Doctoring
So far most of the chapters have been devoted to the special events in
connexion with missionary life, but those who need such doctoring as the
missionary can give are like the poor—“always with us.”
At first their demands for attention were persistent but very irregular.
They were made at all times of the day and often at night. Long effort
and the use of a bell have reduced them to uniformity, and now the first
hour after breakfast is devoted to the sick. Perhaps no hour of the day
gives so complete an insight into the peculiarities of the native, and
certainly no hour gives more laughable experiences.
Despite all the dirt their wounds often heal in a wonderful manner.
Now and then a stolid patient is met with who will submit to anything.
Years ago at Port Moresby a man while hunting struck his foot against a
broken tree. The result was a deep, gaping wound with splinters in it.
When we thought all had been removed the man informed us he was sure
there was one piece left. Three had a try to find that piece of wood but
failed, and at last Walker thought he had got hold of it, and began to
pull. For a moment the man said nothing, but then remarked quite quietly,
“Misi Walker, that is the inside of my foot you are trying to pull out.”
Until used to doctoring the native would rather submit to external
treatment than take medicines internally. Once greatly puzzled as to the
non-effect of certain tabloids which had been sent to a sick man daily,
I inquired how he had taken them. He languidly pointed to the roof of
his house, but his action conveyed little information till his wife
produced a dirty bit of rag, and unfolding it, displayed just the number
of tabloids sent for her husband to take. No wonder they had produced no
constitutional change.
The miserable “Ia sibona” often stands in the way of doctoring a child.
The medicine is offered, and the child objects to take it. Any compulsion
is discounted by the parent who calmly remarks, “Ia sibona. He does not
wish to take it”; and there the matter would end if the Missionary would
allow it to do so. Often I have seen not only the mother, but the father,
turn away as though to insist upon the child taking the medicine and a
moment later return the glass or spoon empty, but the child had not
taken the medicine. The parent had swallowed it, perhaps to save trouble,
but perhaps in the belief that as it had not gone out of the family the
effect would be all right.
Payment for medicine and doctoring has always been a sore point with the
people of this district. They do not hesitate to pay their sorcerers
a pig or anything else they may demand for their attention, but seem
surprised when the Missionary suggests that they should contribute to the
food supply for the Mission boys and girls as a return for doctoring. In
early years I have had patients refuse to take medicine I was willing to
give them, because I would not pay them to swallow it. Those days are
gone, and now some few bring a little present of food for the medicine,
but it is generally a very little present.
Not long ago a man was wounded by a stinging ray. The fish had driven
its spine right through his leg. Of course the man could not come to the
Missionary so the Missionary had to go to him and continue his visits for
weeks before the wound was healed. Without other than native help the man
would certainly have died. When the doctoring was all over and the man
able to walk again, his wife paid a visit to Donisi Hahine and made quite
a speech about how her husband’s life had been saved. She should never
forget it, but would remember it every time she looked at the wound.
Then she produced from her “kiapa” a bunch, of bananas such as could be
bought for a stick of tobacco, and put it on the verandah saying it was
her return present for what had been done for her husband. At least she
had been grateful, but one could not help the remark, “if that is the
value she puts upon her husband’s life, then husbands must be cheap in
this part of the world.”
Rarely indeed is there active opposition when medical help is offered,
but occasionally it has shown itself, and could then be traced to
sorcery. A child had been badly burnt but not brought up to have its
wounds dressed, and consequently they got very foul, and the mother
feared the child would die. Then she brought it to me, and when asked
why she had not done so before said the child’s grandmother had objected
because the spirits which dwelt in her round stone were angry, and did
not want the white man to have anything to do with the child.
It is doubtful if in the native mind the idea of doctoring has yet been
separated from that of sorcery. An ulcer may have been eating away the
flesh for months, but if the doctor will put his “muramura” (medicine)
upon it just once that will be enough; and one dose of medicine should
cure an attack of pleurisy even though the patient will sit out in the
rain at night to get cool.
The white man may work the cure, but the native leaning towards sorcery
is again shown in the patient going quietly away to the sorcerer, and
paying a good price to have the restoration to health approved and made
secure. Unfortunately the two systems do not always agree. After months
of attention I had nearly cleared up an ulcer that was eating a man’s
face away. A little more and the cure would have been complete, but the
patient went to the sorcerer for the finishing touches, and weeks later
returned to the village to die, with his face plastered with red clay.
One day some boys breathlessly announced that one of the numerous
Aisis in the village had been badly torn by a wild pig while hunting.
Fortunately the Government Doctor was in the village at the time, and he
took the case in hand, and despite all Aisi’s objections stitched up all
the wounds. For days the patient’s condition was critical, but he had all
the care I could give him and at last was out of danger. For at least
three months his wounds demanded daily attention, and during the whole
of that time I went to the village each day, and used up my whole stock
of lint and bandages. Doctors at home speak of their grateful patients.
Aisi would never qualify for that class. One day we were launching the
boat, or rather trying to, for we wanted just a little more help before
we could get her into the water. Aisi was standing looking on, having
quite recovered from his wounds, and I asked him to help us. I suppose
I ought not to have been hurt by his answer, but it had a sting in it he
little suspected, for looking at me he said, “What payment shall you give
me?”—and that after more than three months attention. It was one of those
times when words do not readily come. I said nothing, but thought the
more, and was relieved that one of the other men turned and reminded Aisi
of what I had done for him.
However, no matter if the Papuan does sometimes connect our medicine with
his sorcery; no matter if he is ungrateful according to our standards,
there is no doubt about the help given him in his time of need. It is a
bit of real practical Christianity he can understand and profit by, and
by its means it is possible to get into close personal touch with him,
and show him something of the spirit of Him who went about doing good to
the unthankful as well as the thankful.