How we Go
Some years ago the Editor of _News from Afar_ had 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 purse would 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 do this, 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 of interest. 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 and asks 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.
[Illustration: NARA DANCERS.
_See page 75._]
[Illustration: DELENA MAN AT NARA DANCE.
_See page 76._]
[Illustration: WHO IS HE?
_See page 77._]
[Illustration: 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 on board 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 meet Matareu 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 given her 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 hunt in 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.
[Illustration: BREAKFAST ON THE BEACH.
_See page 84._]
[Illustration: THE PAPUAN TAILOR.
_See page 89._]
[Illustration: A LONG DRINK.
_See page 96._]
[Illustration: OA.
_See page 99._]
The Nara men are great hunters and consequently think much of their dogs.
A native dog is quite capable of climbing the ordinary steps into the
house, but his master is thoughtful enough to provide a separate set for
him, with a back so that his feet cannot slip through. It is interesting
to watch a dog going home. He goes away from the house as though he
had no connexion with it; then turns round and starts straight for it,
and as he gets nearer increases his speed. With a rush he starts up the
steep steps, and if fortunate vanishes over the top and into his home. If
unfortunate he just falls back to the ground, and goes through the whole
performance again, only with a little more energy.
In front of one house a man is doing a bit of tailoring on his own
account. His material is neither best broad cloth, nor shoddy, for he
gets it from the bark of a tree. It was too thick for his purpose when he
peeled it from the tree, so he thinned it out by placing it on a log and
beating away with a piece of wood shaped like a plumber’s bossing stick.
We are too late to see that part of the performance, but in time for the
marking of the pattern upon the suit. Aua has filled his mouth with bark
and lime and chewed it till he has a plentiful supply of red saliva.
Then folding the bark cloth he passed the folded edge through his lips,
leaving a dull red stain; then another and another fold till the other
end of the strip is reached and the new suit of clothes is complete. No
visit to the tailor necessary, bark and lime supply all he needs, and
there is no tailor’s bill to follow.
I do not remember seeing the performance that particular afternoon,
but may as well tell you now what goes on when a girl is having a new
dress. The materials are three in number, and can all be found near
the village. The fibre is obtained from the sago palm, and the dye from
a root and some dark mud, boiled together in a cooking-pot. The fibre
is teased out till it looks like lengths of untwisted manilla rope.
Small bunches of this are knotted on to a string, which is to form the
waist-band, and in sufficient numbers to hang like a kilt all round the
girl. For the present no uniformity of length is aimed at, but care is
taken to have panels of red and yellow alternating, and across some of
these panels will be dark stripes. When all is dry the girl has to be
fitted, and this is not done in the privacy of the dressmaker’s room. The
girl mounts a stump or a stone in front of an old relative, with the new
dress hanging in uneven lengths around her. The relative takes a knife,
if she has one; if not, a shell; and if even that cannot be found handy,
then the teeth can be used as scissors, and going all round trims off the
dress till it hangs just right. That means that enough has been taken
off the sides, and enough left on the back to enable the girl, as she
goes along, to swing her tails behind her. Many a sly glance have I seen
directed over the shoulder with a view to finding out whether the effect
was all that could be desired.
If two girls are seen with the same markings on their skirts it may be
taken for granted that they belong to the same family, or are at least
cousins. Each family has its own particular pattern, and woe betide
those who try to infringe the copyright.
The sick man having been attended to, on the way back to Matareu’s house
we notice that big pigs have begun to gather in the village. They have
been away foraging all day, but as it is nearing the time for the evening
meal they have not only put in an appearance, but are loudly demanding
attention. Some go so far as to put their forefeet on the ladders as
though they would mount and help themselves to what they could find. In
Nara wooden troughs much like small canoes are provided, and when the
food is put in some one has to mount guard to see that a stranger does
not get his snout into the wrong trough.
A sure way to gather a crowd at any village is to show the magic lantern,
and word is soon passed round that there will be an exhibition in the
church that evening. Many a strange experience have I had with the
lantern.
At one village where some twenty years ago they had scarcely seen a white
man, and where a teacher had only been settled for a few months, the
people took some persuading before they would come in to the church after
dark. When the circle of light was thrown upon the sheet a deep gasping
breath was taken by all, and a mixture of a sigh and a shudder was quite
audible. All might have gone well had the operator been content to
proceed quietly from this point, but the spirit of mischief prompted the
desire to see what would be the result of a chromotrope. It was fatal.
No sooner did the coloured rings begin to revolve as though they would
overwhelm the audience, than with one yell men, women and children made
for the doors and windows. Each one was blocked by a struggling mass and
there seemed danger of the building being carried away. For that night
the show was over as far as the village people were concerned.
At Ukaukana, years later, the church was cleared in another way. A
large head of a former chief of the village was thrown upon the sheet,
the operator forgetting for the moment that the man was dead. A great
stillness fell upon the gathering, so noticeable that the operator looked
the other side of the sheet. There were the people with their heads as
low as they could get them without knocking their noses on the floor,
all crawling to the doors as fast as they could. Then the mistake was
recognized, but too late. Naime had a bad name as a sorcerer while still
alive, and the ordinary size for a big well-built man. If he was bad
then, what must he be now when he was many sizes larger. Something of his
power might hang about the enlarged picture, so that people would not
take the risk. Once more the teacher and my own boys formed my audience.
A third experience was of a more exciting kind. At Hula the people were
taking but little interest in the pictures, and to stimulate them two
boys were placed between the lantern and the sheet, and after their
shadows had been recognized by their friends were told to wrestle. All
went well at first, but when the youngsters began to put more energy into
the business one of them got hurt. His friends came to his rescue. Then
the other boy’s friends joined in, and in a moment there was a tangled
mass of sheet, rope, and human beings on the floor, and to save a fire I
snatched up the lantern and made my way out of the building by the back
door.
Nara people are accustomed to the lantern, and there were no accidents
that evening. All the pictures interested them, and they listened to the
description of a set illustrating the life of Moses. At first the natives
do not seem able to see the picture, or fail to connect ideas with it.
Then comes in the use of pictures of their own village and their own
people. They can connect the idea and the picture, and so pass to ideas
conveyed by pictures of things and places they do not know.
It was a relief to find there was to be no dancing on this night, and
that we were able to get a good night’s rest and be ready for the start
the next morning. Carriers had to be engaged and then there was all the
packing up to be done again.
The village we were making for was Ala-ala, and to get there we had to
traverse a long switch-back. Down from the village into the valley;
then up again as high as the village we had left; down again and up
again. In this way some three hours were spent, but as part of the time
we were in a tunnel cut through the forest, it was pleasant. Out on the
grass land the sun gave trouble and the sea breeze was missed. Ala-ala
is but a small village and the teacher an old man who in his younger
days had travelled much with Tamate. His wife’s idea of cleanliness and
Donisi Hahine’s did not at all agree. The one thought that if a piece of
new calico was spread over a pillow or a mat it did not matter what was
underneath. Donisi Hahine wanted to see what was underneath, and then
there was a lot of changing and cleaning before the camp for the night
was arranged.
I think it was the first time a white woman had been in the village, and
the people, and in particular the old women, were anxious to show due
attention, or maybe satisfy their curiosity to the full. Their attention
was overpowering, and would have been more acceptable at a little
increased distance. The small house was decidedly overcrowded that night.
Even the lantern in the village did not completely clear it, and a number
of young babies, probably excited by the unusual gathering, kept up a
chorus all night.
Next morning we went down into a valley, and through what in the wet
season is a swamp, and then a gradual rise till Diumana was reached.
Here the village is fenced, not with a view to safety but to keep the
pigs in and prevent their visiting the gardens, which are on the slopes
around the village. The Mission has its own little fence some distance
from one end of the village, but what between lack of energy and sickness
the teacher has not built much inside that fence. When his house will
be finished it is hard to say, and we spent the night in the little
temporary hut.
There is no church in the village yet, and the services and school are
held in the dubu, or club house. In the old village half a mile away,
this was a large building with elaborately-carved posts, but in the
present village is only a shed raised some seven feet from the ground.
Here preparations were made for school and for the baptism of some
children. Native gear, such as hunting-nets and drums, was soon removed,
and a small table—a very small one—and two boxes introduced by way of
furniture. First the children were examined, and then the service begun,
but before it was half through it was suddenly interrupted. A loud crack,
and ejaculation from the people, and half of them jumped to the ground.
It was evident that the congregation was larger than usual, for the floor
had given way, and there would have been a nasty accident, but for the
prompt action of those who jumped down and held the breaking pieces of
wood in position while the rest of us dismounted as quickly and quietly
as possible. Nothing worse happened than our having to finish the service
on the ground on the shady side of the building instead of under the roof
on the platform.
One great drawback to Diumana is the lack of good water. What there is
has to be brought from a water-hole a long way from the village, and the
only pots the people have are procured from coast villages. By looking
about them they have, however, found a good substitute. Bamboo grows
plentifully in the neighbourhood, and from a well-grown length of this
the divisions at the joints are knocked out, and at once there is a
bucket seven or eight feet long. In the afternoon the girls and women
can be seen returning from the water-hole, each with a couple of these
long buckets carried as a soldier carries his rifle. They are too awkward
for taking into the house so stand outside. To find out how such buckets
were handled I asked for a drink, and was told to squat down as low as I
could, and take the open end of the bamboo and put it to my lips. I did
so, and then the boy who held the other end lifted it. Of course it was
said to be an accident, but boys are boys all the world over, and he who
had the lifting of that other end could not resist the temptation, or
did not try. The result was the same. He lifted just a little too high,
and a little too quickly, with the result that the missionary got plenty
of water outside, but very little inside, much to the amusement of the
crowd.
The Papuan generally can do with little water inside, and the people
of Diumana, having far to fetch it, manage with a surprisingly small
quantity outside. This makes them unpleasant near neighbours. They take
a bath when they happen to be caught in the rain, or when they visit the
coast.
That night for the magic lantern we did not trust the Dubu which had
refused to carry our weight in the afternoon, but hung the sheet at the
side of a house, and feared no fall, for we were as low as we could get
to begin with.
Next day as we were going to a village where for the time being there was
no teacher we did not move our camp. The food box is known to our boys as
“Hari maua kakakaka” from its being painted red, so that we can easily
see if it is with us, and not left behind as on one occasion when at the
end of a long tramp we found ourselves without water or food. This box
provided all we needed for the day, and we were to return to Diumana for
the night.
Less than a mile from Diumana to the right of the track is a beautiful
group of palms. Sago, areca and cocoanut all tower above the surrounding
vegetation. In the order given they might be taken to typify dignity,
slender grace, and real utility. Looking at the sago palm one wonders
how men can approach it near enough to cut it down, so formidable are
the thorns that cover its lower fronds. One by one the workman has to
remove those fronds till he can get to the main stem. Even the thorns
have a use, for long strips of the frond covered with thorns four and
five inches long, are bound to the stem of the areca palm, and present a
surface that none can climb. In this way the owner protects his property.
Oa, the chief of Bokama, good old friend that he is, has heard that
he may expect a visit, and is on the look-out. Down the hill from the
village he comes, dressed, not in his Papuan best, but his real Beritani
Sunday best. A gay waist cloth, and an Oxford mat shirt, and his shock
of hair tied up in a red printed handkerchief. Just a few of his native
adornments give the finishing touches. If you care to try a real Papuan
salutation Oa will oblige you as you are a friend of mine. If you do not
care to try it you had better let me go first, as Oa always expects me
to indulge him. He gives me a good hug and we rub noses, and then taking
my hand he leads me to his Dubu, and calls for his daughter to bring
cocoanuts. When he thinks the delay has been as long as decency demands,
and if he sees no tobacco forthcoming, he will pick up his baubau (bamboo
pipe) and look at it. Of course that is enough and he passes it and the
tobacco over to one of the younger men, and when it is alight has the
first pull himself, and then passes the baubau round as a pipe of peace.
Oa’s Dubu is much like the one that gave way at Diumana, except that
on one side the roof comes down and joins the floor, making a wall. Of
ornamentation there is little except a collection of bones. These attract
attention, and Oa is nothing loth to talk about them. The pigs’ jaws need
little explanation. They are a record of the number killed for the feasts.
Bound to one of the wall plates were much longer jaws, and these we found
belonged to crocodiles which were caught in a way that causes us not a
little surprise. They must belong to a different class from those at the
coast or the men would never venture to take them as they do. There is
no doubt as to the method, for the same account is given at different
villages throughout the district.
The crocodiles are found in the lagoons, and usually sleeping in the mud
at the bottom. The hunter wades in and feels about with his feet till he
touches one of the creatures. That would be enough for most folks, and
they would make for the bank in double quick-time, but not so our hunter.
He stoops down and begins to stroke the crocodile. They say the animal
likes it and remains perfectly still while the hunter introduces a rope
under its legs and round its back, keeping up the stroking all the time
with the other hand. When all is ready he suddenly pulls the rope tight
and then the struggle begins: at one end the crocodile, at the other the
natives; the crocodile lashing with his tail, and the natives pulling for
all they are worth. It is a grand tug-of-war, and if the animal is a big
one it may be some time before he is landed, but that he will be landed
there is little doubt, for the people say that one rarely escapes when
once the ropes have been made fast. Clubs finish the struggle, and then
comes the feast. The flesh looks all right but I have never been able to
bring myself to eat it. When the bones have been picked clean the lower
jaw is added to the collection in the Dubu.
In another part of the Dubu is a collection of lengths of the backbone
of some creature. These, Oa informs us, belonged to large carpet snakes.
They are plentiful in the district and the Nara people consider them a
delicacy. They not only hunt them along the ground but follow the great
beautifully marked creatures into the trees, and I have seen a man
holding on to the tail of one with his teeth while he moved his hands
to get a better grip. Some of the men seem to have no fear in handling
the carpet snake, and one adept hunter, when I expressed surprise at his
allowing a creature at least ten feet long to writhe round him, explained
that it could do him no harm as he had hold of its neck and the tip of
its tail. The head seemed easy of explanation, but not the tail, till
he gave the fuller information that a carpet snake cannot crush a body
unless it has its tail round some solid substance.
One of our boys who had not previously eaten snake, came to us that
evening and said that he had eaten a whole one (it could not have been
a ten-footer), and that it was “Digara bada.” He knew no praise beyond
that, which was his way of saying it was not only fat but all that was
good. Next day he did not seem so sure about it, and since then has not
eaten snake at all.
This might almost be called a Natural History section, for there is still
another animal for you to hear about. It is reported from many districts,
but in Nara one family has adopted it as the family coat of arms, and
carved it on the posts of the Dubu. They call it lolio, and I believe it
is a species of Iguana, a curious climbing reptile. I have seen one which
some white men captured to send to Europe, so I know the animal exists,
but hesitate to accept some of the stories the natives tell about it.
That they dread it there is no doubt, as the following story will show.
Report came to Nara that a lolio had been seen on the bank of a creek,
and a native who was used to a white man’s gun went to look for it, but
when near the creek his courage failed him till he remembered that he had
something more than a spear in his hand. Creeping nervously nearer he
caught sight of the animal, and much relieved called to his friends, “It
is only a crocodile.”
The lolio is reported to steal children and take them up trees, and is
said never to run away from a man. The man runs away from him, but can
find no safety in climbing a big tree, as the lolio can climb better and
quicker than he. The only safety to be got is by climbing a tree just big
enough to bear the man’s weight, but too small for the lolio to grasp, as
he cannot climb if his claws meet at the back of the stem.
It is strange that an animal cunning enough to cover itself with leaves
and lie in wait for its prey, should nearly always make the mistake of
leaving a little of its whip-like tail exposed, and so betray itself. In
two places nearly a hundred miles apart I heard a story of men finding
the lolio so hid, and quietly and securely knotting the tip of the tail
to a tree, and so holding the animal in position while it was killed, in
the one case by arrows and the other by spears.
Having examined Oa’s museum, now look at the building on the other
side of the village. The square one without a verandah, and with steps
with treads like those you are accustomed to, not like the bars in a
hen-roost—that building has a history. The first teacher placed in the
village was a Papuan. He held his services and his little school in the
Dubu, but upon a subsequent visit my attention was drawn to the new
building by all eyes being turned that way when I entered the village. It
was evident the people intended I should see the result of their work.
Without consulting me at all they had built themselves a neat little
church, under the guidance of the young Papuan who was their teacher,
and in that church later on Oa and two of his relatives were baptized,
and some of the children of the village learnt to read. Unfortunately
the village has been without a teacher for some time, but the man from
Diumana visits it for the Sunday services.
Beyond Diumana are two small villages. Lalime and Tubu. These had to be
visited, but as it meant a long tramp in the hottest part of the day,
Donisi Hahine remained in Oa’s Dubu while I was away. Exactly how the
afternoon was spent history does not record, but this much is known. The
old men of the village felt their responsibility, and kept guard in the
Dubu. When one was tired he just lay down where he was and went to sleep,
while others sat up and talked and had a smoke. Owing to the language
difficulty they and their guest could hold little communication except by
signs.
It was dark before we reached Diumana and that evening we did not indulge
in the lantern, though the people would have been quite willing to see
the same pictures again.
The next day’s journey was to be a long one, so no time was lost in
the morning in packing and starting. Fresh carriers had been engaged
over night and a home-made palanquin rigged up to give Donisi Hahine
a lift on the way when she required it. We had done a good two hours’
walking when a halt was called for breakfast, and then all hands wanted
to huddle up close to our “red box” and cook their food in our fire. A
rearrangement had to be made before we could have our meal in peace. The
halt was a short one, for we were only at the beginning of the journey.
With regret we left the interesting shady forest road and began the weary
miles along the open beach. The sea breeze was acceptable, but the soft
sand made heavy going, particularly for those carrying the baggage. Rests
became frequent as midday drew near, and no one was sorry when shade
enough was found for the midday halt. Hour after hour along the sand made
us ask, “Is that point the last?” and the sun was getting low before the
boys were able to answer “Yes.” Hisiu was so far beyond that point that
another halt was called for tea.
At the end of a heavy day the Samoan welcome we received from Fareni
and his wife was doubly acceptable. Their one concern was that the
old teacher’s house was unsafe. They were living on a platform with a
roof over it, but without walls, and this they placed at our disposal,
together with their table, and with our boxes for seats and mats for beds
the place was soon furnished. Before the evening meal was over curtains
of cocoanut fronds were hung round, and our camp was comfortable as well
as rather out of the common.
[Illustration: HISIU GIRLS IN THEIR BEST.
_See page 106._]
[Illustration: MORABI VILLAGE.
_See page 110._]
[Illustration: BAD WALKING: OVER THE MANGROVE ROOTS.
_See p. 114._]
[Illustration: FAFOA WITH HER BOY AND PAPAUTA.
_See p. 125._]
People in England, whether believers in Christianity or not, pay tribute
to its founder every time they date a letter. The Papuans now acknowledge
Him by making their calculations from His day. The SABATE they call it.
The boys all knew that the next day was Sabate, and that we should not
travel, but remain at Hisiu. Those who had clothes had managed to keep
them fairly clean for that day, and those who had none, borrowed from
those who had, with the result that a small singlet fell to the lot of
the biggest man of the party. Still he was satisfied, and no one was
surprised at his odd appearance.
Soon after six in the morning the people were called to the first service
by a bell which they had purchased for themselves. How different the
surroundings and the gathering from anything to be seen in England:
the walls and the roof of the church supplied by the palm; the floor
made from old canoe boards; the reading-desk by the teacher from
packing-cases; the seat round the wall also from old canoes. Then the
congregation. Our own boys had more clothing than the rest of the
congregation all told. In the first few rows sat the children. Behind
them the adults, and on the seat round the wall the Church members and
those more particularly identified with the Mission. Very few ornaments
were to be seen and none in the hair of the men, for the Papuan having
no hat to take off as a mark of reverence removes his comb when he enters
the church. Of the service little need be said. You could not follow the
words, but the bowing of the head by the natives, and the opening of
the New Testaments, would mark the times of prayer and of reading the
lessons. How often one wishes the Papuans were direct descendants of the
Sweet Singer of Israel; but, alas! they are not even distant relatives,
and most of the Samoans can claim but little closer kinship, and so
cannot help the Papuan much. Tuneful singing cannot be expected from a
people with a range of about three notes, especially when they do not
always use even these three. They will chant a hymn on one note only.
Still they do their best, they are improving; and we always hope for
better times in this as in other respects. In one thing the Papuans do
not fail. Their behaviour is reverent throughout the service, and they
listen to the message given.
During the day there are three services and a Sunday School, all held
in the church; but I was most pleased with the evening gathering at the
teacher’s house. The few Church members, with thirty or forty children
and young people, came to family prayers, and of the young people at
least twenty had their own New Testaments, and took their turn in reading
a verse, and one of the young men offered prayer. Such a scene makes one
realize the change for the better which is taking place. The first time
I went to Hisiu there was no teacher living there; no church; no school;
not a Church member in the place, and not a soul who could tell which way
to hold a book even if he had one.
One advantage of having to stay over the Sunday at a village is the
opportunity for good informal chats with the people, during which much
can be gathered as to their way of looking at the message the Missionary
brings.
Two separate conversations that Sunday revealed the fact that they carry
their own ideas of malevolent spirits into their idea of the God whom we
regard as the loving Father. To many of them He seems to be a compound of
the policeman and the magistrate, seeing that due punishment is inflicted
for each given offence.
Rosa came to see us in the afternoon wearing signs of mourning. We
had heard that her husband Veata was dead, but did not know the
circumstances. It was a long story, for she began at the time when her
husband was taken by the teacher to live in his house, and when she, as a
young girl, was nurse to the teacher’s children. She recalled what Faasiu
had taught them and how after they were married Veata expressed a wish
to become a teacher, and how glad she was. Then came the history of the
three years during which they lived with us at Delena, which ended in
the call of the old village life being too strong, and their giving up
the idea of being teachers and returning to their village. At first Veata
boasted of what he had done, but afterwards became ashamed, and very sad.
He knew he had done wrong, but took no steps to put the matter right.
One day on the way to his garden he saw a snake in the track, and as he
could not kill it, got out of its way. It followed him, however, and bit
him twice. His friends, knowing the snake was a deadly one, carried Veata
back to the village, and began the death wail over him, but he asked
them to be quiet and to listen to what he had to say, as he should soon
leave them and they would not hear his voice again. The speech was a
long one for a man under such circumstances, but Veata was in earnest in
his desire that his friends should know that he acknowledged he had done
wrong, “in putting out the light he once had within him.” He looked upon
the ending of his life by snake bite as a just punishment for his having
turned back “after he had put his hand to the plough,” and begged his
friends to listen to the teacher “and follow the light.”
On the same day another widow, a much older woman, came to see us. Her
husband had been west with Tamate, and later had served for a time as a
teacher under Holmes. He too listened to the call of the old life, and
at Hisiu took a leading part in reviving the night dancing. He was an
elderly man, and probably the sitting about after he was hot from the
dancing produced chest troubles. He became ill, and then found that his
right hand was affected with what looked like leprosy. Before long he
was unable to use it at all, and became so ill that it was only with
difficulty that he could get as far as the church. The last time he
attended the service he asked the teacher to let him speak to the people.
His address followed the lines of Veata’s, but near the end, lifting
his maimed hand, he said, “This is the hand that beat the drum to call
you to the dance. Look at it now. God has taken from it the power to
do anything. He has punished me, and I shall not live much longer. God
forgive me, and help you to follow not me but Jesus.”
I heard of these two cases in one day, but often, both before and since,
have wondered at the number of those who having turned back from taking
part in Mission work have died soon after. When the first wild burst is
over, they lose heart and feel there is nothing left to live for, and
that the end is near. When a native gets that idea nothing can save him.
It is sad to think how little they realize the love that can forgive.
Their own idea is vengeance, “An eye for an eye,” and only slowly comes
that of an all-loving and forgiving Father.
The next morning saw us again on the tramp. Canoes ferried us across
the Aroa River, and then on we went along the sand. Mile after mile
with nothing to break the monotony except the great stranded trees that
had been washed out of Galley Reach by the last floods, and a solitary
pelican that would fly on ahead of us, wait till we were nearly up to
him, and then start off again as though to show us the way.
When we got near to Morabi, the village we were making for, the beach was
covered with thousands upon thousands of little round crabs who moved
with the precision of an army. If one got in front of them, and stamped
on the sand, no confusion followed, but the army, as though at the word
of command, turned off and went in another direction. For at least a mile
we walked through these strange little creatures, they opening up a way
by which we might pass and not one of them getting under our feet.
Morabi is on the left as we stand at the mouth of Galley Reach, but away
on the right bank is a spot that will always be of interest to those
connected with the L.M.S. It was there, where the village of Manumanu
stood, that in 1872 the first Christian teachers landed. Sixteen years
later most of the houses had been moved to Morabi, and now there is no
village at Manumanu. Few of those who witnessed that landing are now
alive, but their descendants are the people we are going to see. After
Ieru the Samoan teacher, the first to welcome us is Naime, till lately
as fine a specimen of a man as could be found in the country. He was too
young to have distinct memories of the landing of those first teachers,
but has been good friends with their successors.
The usual round of service, school, doctoring, and talking to the people
having been accomplished, the next thing was to arrange for an experience
which does not often come to the missionary in the more settled
districts, that is, a visit to new ground, and an introduction to new
people.
To mark the event we will deal with it in a new chapter.