Dressed up in Paint and Feathers.See page 30.
Dressed up in Paint and Feathers.
See page 30.
Cooking Supper.See page 31.
Cooking Supper.
See page 31.
The Cradle.See page 32.
The Cradle.
See page 32.
Delena having taken the lead Matareu, the teacher at Queen Koloka’s village, tried to persuade his people to build themselves a new church. They would not undertake one of “Beritani” material, but began to collect, oh so slowly, the wood necessary for a new church after the old style. Plenty of patience is needed, even when you have engaged Papuans to do a piece of work and can tell them what they are to do each day, but when they are doing the work as a favour the man in charge wants to be a regular Job. Little by little the material was gathered, and now and then a few posts cut the required size, but Matareu and his own boys had to do most of the work. At last the frame was up and the thatch all ready to be put on. A day for this was appointed, but when it arrived the men all wanted to go hunting. Another day was chosen, but when that arrived the men found that the pigs were in their gardens and it was necessary for them to go and repair the fences. So it went on till at last Matareu was fairly tired ofthe “dohore” and the excuses, and when another appointed day arrived and the men did not put in an appearance, he and his boys set to work and before sundown had half the thatch in its place.
Little did he expect the trouble that was in store. Instead of being pleased when they saw how much had been done the men looked at it, and then passed sullenly on to their houses, and later on held a meeting in the club house. Matareu wondered what was the matter, but was not long in doubt, for along came Keo, the village policeman, evidently with some weighty message to deliver.
“Who has been putting the thatch on the church?” he asked.
“I have, with the help of my boys,” answered Matareu.
“Why have you done it?”
“Because I was tired of your saying ‘dohore’ so often.”
“You should have waited till we were ready.”
“I waited so long that I was tired. It was always ‘dohore,’ and I was afraid we should not have the roof on before the rains began.”
“You should have waited. You have done wrong. If these were the dark days we should take our axes and cut down the church and your house, and probably kill you.”
“Why? What have I done wrong?”
“You have broken our custom. Whenwe are building a new club house no one is allowed to touch the thatching till Koloka’s husband has put the first piece in position. I am glad for your sake that the dark days have passed. As it is the village men are all very angry.”
Matareu explained to the village assembled that he had offended in ignorance, but he and his boys had to finish the work themselves. They could get no more help.
This incident not only illustrates the difficulty there is in getting work done in Papua, but shows how a man with the best of intentions may get into trouble with the natives.
For the most part a missionary leads a hum-drum life, but at times excitements come in, and are as welcome as the plums in a sailor’s “plum-duff” if not too exciting. Most of these incidents occur in connexion with travelling. In the chapter dealing with visiting our district I shall tell you how we travel, but the experiences described in this chapter are chosen from different journeys, some of them in distant parts of the country.
After four years at Port Moresby I was ordered away so that I might try and get free from the fever. Communication with Australia was not frequent, and the first stage, as far as Thursday Island, was made with Tamate in theMary, the little boat built by the Mission on Murray Island. Our captain was a character. Formerly a pearl diver, he had been compelled to give up his occupation owing to diver’s paralysis. His qualification for the post was his experience of small boats, and never was a man more sureof himself. Few sailors take ships through the Torres Straits without having an anxious time, and as we sat on the deck in the moonlight Tamate remarked, “Well, cap’n, I hope you are not going to put us on the Portlocks or Eastern Fields”—both dangerous reefs. “No, Mr. Chalmers,” replied the captain, “I know just where we are. We shall see the opening in the Barrier Reef at about nine to-morrow morning, if this wind holds.” With that we went below. It was a tight pack the three of us in the little cabin, but two out of the three were soon sleeping soundly. Later on the third, who is now writing this, heard one of the boys on deck shout “’bout ship,” an unexpected order when we were supposed to be many miles from any land and on a sea rarely visited by vessels. That the reason for the order was a solid one there was no room for doubt, for the next minute crash, and the littleMarytrembled all through, and Number Three was shaken from his shelf-like berth right on the top of the little captain. Bump, bump, bump, went theMary, and as soon as the little hatchway would allow we got on deck, there in the glorious moonlight to have a view of the reef much before the time the captain had promised. We were right on top of it. In a few minutes both rudder and false keel had been wrenched off, and left behind, and after each wave had lifted the little vessel she came down with a crash that threatened to jump the masts out of her. That she did not go to pieces was owing to the good sound work that had been put into her on Murray Island.
Returning from Fishing.
Returning from Fishing.
Well, what were we to do? We were miles from any land. There were nine all told on board, and the dinghy would carry three in a calm sea. I admit I had a look at the hatch covers and wondered what sort of a raft they would make, and what travelling upon it would be like when it was made. There was nothing we could do that night, and fortunately the tide was falling, and soon theMarywas resting on her side without that sickening bumping. Adjusting ourselves to the changed angle of everything in the cabin, we went to bed, but not before the captain had told us that we were not far from the spot on the reef where some natives, when out diving, had found heaps of Spanish coins all of old date, and believed to have come from a Spanish ship wrecked in trying to get through the Straits, but so long ago that not a trace of her remained.
Next morning the tide was not high enough to float theMary, so I waded about the reef with the crew. My eyes were on my feet all the time, not because I was looking for more Spanish treasure, but because I had been warned not to tread in one of the giant clams which lay around. I soon forgot theMaryand her plight, in the delight at what I saw spread out at my feet. Water as clearas crystal allowed everything to be seen distinctly. All the colours of the rainbow were represented by both vegetable and animal kingdoms, but most beautiful of all was the sight of the open giant clams. The shell could hardly be seen, so completely was it draped by the waving fringes of the fish. A great bowl of flashing gems could not have produced a more sparkling effect; but behind all this beauty lay a cruel strength, for the shell could close with a grip that nothing could unloose, and the natives told of unfortunate men who had, while fishing on the reef, put their foot into an open shell, which had closed upon them and held them till the rising tide ended their agony.
The crew, however, wanted some of the fish to eat and managed to get them without danger to themselves. Taking a large piece of firewood they quietly approached the fish. A sudden movement would have caused it to close, and then nothing could have forced it open. Silently and adroitly the wood was placed between the two halves of the shell, which instantly gripped it, but could not close owing to the size of the wood. With another piece of wood shaped for the purpose the men then cut the live fish away from its shell, and did their cooking on theMary.
The reef was interesting and the talk of the native crew instructing, but the question was how were we to get theMaryoff and afloat in deep water again. The morning tide onlyrose enough to bump her, but in the afternoon when there was a higher tide, with each wave she lifted and we managed to punt her right over the reef, and at last she was afloat. Very few vessels have made the journey over the Great Barrier Reef, though many have struck it and gone to pieces.
It was a case of Reef to the right of us; Reef to the left of us; while behind us the Reef we had just left volleyed and thundered. The sun was down and we had to anchor, or run the risk of again getting on a reef. All night long the buckets had to be kept going, and the next morning with part of the crew still at the buckets, the other half managing the sails and keeping a look-out, and the two missionaries using big oars in place of the lost rudder, we made for Murray Island. There theMarywas hauled up on the beach, and on the spot where she was built and by the man who had superintended her building made ready for sea again. The work took a month to complete. That month on Murray Island cleared all the fever out of me, and did away with the necessity of the trip to Australia. Instead I accompanied Chalmers to the Fly river. Three not easily forgotten months resulted, and the poorMarycame in for more knocks, and once again lost her rudder, this time by striking a sunken log in the bed of the river.
One night, under stress of tide and wind she broke her cable and drifted ashorenear Saguane on Kiwai Island, where Chalmers was then forming his head station for the district. We thought we had taken our last journey in theMary. She settled down in the mud and sand and no amount of running out anchors and heaving on the windlass would move her, though everything possible had been taken out to lighten her. Amongst other things eighty bags of rice had to be got ashore. It required some manœuvring to get the Saguane people to carry that rice over the soft sand and mud. Each bag was supposed to weigh 50 lbs. It may have done, as it was taken over the side of the vessel, but every hundred yards through that mud and sand increased the weight, till it was more like 100 lbs. by the time the boat-house was reached. I know one of the carriers who, after his second journey, considered it his duty to remain in the boat-house and superintend the stacking of the bags as they were brought in.
On we worked till the east began to glow, and then feeling it was hopeless I made my way back to the teacher’s house and lay down for a sleep, as dead tired as ever in my life. There seemed no time to get comfortably settled when Chalmers rushed into the house, snatched up as many of my belongings as he could manage, and calling, “Come along; she is afloat,” made his way down to the shore. I followed, picking out of the mud such of my things as Chalmers had dropped.Just at the darkest moment, when there seemed little hope of theMaryever floating again, the wind had come from the land, and supplying that little help which the anchors required, had given us again the use of our little Mission vessel.
That was my last voyage in theMary. A few years later she went ashore at the mouth of the Kerema river, and there went to pieces. Years afterwards when walking along the coast we saw some of her ribs sticking up through the sand.
On the coast most of our travelling is done in a whale boat, and at night, to save the glare of the sun. Few experiences could be more enjoyable than such a journey when the night is fine and the sea calm, and there are willing boys at the oars or a gentle breeze filling the sail. No need to think of accidents then. The nights are not all fine, however, and the sea is not always calm. It can be very angry and rough and make those anxious who have to land on a surf-beaten coast. Most people who have lived for any time in Papua have had nasty experiences of this kind. I will tell you of one at Maiva.
Donisi Hahine and I had started for a journey, and as we expected to be away nearly a month, we had a boatload of baggage. We left Delena at night so as to reach Maiva in the early morning when the sea is usually at its calmest, but rain drove us back, and it was morning before we again got under way.That made it early afternoon when we were off the village where we wished to land. The sea looked angry, but not so angry as on many another time when we had got through safely. There was no chance of turning back. We had to land, so the rudder was unshipped and the big steer-oar put in its place, and the boat headed for the shore. Each roller took us nearer to that first line of white. At last we were in it and through it, and all seemed going well when old Kone shouted out, “Help me!” I threw all my weight on the oar, but it was too late to keep her straight, and the wall of foam on top of which we were riding gradually swung the boat broadside on and the next moment over she turned. The last thing I saw before the boiling sea went over us was my wife vanishing under the boat, and the first when I came to the surface again was some of the boys pulling her out from under the overturned boat. Fortunately we were able to get hold of the keel, and so kept afloat.
At such times strange thoughts pass through one’s mind, but I doubt if any of you would ever guess my wife’s first remark, when she got the water out of her mouth and eyes. It was so unexpected, but as the waves were jostling us together like so many corks, it was very much to the point when she called out, “Mind my hatpins.” Before we could mind them or anything else, another wave was over us; but no sooner had it passed than away went those hatpins.
Judging from the time my watch stopped we were hanging on to the boat for nearly two hours. Repeatedly the natives tried to get to us from the shore, but the sea would not let them. Close in shore was a deep passage with the water rushing along it like a mill stream, and those who tried to help us, not making sufficient allowance for the current, were carried beyond us. The boat would soon have drifted in with us clinging to the keel, had not the anchor fallen out when she turned over. That unfortunately kept us where the seas were breaking worst.
At last we lost our hold, and what happened next I hardly know. I can remember wishing that we had been Papuans with no clothes and no boots to hold the water and weigh us down, and that after that something struck me. I gripped it, and found it was an oar, and soon after that touched bottom. Thanks to the devotion of the boys my wife was ashore before me, and we were both practically unhurt, but had lost all we had with us in the boat. Food for a month, clothing, camp gear, camera, magic lantern—all had gone. While the clothes in which we scrambled ashore were being washed and dried it was a mercy there were no “snapshotters” about. Had there been the resulting pictures might have given amusement to others, but not to ourselves. We had to borrow from the South Sea teacher and his wife. Apart from their taste in dress not being ours,he happened to be a very short and a very stout man. I am not. My wife was a little, but not much, better off. Imagine, if you can, what we looked like, but do not expect me to give you details.
It was Friday when the accident happened. The journey could not be continued, as we had lost everything, and it was not till the Monday that the sea would allow of our damaged boat being launched for the return to Delena. During those four days we lived the “Simple Life.” Sweet potatoes and bananas are all very well as a change, but they pall when served regularly three times a day, and our teacher Paiti from Kivori was a welcome visitor when he brought us a loaf of bread of his own making and a little butter. Paiti was from Aitutaki in the South Seas, and few men can handle a boat like the natives of that Island. We were relieved when he undertook to see us safely started on the return journey. There was no luggage to pack, so all ready, and perhaps a bit anxious, we sat in the boat waiting. Watching each wave as it came in, at last Paiti gave the word to start. Those at the oars pulled; those in the water pushed; and with many a shout, and many a splash, and with the boat half swamped, we found ourselves outside the breakers, with Paiti perched up behind us handling the steer oar. Would he come on to Delena with us and there wait an opportunity to return to his village? No sooner was the questionasked than he promptly answered, “Good-bye, my father. I go now”; and with a header he vanished over the stern. Straight for the breakers he went with a long steady stroke. Time after time he vanished, but at last we saw him wade ashore, and signal that all was right, and then we shaped our course for Delena.
We returned much poorer than we started, but matters would have gone worse with us than they did but for Kone, Avi, and Aisi. They stuck to my wife and landed her safely. They perhaps will hardly understand such an expression of gratitude, but in that spirit I give you their photos. Of course we showed our gratitude in another way. They were told they could ask for what they liked. Their request was modest and utilitarian. Each wanted a bag of rice. He got it and more too.
The third accident took place on shore. All the world over feasting seems to accompany any special event, whether of rejoicing or regret. It was near the time of our English furlough, and a farewell gathering was arranged with the teachers. Their part was well managed and passed off without any accident. In solemn, slow procession they had marched round the house, telling us many nice things about ourselves, in a chant composed in English by one of the Samoan teachers, the chorus of which ran: “Good-bye, Misi Donisi. Do not forget us when youare far away on theIoane Uiliamu(John Williams).”
Donisi Hahine had spent much time in making preparations for the farewell feast, so that the spread might include more than the everlasting boroma (pig). Stores of tinned provisions that could neither be taken to England, nor used up before we sailed, were added to the menu. The long verandah of the teacher’s old house was the dining-room, banana leaves the cloth, not spread on a table, but down the centre of the verandah. The food that could not be accommodated on the dishes was piled all down the middle of the banana leaves, and then the teachers, their wives, and their children, all as smart as their best clothes and well oiled hair could make them, sat in two long rows, and at the one end stood the missionary to offer grace and then make a farewell speech. It was an important moment, and the children were eyeing the good things in a way that suggested the question, “How long before we can begin?” Alas! the house was an old one. The white ants had been busy. The food was plentiful, and many of the teachers and their wives were decidedly heavy weights. There was a crack, a crash, and what a transformation scene. In place of two rows of expectant guests, and a loaded table (or what took the place of a table) there was a great hole in the verandah floor, and at the bottom a mass of men, women and childrenmixed up with broken crockery and many kinds of food. Fortunately some of the joists held firm, and one by one those of the party who had not “gone below” withdrew to a place of safety, while others went to help the fallen and ascertain the extent of the damage. How so many fell nine feet without there being broken bones we cannot tell. Only a few scratches had resulted, but what a mess, and what a disappointment. Best dresses smeared all over food. Tinned meat and bits of roast pork to be picked from well-combed hair. A little extra grease did not matter there, for it was soon rubbed in, but one poor child had received the whole contents of a dish of tinned salmon outside, when he had intended having some of it inside. While the people were looking after themselves it was a grand opportunity for the dogs who had been waiting below for the scraps. Instead of scraps they helped themselves to the untouched feast, and various joints of pork and goat vanished into the long grass, where growls of envy as well as satisfaction told of desires unexpectedly gratified.
We bemoaned the accident, the damage to the house, and the loss of the provisions, but the dogs, and some of the outsiders who profited by our misfortune, would not have minded a frequent repetition of the performance.
Perhaps nothing stands more in the way of the advancement of the Papuan than his love for feasting and all-night dancing. Nearly every incident connected with his life, from his entering it to his leaving it, gives occasion for the feast and the dance, and if the energy put into these were spread over the year’s work in the garden, the hunting and fishing, he would rarely know what hunger means, and would be able to put by for a rainy day.
Waiting for Mother.See page 33.
Waiting for Mother.
See page 33.
The Front Steps.See page 34.
The Front Steps.
See page 34.
Papuan Treasures.See page 36.
Papuan Treasures.
See page 36.
Cooking Food Under the House.See p. 41.
Cooking Food Under the House.
See p. 41.
In some villages informal dances take place nearly every night, but for these no special preparations are made. A big dance is a more important matter, and is talked of for months before it comes off. Invitations are sent out, but not on printed cards. Someone representing the founder of the feast walks into a village, and in the easy, no-hurry-to-morrow-will-do style begins to tell that So-and-So is beginning to gather his food and fatten his pigs. Of course they all know what that means, and are prepared tosee the visitor produce some betel nuts (the fruit of the areca palm) and hand them round. Each person receiving a nut accepts it as an invitation. Perhaps the date has not been fixed, but later on word of that will be passed from village to village.
I have been present at several of these dances, and have seen as many as three thousand taking part. That was years ago, and I told many of you about it when I was in England, so I will deal with the last, the particulars of which are fresher in my mind.
Nara consists of a group of inland villages, not far from Delena. The principal village is Oroi, and there reigns Queen Koloka, the only woman I have known in Papua who is the recognized head of a village. Others may have plenty to say in the management of affairs through their husbands, but Koloka is the undoubted head, recognized by both husband and people, and is strong and wise and rules her people well. We were included in the invitation to her feast, and as a special inducement were informed that twenty-three pigs were to be killed.
The Delena people were busy for some days getting their feathers in order, and furbishing up their ornaments, and then started off ahead of us. The south-east wind made our progress slow, and the sun was nearly down when we landed with a three hours’ walk ahead of us. Lamps are great conveniences, butthey do not give much help in showing what is round your feet on a bush track, and Nara has its full share of snakes. The last half-mile of the track winds round the side of a hill, and here we suddenly found ourselves in the dressing-room of the Delena people. It was a dark night and fires had been lit at intervals, and round these were grouped the performers and their dressers. Here a wife was painting the lines and patterns on her husband’s face. There some girls were having their new grass skirts fitted, and cut away to the right length, so as to leave enough weight behind to give the required swing. Yonder one young man was arranging the hair of another, and next him was one blowing the oil over a companion’s body. Others were tuning the drums, and along the line went old men and women advising and criticizing. Tongues were busy as well as hands, and the firelight reflected from the gay feathers, the well-oiled bodies, and sparkling from the leaves and branches which met overhead, made a picture one longed to reproduce in colour.
Having traversed the whole length of this strange dressing-room, we reached the teacher’s house, and had time for an evening meal before the signal was given for the festivities to begin. The roll of drums could be heard in all directions, for eight villages were to be represented, and each had its own forest dressing-room. Then came the shrill callof a policeman’s whistle (certainly a new importation into a Papuan dance), and the first party marched in in Indian file, to the accompaniment of drum-beating and chanting. Their ball-room was an open space that might have been called the village green if only it had had grass growing upon it, and here they began to dance with the monotonous swinging of the body and slow lifting of the feet, distinctive of this district.
In quick succession in marched other groups representing other villages, till seven lots were in motion at one time. Each group of dancers supplied its own orchestra, nothing but the drum and the chant, and as there was no conductor to give the key and the time, seven different times and seven different keys were going simultaneously. Result—Bedlam, but happiness for the natives.
The ball-room floor was far from tempting. The village is built round the top of a hill, formed by an outcrop of stone, and the softer parts had worn away and left knife-like edges running from end to end of the village. These may have interfered with the comfort of the dancers, but certainly did not put an end to their performance. Hour after hour the same tom, tom, tom of the drums, the same chant made a little more objectionable as the voices became tired and hoarse. As any dancer became weary he withdrew without any effect upon the figure such as it was. Two at least who were present wearied of themonotony and wished they were back at the Mission House at Delena. Sleep was out of the question, and at last light began to show at the back of the great mountain range, and as it became stronger revealed a bedraggled remnant of those who had started with such energy some ten hours before. They were evidently tired out, but native custom would not allow them to stop till the all-important pig-killing had been accomplished, and they were called to receive their share.
Painfully deliberate were the movements of those in charge. The sun mounted higher, and the ground got so hot that the dancers were obliged to put more energy into their movements, like the much-talked-of cat on hot bricks. When they could bear it no longer their friends brought banana leaves and refuse from the food, and threw amongst their feet so as to make a carpet. The dancers never travelled over a great area, but it was amusing to watch how they now took care not to move off the leaves so thoughtfully provided for them.
Some of the weary men were, I think, relieved when we asked them to step out of the dance and let us take their pictures. The village club house was like a theatrical property shop. Feather head dresses eight and ten feet high were standing round the walls, hanging from the rafters, and one even on the roof. We hardly recognized some of our friends under the paint and feathers. Will any of you, I wonder, recognize an old friend in an unfamiliar head dress.
Miria the Sorcerer.See page 45.
Miria the Sorcerer.
See page 45.
Delena Church.See page 53.
Delena Church.
See page 53.
Nara Village and Church.See page 46.
Nara Village and Church.
See page 46.
Queen Koloka.See page 73.
Queen Koloka.
See page 73.
I remember once being told at a bacon-curing factory that three hundred pigs were often killed before breakfast, and that no unpleasant traces of the slaughter remained. Dispatch of that kind would not suit the Nara folk, nor would they care for so few traces of the slaughter. Under the club house lay the twenty-three pigs, their legs fastened together so that a pole could be passed through, and each pig carried head down. Much to the disgust of our boys we left the village as soon as the squealing of the pigs began, but those who remained behind to receive our share described how all the due formalities were observed. Koloka’s eldest son, Naime, is always master of the ceremonies. When all the pigs have been put in a row no one can lay a hand on them till Naime, with his fighting stick, has killed his pig by a blow on the side of the head. His cousin must then kill his and then the village men can kill theirs. Naime must also take the lead in the cutting up and distribution of the joints. The women and children are allowed certain small portions, but all that is considered best is appropriated by the men.
Great preparations had been made for this feast, and what was the occasion of it all? Five young men were to be invested with the Garter. Not the elaborately bejewelled Garter so much coveted by those of high degree, buta neat little pair of string garters made like the macramé work. Not much to look at, but to the native the sign that the wearer was now a man, and had a man’s place in the village. Five mothers had worked the garters for their sons, and when the day arrived, the sons were taken outside the village, and for once in a way their bodies were really cleaned and then carefully oiled before the garters were placed below their knees. They must not be seen, however, till after the feast, so that the legs are carefully swathed round with strips of bark cloth, and coated with red clay and oil. These five young men were the centre of the feast, and they were conscious of it. So fond of praise are they at such times, that they actually pay for it. As they strut round a friend will say, “Naime, you do walk grandly. Mine is a wallaby”; and Naime will later on go and catch the wallaby and give it to the friend who praised him before others. Another will tell Naime that he handles the drum well, and mention that he is fond of fish, and Naime is in honour bound to supply the fish within a reasonable time. One can well understand that too many friends may at such a time become a serious burden, but it is a burden that the praise-loving young fellow is quite willing to shoulder.
Some years ago the Editor ofNews from Afarhad a series of articles describing “How We Go” in different lands. Only one of the series dealt with Papua, and that mainly with a journey in a small cutter. In Delena district we have no cutter, so every journey must be made either in the whale boat, or a canoe, or by tramping. After the comfort of fast trains and trams in England, the labour of a short journey in Papua would be laughable if it were not so wearisome. To talk of a journey when the distance to be covered is only some 50 or 60 miles, seems absurd till you have had experience of it, and then you will measure the distance not by miles, but by hours or days.
These journeys are necessary because each missionary, in addition to the head station at which he lives, has charge of villages scattered over a wide area, where the South Sea and Papuan teachers who help him are doing their work.
If the journey is to be performed in comfort (and there is no need to seek discomfort, plenty will come in the ordinary way) careful thought must be given to the preparation. Much more has to be done than just pack a portmanteau, for everything that will be needed till the return must be remembered and packed, or done without, for nothing can be got on the way. Food is the first consideration, and if we are to be away three weeks, then it is not safe to start with provision for less than a month. A time-table may be made out, but that does not say that it is going to be kept. A tide may be lost, or a strong wind may blow, and then there is nothing for it but to “dohore,” or more often the real trouble of Papuan travel causes delay. Carriers cannot be got to take the baggage on to the next village. How many weeks are lost to travellers in Papua in the course of a year, from this cause alone, it would be difficult to estimate. The total would surprise one, and unfortunately no amount of arrangement will overcome the difficulty. Remembering this it will be well to be liberal in the estimate of the number of meals that will be required before we return to the starting-point.
Next comes the provision for paying the carriers and buying native food for them. A missionary from China once told me of the trouble caused by the quantity of Chinese cash that had to be carried on a journey. A big purse indeed would be necessary, but no pursewould be any good in Papua. A good sized box, heavy enough to require two men to carry it, takes its place. Instead of £s.d.it contains an assortment of barter goods. The real currency is black tobacco, made up in small sticks going 26 to the pound. For ordinary work three of these constitute a day’s pay, in the Delena district but do not imagine that the man who receives the pay smokes it all. As often as not when he has been paid he says, “Now give me a smoke.” His unbroken sticks of tobacco are like so many unchanged shillings. They are safe, and can be passed on in payment for food, but if once broken they are like the coppers—they soon vanish. One after another his friends will borrow, or beg—it amounts to the same thing in this case—till there is nothing of the original stick left.
Matches, print, knives, hooks, lines, mirrors, beads, hatchets—all find a place in the trade box. I have tried soap, but it does not “take.” Some of the Papuans will receive it as a present, but not as payment for work done.
Having provided for the inner man, and for paying our way, we next think of the saucepan, the “billy,” the frying-pan, lamps, bucket, hatchet, kerosene for the lamps, hammocks and tent if we are going to villages where we have no teacher, table requisites, and are careful to see that the mosquito nets are in the bag. Once only did I forget to dothis, and the lesson I learnt has never been forgotten. Beds one can do without, but not mosquito nets. Rice for the boys must not be overlooked, for it is not always possible to buy native food.
When all is ready it is a wonderful assortment, beating “Mrs. Brown’s Luggage,” and so wonderful that even a Waterloo porter would have his attention arrested, and wonder what it all meant.
Having made our preparations, now where are we going, and how are we going? The where you will find out as we go along, the how is answered by the whale boat, over the launching of which there has been so much shouting. The start is to be made about midnight, and to try not to be late, the crew are invited to a supper, and are kept about the place till it is time to load the boat. A wide margin must be allowed for this, or it will be long after midnight before we get away.
Midnight seems to be a strange time for starting, but it is chosen for reasons which can, like the sermon, be divided into three heads. Firstly: to escape the terrible heat of the sun. Secondly: to allow the strong south-east wind to die down, and make the pulling easier for the boys. Thirdly: to allow of landing at the end of the first stage early in the morning, when the sea is at its calmest.
There will be a big gathering to witness the start, but you must not run away with the idea that the white folks are the centre ofinterest. The men who form the crew have mothers and fathers and wives, and all have come to see them off, much as though they were going to the other side of the world. Now the start is not so distressing as it was a few years ago, when all the relatives considered it necessary to hug the members of the crew, and howl over them as though they had little hope of ever seeing them again.
As we have no landing-stage the passengers will have to submit to being carried to the boat, and if they have any respect for their clothes they will look out that the men who carry them have on some kind of covering, otherwise they may find themselves smeared with reddish oil. Papuans would never take a first-class certificate as stevedores. The boat is large and has plenty of room for all the cargo, but unfortunately the crew seem to think it necessary to put all the big, awkward things at the stern where the passengers’ legs ought to go, and the locker is always full of high-smelling blankets and small bags belonging to the crew. A certain amount of re-stowing is necessary, and perhaps rearrangement of the boys at the oars, and then we settle down for the remainder of the night. We are bound for the Nara and Kabadi villages, but as we are short of one man in the crew, we call at Geabada. No one lands; but in answer to our “Coo-e,” Avi the teacher appears. We inform him of our need and turning round he soon wakes the village andasks for a volunteer. Many questions have to be answered as to how long we shall be away, where we are going, and who forms the crew, before a man steps into the boat, rubbing his eyes as though they were full of sleepy-dust. As soon as he gets hold of an oar he is all awake, and again we get under way. The night being dark there is nothing to see, and the boys beguile the time by telling of experiences they have had at each point as they pass it. One yarn leads to another, and interesting bits of native history come to light, especially if there happens to be in the boat an older man who was with Lawes or Chalmers on their early journeys.
At last light begins to show behind the Owen Stanley range to our left, and the beauty of the sunrise is often worth the long hours in the boat. We are in good time, so will land and have a morning cup of tea. Water is in the boat, and firewood is all around, so there is not much time lost, and while we are enjoying real “Billy tea” the boys are roasting bananas in the fire. Had we been smart we might have had turtle eggs for breakfast, for natives coming along a few hours later found that our fire was made within a couple of yards of a nest containing a bucketful of eggs.
Nara Dancers.See page 75.
Nara Dancers.
See page 75.
Delena Man at Nara Dance.See page 76.
Delena Man at Nara Dance.
See page 76.
Who is he?See page 77.
Who is he?
See page 77.
Round the Rocks.See page 79.
Round the Rocks.
See page 79.
In less than an hour we have again started, and another hour brings us off the opening of Namoa Creek. The entrance is so hidden by mangrove trees that it is well we have onboard boys who know it. There is barely room for the boat to enter, but once inside there is deep water, and the boat will be safe till we return to her in about three weeks.
Unloading the boat takes less time than loading her, and having seen that the boys have made her fast at both ends, we get ready for the walk inland. There are plenty of volunteers to carry the small packages, but none of them like the look of the boxes. Apportioning the various loads takes time, but at last it is done, and seeing that the food box and our clothes have gone ahead of us, we start, leaving what we cannot carry till we can send men down from Nara.
The road leads away through the forest, and being a government road is at least six feet wide. It is impossible, however, to make use of the whole six feet, for natives never walk side by side, and the beaten track worn just wide enough for their feet winds along like a great snake. Sweet-potato vines are the only thing I know harder to walk in than one of these tracks. The rain cuts it deeper and deeper, till it is a gutter not more than a foot wide, and often deeper than that. One may want to look about at the trees and the butterflies, but it must never be forgotten that you must look well where you are going, or a tumble will be the result.
We have not got as far as that part of the track which was used as the dressing-room on the night of the Nara dance, when we meetMatareu the teacher. Some one has gone ahead and told him we are on the way, and he has come to take us to the house, while the men with him go on to the creek for the baggage we have left behind. The house is built on the side of a steep hill, so we enter it at the back, and walking through to the front verandah have a view we are not likely to forget. We have the village immediately in front of us, then the green hills and valleys, and away in the distance mountains rising higher and higher till Mount Victoria is lost in the clouds. We may be tempted to linger and watch the play of light and shade over it all, but after a night in the boat the first need is food, and then a rest. All we shall want, even to the water, is in the food box, and if we cannot buy some bananas for the boys then the rice must be opened. If possible however, that is kept as a reserve. This time there is no need to touch it, for along comes Queen Koloka with a few of her grandchildren carrying bowls of cooked yarns and bananas, while she herself has hanging down her back a netted bag containing a few choice uncooked yams for roasting.
The preparation of the food does not take long, and before we have finished ours the boys are stretched in all positions, heads resting on any article of baggage they could get hold of, or on their folded arms, and sleeping as soundly as on feather beds. After a word or two with Koloka and having givenher a present that will keep her occupied for some time, we too seek a rest; but the children are inquisitive, and the dogs are on the prowl for any scraps they can find, so the rest is disturbed, and before long we get up and have a talk with Matareu and hear how matters are going in his village.
At Nara it is always a feast or a fast. A feast when it rains, and a fast soon after the dry season has begun. The people are feeling the pinch now and consequently spend most of their time in the forest hunting for food. Of course they take their children with them, and the teacher is discouraged because of the small attendance at school. Knowing that we were coming most have remained in the village to-day, but they want to get away hunting, so we will have school at once. A little fellow takes a cow-bell and walks round the village ringing it all the time, and when he has made the complete circuit the big bell hanging at the end of the house is rung as the final signal, and we go to the neat little church you can see in the right of the picture, and about which I have told you in chapter vi. Between forty and fifty children are present, and at the back of the church are fathers and mothers and uncles and aunts who have come to see how the youngsters acquit themselves. The strongest points are reading and the catechism, but some can write fairly. After school small presents are given to the children, and then they are free to go and huntin the bush for all kinds of queer things for supper.
The missionary is wanted to see a sick man at the far end of the village, and as we go we can notice that the houses differ from those at Delena. The village is built in sections. Long sheds with open fronts face the centre, and at the back of these, and at right angles to them, are the houses proper, each consisting of one room. The long shed is used by all the occupants of the houses at the back, who belong to one Iduhu or family. All the buildings look rickety, but as the wood is all very hard they last well.
The front steps at Delena may be poor, but those at Nara are poorer, and certainly of lighter build, but they do what no steps in England can. They serve to close the house and show that the owner is not at home. Really nothing more than a rough ladder, a little wider at the bottom than at the top, the owner, when he goes out detaches them and hangs them across the front of the house. Not much protection, one would think, but quite as much as a piece of vine tied across is at Delena.