As our dinghy breasted the surf, the men waded out towards us and, slightly to my consternation, suddenly picked up the canoe bodily with me in it and carried it on their shoulders out of the sea and up the beach.  I was met by a group of men playing pan pipes.  I climbed out of the canoe and walked up an avenue of warriors holding spears who had painted their faces with white stripes and dots.  Ahead of me a small man was standing beneath a ceremonial arch.  He wore a waistcoat of shell beads and a broad-brimmed hat with a bead veil all around its rim.  This must be Moro.  Everyone was shouting […] When I was a few yards from Moro and about to shake his hand a choir broke out with God Save the Queen.  I knew, at least, what British ritual demanded at this point.  I stood to attention.  So did Moro.  The anthem came to an end.  I put my hand forward towards him but had to withdraw it.  The massed choir had started on a second verse.  They knew more words of the British national anthem than I did.