confused Papalagi/from their illusion. We must give them their time back. We must break their little round time machines/and tell them that there is more time/than any human being can use,/from sunrise to sunset.
At the turn of the 20th century,/a Samoan chief named Tuiavii/spoke to his people about Western civilization. He believed that Westerners,/the “Papalagi,”/had become slaves to their technology.
In 1920,/a German writer,/Erich Scheurmann (1878-1957),/published a book of the chief’s speeches. The book was later translated into English/and became a bestseller.
We don’t know/if there ever was a real “Tuiavii,”/but his words give us a new way of looking at our lives.
The Papalagi love the round metal and the heavy paper,/and they love to drink a lot of liquid/made from fruit. But more than anything else,/they love what you cannot hold, yet exists/—time. They say a lot of foolish things about it.
The Papalagi are never happy/with the time they have. They keep complaining/that the Great Spirit has not given them more of it. They divide their day into small units. Each unit is given a name:/second, minute, and hour. Thinking about such childish things/only leaves me in confusion.
To the Papalagi,/however,/this seems to be extremely important. Men, women, and even small children/carry a small, flat, round machine. It seems that they can read the time/from this machine.
Moreover,/there are much larger and heavier time machines. Some of them stand inside the huts;/others hang below the highest roofs/so that you can see them from far off. When a segment of time has passed,/these machines scream/and their spirits strike against the iron/within their hearts. Yes,/there is a great noise/in the Papalagi’s European towns.
When the time noise occurs,/the Papalagi complain,/“Another hour has passed!” They put on sad expressions,/in spite of the fact/that a fresh hour has just begun. I have never understood this strange behavior. Yet,/from my perspective,/it appears to be a serious illness.
This surely is an illness among the Papalagi. When they want to do something/like enjoying the sun/or taking a boat trip down the river,/they will often end up ruining their plans,/thinking “I don’t have time to be happy.” Time is there,/but no matter how hard they try,/they cannot see it. They list a thousand things/which take their time. And they immerse themselves in work,/even though no one but themselves/forces them to do so.
Some Papalagi say/that they never have enough time. They run around without purpose,/making others unhappy/wherever they go. The problem is/that no medicine can cure this illness.
The Papalagi are so preoccupied with time/that they keep track/of how many times the moon and the sun have risen/since they were born. It is so important/that this annual event is celebrated with flowers and feasts. They often asked me my age/and I cheerfully admitted/I didn’t know. This made them feel sorry for me. They kept saying,/“You must know your age.” But I have often thought/ignorance is better.
In Europe,/there are very few people/who really have time/—possibly none. Most people rush through life/like stones thrown through the air. When they walk,/they look down on the ground. They throw their arms/as far ahead of themselves as they can,/trying to move faster.
I once met a man/who had lots of time and never complained. He walked slowly,/and his eyes had a quiet, friendly smile in them. But for some strange reason,/no one respected him. When I asked him about this,/he said sadly,/“I never knew/how to make use of my time,/so I am poor.” This man had time,/but he was also unhappy.
Time escapes the Papalagi/because they try to hold it too tightly. They don’t let it come to them. They always try to catch time with their hands,/and never let it relax/or enjoy itself in the sun.
Oh, beloved brothers! We have never complained about time. We have loved it/as it flows. We have never chased after it. We have never tried to cut it apart. We are happy with time. We don’t need more of it/than we have.
Our task is to free the poor, confused Papalagi/from their illusion. We must give them their time back. We must break their little round time machines/and tell them that there is more time/than any human being can use,/from sunrise to sunset.