CHAPTER XVIII

NOTES ON SOME BIRDS OF NEW GUINEA

The Birds of Paradise—Remarkable Species observed—Native Names—

Play-Places—Curious Habits—The Bower-Bird: Artist, Architect,

and Gardener 345

APPENDICES 351

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

TWO NEW GUINEA DANDIES _Frontispiece_

PAGE

LAKATOIS PREPARING TO SAIL 21

THE BOWER-BIRD 27

GUARDING THE WORKERS 33

TUGERI NATIVES 41

THE NATIVE METHOD OF TREE CLIMBING 47

A LAKATOI AND A HOUSE ON PILES 55

SAM AND HIS WIFE 63

HANUABADA GIRLS DANCING 69

GIRLS DANCING ON A LAKATOI 75

EPA VILLAGE 85

EKEIKEI NATIVES 91

THE CAMP AT EKEIKEI 97

NATIVE COLLECTORS 101

HILL NATIVES AT DINAWA 109

DOBOI, OUR NATIVE COOK 115

THE NATIVE VILLAGE OF DINAWA 121

FISHING ON THE ST. JOSEPH RIVER 131

A ROUGH BRIDGE 137

NATIVE WOMEN AT DINAWA 145

THE WIRELESS TELEGRAPHY OF NEW GUINEA 149

NATIVES OF ENUMAKA 155

VEGETATION AT DINAWA 161

A PIEBALD PEOPLE 169

A HOUSE AT KALO 177

THE VILLAGES OF ELEVADA AND HANUABADA 187

NEW GUINEA HOUSE-BUILDING 193

THE PRIMEVAL FOREST 197

POLLING LAKATOIS 205

HOUSES AT HANUABADA 209

A DESERTED VILLAGE 215

HARRY PRATT 225

CAMP IN THE OWEN STANLEY RANGE 231

TWO VIEWS OF A NATIVE BRIDGE 237

CAMP IN THE OWEN STANLEY RANGE 245

UNKNOWN SPECIES DISCOVERED BY THE AUTHOR 251

THE AUTHOR AND SOME NATIVE COLLECTORS 255

A SPIDER’S WEB FISHING-NET 263

FISHING WITH SPIDERS’ WEB NETS 269

A WEIRD TRIBAL DANCE 275

A SEA-COAST SCENE 283

HANUABADA WOMEN WEARING THE RAMI 293

BUYING A WIFE 299

NEW GUINEA WEAPONS AND IMPLEMENTS 305

YOUNG NATIVES AND WOMEN CARRIERS 313

SMOKING THE BAU-BAU 319

A NEW GUINEA HUNT 327

HAULING UP A LOG 337

CHAPTER I

_BREAKING THE GROUND_

The Author’s many Journeys—New Guinea more interesting than all—The

Second Largest Island in the World, and the last to guard its Secrets

from Man—Its Vast Possibilities to the Trader and the Man of Science—

Great Riches in Birds and Insects—770 known Species of Birds—The People—

Their many Dialects—A Geographical Reason for this—Toilsome Travel—

Razor-like Ridges in Endless Succession—The Author’s Camps—Journeys

Outlined—In Unexplored Country—Gorgeous Scenery—Variations of

Temperature—The Chief Bugbear, Transport.

TWO YEARS AMONG NEW GUINEA CANNIBALS

CHAPTER I

BREAKING THE GROUND

In the course of thirty years of almost continuous journeyings in both

hemispheres, it has been my fortune to stray far from the beaten tracks

and to know something of the spell and mystery of the earth’s solitudes.

My work in quest of additions to the great natural history collections,

both public and private, of England, and to a less extent of France, has

led me to the Rocky Mountains, the Amazons, the Republic of Colombia,

the Yangtse gorges, and the snows of Tibet; but it is safe to say that

none of these has aroused my interest and curiosity in so great a degree

as the scene of my latest and my next expedition, the still almost

unexplored Papua, second largest of the world’s islands, and almost the

last to guard its secrets from the geographer, the naturalist, and the

anthropologist.

Fifty years ago, schoolboys, looking at their map of Africa, blessed the

Dark Continent for an easy place to learn. A few names fringed the

coast: inland nearly all was comprehended under the cheerful word

“unexplored.” Such in great measure is the case with New Guinea to-day.

Its 300,000 square miles of territory, held by Great Britain, Germany,

and the Netherlands, and now lying fallow, are destined in the course of

the next half-century to enrich the worlds of commerce and of science to

a degree that may to some extent be forecast by what is already known of

very restricted areas. What New Guinea may become to the trader is

outlined later in the present volume, merely, be it noted, from the

outside observer’s point of view, but this of course has in it a large

measure of uncertainty, contingent on conditions of

“Labour and the changing mart and all the framework of the land.”

Be this as it may, one thing remains sure, the extraordinary value of

Papua to the man of science, particularly to the entomologist and the

ornithologist. In the department of ornithology alone, we already know

of 770 different species of birds inhabiting the mainland and the

islands, which places it in this respect far above Australia, which,

with a superficial area nine times greater, possesses less than 500

species in all.

[Illustration:

LAKATOIS PREPARING TO SAIL.

]

The ethnologist, too, has in Papua a happy hunting ground; for the

tribes on the fringe of exploration present wonderful varieties of type,

and as the mountain fastnesses of the interior are gradually opened up,

there can be no doubt that rich material for the propounding of new

problems and perhaps the solution of old ones will come to light.

Language is curiously diversified: here you meet a tribe with a distinct

speech, and camping near them for a time you learn the common currency

of their tongue; a few miles further on appears another people, perhaps

not greatly differing in type, but with another language altogether.

Thus at Dinawa, where we were encamped for five months on the foot-hills

of the Owen Stanley range, the native phrase for “Make up the fire” was

“Aloba di”; while at Foula, only eighteen miles away as the crow flies,

but far further on foot, the phrase ran “Aukida pute.” It is in the

statement “far further on foot,” of course, that the main reason of this

linguistic variation is chiefly to be found; for travel in the Papuan

highlands is extraordinarily toilsome, owing to the exceeding abruptness

of the configuration, and the endless succession of almost razor-like

ridges. Thus the tribes are confined to narrow areas. Long rough ascents

and descents and devious windings are the portion of the wayfarer who

wishes to reach some spot that may even be visible from his last

halting-place. This experience, and our entire dependence on native

carriers to transport our heavy baggage, with the various _contretemps_

and difficulties besetting the conduct of such a caravan, tempted me at

one time to call this book “Ups and Downs in Papua,” as being at once

literally and metaphorically true and descriptive.

Despite the difficulty of migration, however, it is certain that had our

mission been one of exploration pure and simple we could, during our two

years’ sojourn, have traversed a far more extensive region than we did.

But our first concern was the examination of the butterflies, moths, and

birds of the Owen Stanley range, and that within particular and somewhat

restricted areas, so that our work necessitated encamping sometimes for

months at a time at one particular spot, in order that the collection

and preservation of our specimens might be carried on under the most

advantageous conditions possible in such a wilderness. To this end we

built two permanent camps, one at Dinawa, and the other at Ekeikei, at

altitudes of 3600 and 1500 feet respectively. From these bases we made

short expeditions in various directions, and established temporary camps

on the St. Joseph River, Mount Kebea, and finally at Mafalu, our highest

point of attainment, 6000 feet above the level of the sea among the

fastnesses of the Owen Stanley range. But even that altitude is

comparatively insignificant in the magnificent highlands of Papua. The

higher we rose it was only to catch sight of still loftier ranges that

piled peak on peak as far as the eye could reach. The only one of these

that has as yet been trodden by the white man is Mount Victoria, which

rises to a height of 13,000 feet. This was made the objective of a

special expedition by Sir William Macgregor, who recently crossed

British New Guinea, a journey which took him fifty-one days to

accomplish. Sir William has also explored the Fly River tentatively, and

D’Albertis followed its course for 600 or 700 miles; but when these

achievements are mentioned, one has exhausted nearly all the serious

efforts that have been made in Papuan exploration. Within the last year

the Netherlands officials have issued a map that makes many valuable

additions to our knowledge of the topography of the coast-line of their

territory.

It may make for clearness in following my journeys if the reader will at

this point submit for a moment to the drudgery of a brief examination of

the map, for my trail exhibits various doublings backwards and forwards,

and consequently exposes the narrative to the risk of confusion, unless

the main outline of the itinerary be followed. It had been my intention

to work first in Dutch New Guinea, but various accidents, and the

hostility of a warlike tribe, brought these plans to an untimely end,

and I had to spend the greater part of my time within the borders of the

British possession. Port Moresby, the British Government station,

consequently became my main base of operations, and it was in a

north-westerly and south-easterly direction from that settlement that my

journeyings lay. On the first of these I went by sea from Port Moresby

north-west to Yule Island, separated from the mainland by Hall Sound,

and then I struck up the Ethel River as far as Oo-fa-fa, where we began

our march into the interior. The chief points of the route as noted on

the map were Epa and Ekeikei, Madui, and then on to Dinawa, where we

established our first camp, and settled down for five months’ work,

which included a short expedition to the St. Joseph River. Returning to

Port Moresby, and having some time to spare, I and my son went down the

coast 75 miles to the south-east, partly on foot, partly by boat, by way

of Tupeselae, Kappa-kappa, Kalo, and Kerapuna, as far as Hood’s Bay, a

journey rather of observation than of exploration, for the region is

within the sphere of missionary enterprise, and cannot be regarded as

altogether unknown, although the geographer has not yet by any means had

his last word upon it. Reaching Port Moresby by a reversal of the same

route, we returned once more to Yule Island, and struck inland by way of

Mekeo and Epa to Ekeikei, where we built our second and most elaborate

camp, which served us as the base for our furthest journey to Mount

Kebea, and thence inland by way of Googoolee, Cooloo-coolu, Babooni,

Amana, Foula, and Avola, to Mafalu, our highest point.

It may be worth while noting that as soon as we had passed Bioto Creek

on the Ethel River, existing maps ceased to be of use to us, and with

the exception of a few vaguely indicated mountains, presented a complete

blank. Such outlines of topography as we have filled in give in every

case the native name of the place. The fashion of rechristening

localities, although often complimentary to European explorers and their

friends, pastors, masters, and disciples, and probably commemorative of

a discovery, seems to me always to sever an interesting link with the

country under examination. For this reason I prefer the melodious native

name Papua to its western supplanter New Guinea.

[Illustration:

A FEATHERED ARTIST, THE BOWER-BIRD, WITH HIS HOUSE AND GARDEN.

He distinguishes between colours, lays out his garden in alternate

rows of white and mauve flowers.

]

Our chief movements inland may comprehensively be taken to lie within a

region bounded by a radius of 50 miles around Delana on Hall Sound. On

entering the unexplored region we found ourselves at first in a flat,

swampy country, intersected by a few tiny creeks, some not more than two

feet wide, running through grass. We next passed the eucalyptus belt and

then came the forest proper, in which the trees were at first set in

isolated patches. Undergrowth there was, but it did not attain any

density, and at intervals we could trace the trails of the sandalwood

cutter. Not long after leaving Oo-fa-fa we found a rocky eminence, from

which we enjoyed a lovely view of the entire Bioto Creek winding between

a dense border of mangroves, the vivid green of which marked the course

of the inlet, even when the shimmer of the water in the sunlight was

entirely veiled by the overhanging vegetation. Beyond lay the broader

waters of Hall Sound, bounded by the wooded shores of Yule Island, and

to the west we could descry Nicora, a small village on a hill of red

clay. The vista was closed by the sea, and in the clear atmosphere the

picture was one to be remembered. We then entered a flat tract, an

apparent plateau, at a height of 1000 feet, and for a time travelling

was over comparatively easy ground, but at Epa the forest and our

difficulties began in earnest. Henceforward we had to depend on one or

two trails very difficult to follow, and hills and valleys became

continuous. Fifteen miles inland lay before us a line of rugged peaks,

whither we were bound, but many more miles than fifteen would have to be

covered before we reached them. Further off still towered Mount Yule,

our first glimpse of the Papuan Alps. Passing Ekeikei we entered the

region of ridges, often scarcely twelve inches wide, and affording only

the most precarious foothold. The path as we rose became still more

rugged, and was crossed by numerous creeks. Then the character of the

forest changed, and we traversed damp and gloomy tracts, where the thick

vegetation excluded the sunlight. The track at this point skirted vast

and threatening precipices. At Madui we encountered peaty and spongy

ground, thickly interwoven with roots, which impeded our progress and

made the advance peculiarly toilsome, and the last stage to Dinawa was a

long dip and a longer ascent. Once there, however, we were rewarded by a

delightfully bracing climate and a glorious panorama of mountain

scenery, a delight we often longed for at Mafalu, our furthest and

highest point, where all view, save through an opening we ourselves cut

in the trees, was denied us. Even that was generally obscured, so

incessant was the rain and wetting mist. At favourable moments, however,

we would see through our clearing the sunlight in the valley far below

us, although we ourselves, dwelling as we did among the clouds, were

denied that boon.

Such then, in brief outline, were the changes of scenery through which

we passed. The alternations of climate were not less varied. In Dutch

New Guinea it was very hot and humid, often 150° F. in the sun and 110°

in the shade. On “cool” nights we had temperatures varying from 75° to

80°. At Port Moresby 160° was no uncommon temperature, and this was

rendered worse by the lack of shade and the stony, arid country. The

great heat begins to be felt about 11 A.M., and lasts until 3 P.M.

during the season of the N.W. monsoon. The atmosphere is, however,

fairly dry at times, and the highest temperature is not nearly so

unendurable as I have found 90° in the shade at Manaos, at the

confluence of the Amazon and the Rio Negro, where the air is saturated,

and one sits mopping oneself continually and praying for sunset,

although even that brings but slight relief. This never happens at Port

Moresby, where there is sometimes a pleasantly cool evening. Towards

nightfall the S.E. monsoon dies away, and the same holds good for Yule

Island and Hood’s Bay. For some distance inland these conditions

prevail, but after Ekeikei (1500 feet) there is a decided change.

Considerable humidity prevails in the forest, and although at midday the

heat is scarcely less oppressive than on the coast, yet the traveller is

sustained by the prospect of relief, for the evenings are deliciously

cool. The average day, too, was not unbearably hot at these higher

altitudes. In the neighbourhood of the Deeanay precipice, owing to the

dense forest and the plentiful streams, it is quite cool all day, and at

Dinawa (3600 feet), although we have recorded noon temperatures of 120°

in the sun, the average at 4 A.M. was from 63° to 65°. Winds were

infrequent, but at night there was a brief land breeze from the higher

mountains.

On the Kebea the climatic conditions are very similar, but there is more

mist, and in the morning the valleys are filled with great masses of

white rolling cloud, which rise and disappear as the sun gains power.

These vapours sometimes assume a perfectly level surface, so that they

resemble an ocean or a vast plain of snow, through which the higher

peaks rise like islands. At Mafalu the average temperature was down to

59° F. at nights, and highest in day 80° under the leafage of the

forest, and mist and rain were almost continual from 11 A.M. to 3 P.M.

As the sun sank the heavens would clear, and the mist floated past in

thin wreaths, or lay still in long, ghostly trails if no wind blew. The

nights were often cold, and these altered conditions were not without

their visible effect on animated nature, for at Mafalu the insects

changed, and we secured a fine selection of Lepidoptera we had not met

with before.

This brief sketch of the configuration and conditions of the country

through which we travelled may, I trust, serve as a key to the more

detailed account of our journey, and with the directions and altitudes

thus succinctly placed before him, the reader may possibly find it

easier to follow us up hill and down dale. There is one more point I

would venture to impress upon him, a point which will recur again and

again—he may fancy _ad nauseam_—the difficulties of transport in Papua.

But that was the main crux of our experience, and its importance can

hardly be realised by one who has not undergone similar troubles. You

are entirely in the hands of the natives, without whom you cannot stir a

foot. All your impedimenta, your food, stores, scientific implements,

and “trade” (material for barter, the equivalent of ready money) must go

on the backs of your cannibal friends, a people without organisation,

who are hard to collect and hard to persuade to follow you. It is

necessary to rely on yourself to secure followers, though here and there

a chief may aid you. One such, the greatest “character” we encountered

in Papua, will be introduced to the reader at the proper place. On the

march continual apprehension besets the traveller lest his carriers

bolt, for if this happened in the interior he would be done for, and he

would have a terrible business to get out of the country, if indeed he

got out at all. Hence the reason why I have dwelt on our perpetually

recurring difficulties with carriers, for the natives were veritably our

staff and scrip; and had these failed us at a crucial moment, our

expedition would have broken down utterly, to the great loss of those

who had risked much on the undertaking.

[Illustration:

GUARDING THE WORKERS.

Cultivated ground is generally some distance from the villages. It is

tilled by young women, who are guarded by young natives armed with

spears.

]

On the commission of several friends, all scientific enthusiasts, whom I

have named elsewhere, I and my son Harry, a lad of sixteen, left England

in January 1901, and sailed eastward on board the _Duke of Sutherland_

to Thursday Island, whence we proceeded on board the Netherlands gunboat

_Neas_ to Dutch New Guinea. My brief stay there, and the disappointments

that led to my seeking a different field of operations, form the subject

of the following chapter.

CHAPTER II

_DISAPPOINTMENTS IN DUTCH NEW GUINEA_

Dutch New Guinea—The Coast—Unsavoury Mud-banks—Merauke—The Dutch

Settlement described—Its Wonderful Modernity—A Fierce Tribe, the Tugeri,

now described for the First Time—Their Appearance and Habits—Their

Continual Murderous Raids—The Fearful Bamboo Knife—Scientific Work here

impossible owing to Danger of going beyond Settlement Boundaries—

Outbreak of a Mysterious Disease at Merauke—Its Swift Deadliness—The

Symptoms—Determine to leave Dutch New Guinea and prepare for a March

into the Unexplored Interior.

CHAPTER II

DISAPPOINTMENTS IN DUTCH NEW GUINEA

As we approached the shores of Dutch New Guinea, we first descried

low-lying tracts of marshy land. To the water’s edge came tall trees

loaded with orchids of the most brilliant hues and of many varieties,

notably the Dendrobium. The mangrove swamps, elsewhere so common in New

Guinea, were here entirely absent. Under the trees, close even to the

water’s brink, could be seen a dense tangled undergrowth. There was no

beach, only muddy shores. At low tide the water recedes, probably for a

quarter of a mile, leaving hard mud flats capable of sustaining men

bare-foot. During the winter monsoon a heavy surf would break on these

flats, but we arrived in fine weather, and the water was perfectly calm.

Of course, the _Neas_ could not go inshore, but had to stand off to a

distance of at least ten miles, and we had to land by the boat. A

prominent feature of the landscape was a great spreading tree, which the

Dutch sailors had taken as their chief bearing for finding the mouth of

the Merauke River. Had the hostile natives only known how the access to

their jealously guarded territory depended upon that one landmark, it

would certainly not have been allowed to stand long. These

characteristic shores fringe the mouth of the Merauke River, which

empties itself through a small estuary about three times as wide as the

Thames at Greenwich. It is navigable for about six miles, and at the

furthest end it so narrows that the vessel could be put about only by a

clever manœuvre, during which her bow and stern all but touched the

banks. With a small survey boat, however, such as the _Neas_, drawing

from 10 to 12 feet of water, the river may be navigated for about 160

miles. From larger vessels lying in the river off the new Dutch

settlement of Merauke, which was our point of arrival, it was usual to

land in a small dinghy.

A row of a few yards brought us to a primitive staging, built on piles,

supporting a floating platform of logs, very slippery with the slime

left by the river at high tide. These treacherous logs were far enough

apart to permit of a man’s slipping easily between them into the

unsavoury stream. Unsavoury indeed it was, for the waters of the Merauke

are blue with a greasy alluvial deposit, closely resembling the “blue

slipper” so well known to geologists in the Isle of Wight. The Dutch

Settlement lay close to the landing-stage. It presented a rough

collection of houses and barracks for the Netherlands troops. The

largest building was the barracks, a fairly well-built structure of

wood, capable of accommodating all the Dutch troops, a force of about

150. The house of Mr. Kroesen, who was at that time the Resident, was

quite an attractive building, with a glass roof and thin bamboo walls

hung with a few curtains. It contained ten apartments, all on the ground

floor. Next in importance was the house of the Comptroller, Mr. Schadee,

which had only one apartment, with a large projecting roof and a fine

verandah, under which the Comptroller entertained his friends. A little

distance away were the open sleeping sheds of the Javanese convicts who

had been brought there to build the Settlement and to drain the marsh.

[Illustration:

CURIOUS DRUMS OF THE TUGERI (DUTCH NEW GUINEA).

The body of the drum is cut and hollowed from a solid trunk, and

curiously carved. The drumheads are of lizard skin.

]

It is curious that the Dutch always choose low-lying spots for their

settlements. Some instinct of home seems to draw them to the flat lands,

and better sites at a loftier elevation are neglected. Merauke, however,

was chosen for another reason. The Dutch had been good enough to make

their Settlement here to prevent the Tugeri from making raids on to the

British territory. The thoroughness of the Dutch character, however,

appears in the equipment of their station. When I arrived at Merauke the

Settlement was only two months old, but it was already furnished with

every accessory of civilisation, even including iron lamp-posts from

Europe. It offered, in this respect, a striking contrast to the old

British Settlement of Port Moresby. Merauke was built in a forest

clearing, and the Dutch had already laid out gardens after the

Netherlands pattern, and were raising vegetables in the coffee-coloured

soil—the result of centuries of alluvial deposit—a soil so rich and

productive that beans may be gathered three weeks after being sown. The

gardening is carried on entirely by the civilians, the officers and men

confining themselves exclusively to their military duties. As the

Settlement had been established in the centre of a dangerous and

turbulent district, it was protected with barbed wire defences and with

a ring of block-houses on the landward side. The state of unrest then

prevailing prevented me from carrying on my scientific work. I had come

to Merauke to explore and collect in new territory, but the

long-standing difficulty with the warlike Tugeri tribe was still acute,

and the very day after I landed we had abundant proof of how unwise it

would be to penetrate into the interior. On that day three or four

Javanese convicts who were working on the edge of the clearing were

heard to shout as though in distress. In five minutes an armed guard was

on the spot, but all the convicts were found decapitated by the

head-hunting Tugeri. The heads had been taken off with the bamboo knife

so cleverly, that the doctor on board our ship told me that no surgeon

with the latest surgical instruments could have removed so many heads in

so short a time.

This bamboo knife of the Tugeri is a very remarkable weapon. It is

simply a piece of cane stripped off from the parent stem, leaving a

natural edge as keen as the finest tempered steel.

Nor was this the only outrage. A Chinese woman had died, and had been

buried in the graveyard near the Settlement. The next morning the grave

was found to have been violated, the head taken, and all the clothing

removed. The Tugeri never showed themselves all this time, but it was

known that they were watching Merauke from the dense screen of

undergrowth which came down to the edge of the clearing.

British settlers on the western boundary of British New Guinea have for

a long time been harassed by Tugeri raiders from the Dutch side, and the

Lieutenant-Governor’s report for 1899–1900 contains an exhaustive

account of the negotiations between the British and Dutch authorities

for the suppression of these outrages and the indemnification of

sufferers. In 1896 Sir William Macgregor undertook a punitive expedition

against the Tugeri, and at the time believed that he had finally driven

them out of British territory; but during a murderous raid on the Sanana

tribe, shortly before 1900, many persons were killed and carried away.

The chief result of the negotiations, apart from the settlement of

indemnity and the undertaking of search for missing persons, was the

Dutch decision to appoint a resident official for that part of their

territory which adjoins the British possessions. Hence the establishment

of the Merauke Settlement, and the appointment of Mr. Kroesen to take

charge of it. The Netherlands Government has guaranteed a special sum

for the administration of Merauke, and the Dutch officers there have

also been authorised to correspond directly with the British officers in

the western division on matters requiring their mutual attention,

instead of, as the Blue Book says, “by the circumlocutory channels of

their respective Governments.”

My opportunities for observing the Tugeri were, therefore, necessarily

limited, but I am, I believe, the first person who has made any study of

this remarkable tribe, and, as far as I am aware, they have remained

hitherto undescribed. They are a very numerous people, inhabiting a

tract of country extending as far west as the Marianne Strait, and as

far east as the Fly River at longitude 141°. Inland their boundaries are

unknown, but it is probable that they extend a considerable distance

from the coast. They are known to have co-terminous boundaries with the

Kewi people, from whom the British draw their police, and who are first

found at the mouth of the Fly River.

The first to visit the Tugeri was a renegade missionary, who had

absconded with some of the mission funds. He came upon the tribe by

accident. They captured him, took away his boat, his clothes, and all

that he possessed. Curiously enough they did not kill him, but gave him

a house and food. He stayed with them on very friendly terms for about

six months, and was at length taken off by a schooner which chanced to

touch on the coast.

The second white man who observed them was Captain Pym, who is said to

have been the discoverer of the Merauke River, and who was certainly one

of the first traders there.

The Tugeri are a fine race, very fierce, and absolutely unspoiled by

European vices. The men stand about 5 feet 8 inches on an average, and

are clean-limbed, powerful fellows, capable of any amount of endurance.

As a race, they are broad-shouldered, sinewy, and of enormous strength.

No European can draw their bow. This weapon is made of a longitudinal

section of the bamboo. Near the grip the diameter is about 3½ inches,

and the wood tapers at each end to a diameter of ¾–inch. The string is

of twisted fibre, and the arrow, which is made of a reed, carries to a

distance of at least 300 yards. Like all savages, they are admirable

marksmen.

[Illustration:

THE NATIVE METHOD OF TREE CLIMBING.

]

In the typical Merauke Tugeri the head is rather conical, and the

forehead high but receding. The hair is sparse, beginning well up on the

cranium, and falling in long strands to the middle of the back beyond

the shoulder blades. The hair is plaited with grass and string, and from

the plait at the back rises a single osprey feather. The eyebrows are

straight and meeting, the eyes black, large, and heavy. The nose is

broad and flat, but with a prominent bridge, the mouth degraded and

fatuous, but the lips neither so thick nor so protruding as the negro’s.

The ears lie fairly flat to the head, and are not abnormally large. The

men wear an enormous ear ornament of bamboo bent into an open ring.

Round the periphery of this ring the flesh of the lobe of the ear,

previously perforated, is stretched in infancy, and as the individual

grows the natural spring of the bamboo stretches the flesh more and

more, until in manhood a loop is formed big enough to hold a ring of at

least 4 inches in diameter. It is extraordinary how the tribesmen

contrive to move amidst the tangled forest without hindrance from this

abnormal expansion of the lobe, the most unusual flesh decoration to be

found amongst mankind. When the bamboo is out the loop hangs like a long

pendant, a perfect skein of flesh, a peculiarly hideous accessory of

savage adornment. Some of the Tugeri wear an apology for a beard, or

rather two scraggy tufts of hair depending from each side of the chin.

The use of pomatum in any form is unknown. The teeth are strong and

fairly regular, but perfectly brown, owing to the habit of chewing the

betel-nut.

For personal adornment the Tugeri wear two crossed straps of dogs’ teeth

strung together with grass. Each strap is about 3 inches wide, and is

formed of nine parallel rows of teeth. The strap that rests on the left

shoulder passes under the right armpit; that over the right shoulder

passes outside the left arm above the elbow. The straps are lightly

fastened at the point where they cross the breast. Round the right arm,

just above the elbow, they wear a curious armlet. In the case of the

richer tribesmen this is of shell, decorated with grass, or of grass

decorated with shell. The breadth is from 5 to 6 inches. On the stomach

to the right are two or three horizontal scars made by cutting or

burning. These are self-inflicted for superstitious reasons. The lower

part of the stomach is tightly drawn in (often extremely tight) with a

coil of finely plaited fibre. This seems to be worn for elegance alone,

and tight-lacing is a ruling fashion among the Tugeri dandies: the

tighter the lacing the greater the dandy. From fifteen to sixteen years

of age the young men are hopeless victims to fashion. The Tugeri go

bare-foot, but wear grass anklets adorned with shells, which rattle like

castanets as they walk. I observed, however, no dances, although these,

I understand, are performed in their villages. For decency’s sake they

wear a shell after the manner of the statuesque fig-leaf, and their

costume is completed by a necklace of dogs’ teeth and small pieces of

bone, such treasures as a savage prizes.

Despite the natural ferocity of the Tugeri, the tribe is not without

some rudimentary notions of courtesy, and they paid the Dutch on their

arrival a similar compliment to that paid to Captain Cook, that is to

say, they were good enough to offer to provide wives for the sailors

from among their own women. Certain traders in British New Guinea are

not above accepting this civility, for the possession of a native woman

is often a valuable business asset. Some sandalwood cutters, for

example, frequently make these left-handed marriages, for the mistress

is influential in obtaining workers for her husband from among her own

people. One sandalwood cutter, a Malay, who has made a large fortune at

his trade, could always obtain double the number of labourers procurable

by any other trader on account of his _liaison_ with a native woman, by

whom he has a large family. His numerous Papuan blood-relations stand

him in good stead in his business.

The houses of the Tugeri are built of grass and bamboo. The walls rise

to a height of about ten feet and are covered with a span roof. I

observed their villages only from a distance, however, and never

accompanied the Dutch soldiers on any of their expeditions. Some of the

villages are very large, consisting of two or three hundred houses. Near

the townships immense cocoanut plantations invariably occur, and these

seem to form the chief wealth of the Tugeri.

A strange part of the Tugeri’s paraphernalia was their extraordinary

drums. The body of these, shaped like a dice-box, was hewn out of a

solid log, hollowed, and curiously carved. Midway at the narrowest point

was a clumsy handle, also hewn from the log. The drum heads are of

lizard skin. The performer carries the instrument by the handle in the

left hand, and beats with his right. The noise is prodigious.

The tribe domesticates the gaura. This bird has frequently been

described by naturalists, but a short account of it may not be

inopportune here, as I was fortunate in obtaining many good specimens of

it. The gaura is half as large again as the guinea-fowl, and weighs from

five to ten pounds. The beak is longer than that of the ordinary pigeon,

but is not large in proportion to the bird. It has the ordinary

characteristics of the pigeon beak. The head is small, the neck short,

the body full and fleshy, and remarkably fine eating. The back is broad

and rounded, the legs brightish red and characteristically those of the

pigeon breed. The plumage of the head is a bluish silver grey with a

fine crest of a lighter shade. The crest feathers are very open in their

branching. When erected, the crest spreads out like a fan and makes a

noble display. The breast feathers are a rich maroon, the wings and back

a bluish slate colour. There are white patches on the wings, which are

tipped with maroon. The tail feathers continue the shade of the back

until within two inches of the extremity, when they are graduated into a

lovely grey, almost matching that of the crest. For all its fine looks

it is a silly bird, short and heavy of flight, and easily killed when

once found. The sportsman locates the gaura by its booming sound.

My ten days’ stay at Merauke was a time of strange misfortune, and while

there I had the unenviable opportunity of observing a very serious

outbreak of a mysterious disease, which was said to be that deadly

beri-beri, which has lately been occupying the minds of men of science.

For some time there had been isolated cases among the Javanese convicts,

but about the second week in April the Dutch authorities became greatly

alarmed by the spread of the disease. Cases were reported daily, and all

proved fatal. At last the deaths reached the terrible figure of 160 in

ten days. The victims were all Javanese, the officials and natives went

unscathed. The doctors of the Dutch Colony were very able men, but no

relief could be given to the patient beyond administering anæsthetics. I

question whether it was rightly styled beri-beri, for in South America,

at Manaos on the Rio Negro, I have seen cases of the disease among the

Portuguese rubber gatherers, but these bore no resemblance to the

sickness at Merauke. The sufferers in South America were generally men

who led isolated lives in the vast forests of the Amazons, gathering the

sap of the _hevea braziliensis_, and living for long periods on bad

food. Victims of this type of beri-beri generally live for nine months,

and those of strong constitution and in whom the swelling had not risen

above the knees recovered. If the patient lives the old life and

continues the old diet in the forest, the disease gradually ascends

until it gets above the knees, and then its course becomes very rapid

until it reaches the heart.

I myself caught beri-beri on the Rio Branco, and first noted its

presence by the discovery of a numb spot about the size of a halfpenny

on each ankle. The Brazilian medical men assured me that nowhere in

South America could I hope to get better, and I was ordered to quit the

country at once. Before I reached Havre the numbness was greatly

reduced, the affected patch being then the size of a farthing, and two

months after I reached home, it vanished. In Columbia I have observed

exactly the same form of the disease as on the Amazons.

In Merauke, however, sufferers from the so-called beri-beri had no

seizure of paralysis in the lower extremities. It was always in the

abdomen, and was accompanied by the most excruciating agony. Death

usually came in four hours. There was no relief from pain; the

intestines seemed to be knotted, the patients face was pale and

agonised. He continually moaned, strained forward and doubled his body.

He held his stomach with both hands, and occasionally lay down and

rolled, and as the end approached, the intestines seemed to be forced

upwards towards the thorax, and there was great swelling. The doctors

tried poultices and fomentations in vain. They also administered castor

oil without affording any alleviation of the suffering. Perfect

consciousness remained until the very end, and the last thing the

patient always asked for was fruit. Five minutes after making this

request, he was dead.

One evening we spent with Mr. Schadee on his verandah, there was with us

his Javanese clerk (not a convict), who was enjoying his cigarette and

apparently in the best of health. The next morning he was dead. Our

carpenter on board the _Van Doorn_ was carried off with equal

suddenness, and he, curiously enough, had never been on shore all the

time of the epidemic. The victims were always buried within five hours.

As to the communication of infection, it is doubtful whether the disease

was due in each case to external causes, or whether once having broken

out it spread from man to man. The bad rice,[1] on which the Javanese

live, may have been the cause. At the same time it may be noted, that

the convicts were working in the abominable blue mud of the river.

Another article of diet supplied to the Javanese was dried fish, very

ill cured, or rather not cured at all, and most offensive to European

nostrils.

Footnote 1:

Since these lines were written an eminent medical man, a specialist on

beri-beri, has publicly advanced this view.—E. A. P.

[Illustration:

A LAKATOI (SAILING RAFT OF CANOES) AT ANCHOR AND A DWELLING-HOUSE

BUILT OVER THE WATER.

]

The epidemic was very costly to the Netherlands Government. The _Van

Swoll_, a Dutch merchantman, laden with the necessary plant for

establishing a settlement, was at that time lying at Merauke. After the

beri-beri broke out, there was no labour available to unload the vessel.

Mr. Kroesen accordingly decided to ship the surviving convicts on board

the _Van Swoll_, and send her back to Amboina. There she placed the

convicts in a sanatorium, and went on to Timor to procure a fresh batch

of convicts, who were to return with her to Merauke and unload her. The

delay to the _Van Swoll_ alone cost the Dutch Government 800 guilders a

day.

No doubt a settlement in a low miasmatic country is in itself

unfavourable, but I am inclined to attribute the disease to bad diet.

This so-called beri-beri occurs also in the native princes’ prisons in

India, where the food is very bad. I am disposed to believe that the

Javanese were rendered liable to attack, because their blood had been

impoverished by several years of poor feeding before they came to

Merauke, and that the climate and worse food than they had had in Java

made them ready to receive the germs of the disease.

Such was my visit to Dutch New Guinea. The hostility of the Tugeri and

the prevalence of disease rendered scientific work out of the question,

and accordingly after ten days I returned to Port Moresby, there to

secure means of transport for an expedition into the interior of British

New Guinea, where I proposed to continue my studies of the Lepidoptera

peculiar to that region.

CHAPTER III

_CHANGES AND STRANGE SCENES_

We sail to Thursday Island—A Rough Voyage in a Cattle-boat—A Glimpse of

Thursday Island—The Wonderful Colour of its Waters—We reach Port

Moresby—Contrast to the Scenery of Dutch New Guinea—Magnificent

Mountains—Evidences of Drought—Vegetation burnt up—The British

Government Post of Port Moresby described—A Good Second to Hades or

Aden—The Great Sight of Port Moresby—A Community of Hereditary Potters—

The Pottery Trading Fleet—The Strange Vessels called Lakatois—Their

Structure—Native Orgies before the Expedition starts—A New Guinea Ballet

on Deck—Seclusion of Women after the Young Braves depart with the Fleet—

My Inland Expedition fitted out—Official Courtesy—Details of Baggage—

Transport procured after Immense Trouble.

CHAPTER III

CHANGES AND STRANGE SCENES

While I lay at Merauke on board the _Van Doorn_, the steamship _Moresby_

was signalled. On this I obtained a passage to Port Moresby, the seat of

government in British New Guinea, so I accordingly bade farewell to

Captain De Jong of the _Van Doorn_, and in due course we weighed anchor

for Thursday Island, at which the steamer was to touch on her voyage.

The _Moresby_ could not approach Merauke nearer than twelve miles, so we

went out to her on a small petrol launch. There happened to be a

tremendous swell on at the time, and when we came alongside the

_Moresby_ we found that the deck of the launch was often ten feet from

the companion, and we had to watch our opportunity to get on board. It

was quite half-an-hour before we succeeded.

We found our steamer by no means attractive. She was most unsavoury on

account of the cattle carried for the ship’s use. The cabins were below

and very hot, for the vessel had been built for a cool climate, and was

not at all suited for tropical trade. She was an ordinary cargo boat,

and could not usually steam faster than eight knots an hour.

A run of twenty-four hours’ duration brought us to Thursday Island, one

of the great centres of the pearl fishery, where many nationalities

congregate for the purposes of trade. The stores are kept for the most

part by Chinese, and Japanese and Chinese boats call there on their way

south to Sydney. The coasters also make it a point of call as they pass

from Brisbane and Sydney on their way to the Gulf of Carpentaria and

Normanton, the great centre of the Eastern cattle trade.

Thursday Island, so small a dot in the Eastern Archipelago that the

tiniest mark a geographer can make on his map is widely out of

proportion to its size, rewards the traveller well for a visit. Although

one can walk round the island in an hour and a half, the locality is

full of interest, and the pearl fishery is very engrossing for the

observer. The boats of the fishing fleet afford a most picturesque

accessory to the scene, and the harbour is full of life. Small boats

dart about everywhere, and there is a continual coming and going. The

large Chinese and Japanese steamers, of from 6000 to 7000 tons burden,

are continually arriving at and leaving the Government wharf. The

Europeans are most agreeable and hospitable. The sea round Thursday

Island is a most wonderful colour—in parts emerald green and silver,

deep blue varied with light yellow and brown, and everywhere perfectly

clear. The tides, which at times flow with the rapidity of a mill-race,

have been studied, but are not yet understood. They are tremendously

erratic and very dangerous. Sometimes they run at the rate of seven

miles an hour, and against this steamers can make no headway. The Torres

Straits indeed, as far as Cairns, are the most dangerous seas in the

world. It is, of course, very warm in Thursday Island, but the heat is

tempered by the most delightful sea breezes. I could have enjoyed a

longer stay than twenty-four hours, but that was the limit of our

vessel’s call, and we left next day for Port Moresby, which we reached

after a two days’ run.

[Illustration:

MY CINGALESE LIEUTENANT, SAM, AND HIS WIFE AT THEIR HOME IN PORT

MORESBY.

]

As we approached the coast we found that it presented a very striking

contrast to that of Dutch New Guinea. Here the mountains came close down

to the coast, which was rock-bound, but not cut to sheer cliffs. Inland

the mountain ranges ran parallel with the shore line, range towering

above range, as far as the eye could see, the whole prospect dominated

by the magnificent peak of Mount Victoria, which sprang aloft into the

azure to a height of 13,121 feet. Viewed from the sea Mount Victoria

appears to culminate in a plateau, but Sir William MacGregor declares

that it is really a mass of peaks.

As we drew nearer to the shore we noted unmistakable evidence of the

drought, which had just set in, and which lasted for nine whole months.

The vegetation was entirely brown, and everything seemed barren and

burned up. The drought, it was said, extended as far west as the Fly

River, at the 141st degree of longitude. Even at an altitude of 6000

feet, as I found afterwards, lycopodiums, orchids, and parasites were

falling off the trees, and this, too, within the zone of humidity for

New Guinea.

The approach to Port Moresby is dangerous owing to the reefs that

encircle the coast, and accordingly great caution had to be used in

navigating the ship into the harbour. The course lies east, then west

along a certain known channel, and finally the navigator follows the

coast for a few hours, when, rounding a promontory on his right, he

catches his first glimpse of this anchorage. The Government post of Port

Moresby, although picturesquely situated among rolling hills which slope

down to the water’s edge, is in itself unpretentious enough—merely a

collection of houses and offices of bare, galvanised iron,

architecturally as insignificant as rabbit hutches. During the day the

temperature resembles Hades or Aden, whichever may have the priority.

Here the British official chooses to abide, although comfortable houses

of sago, with thick grass thatch, cool on the hottest day, offering a

delightful dwelling-place, might be had only a few miles distant. A

paternal administration, however, prescribes galvanised iron, and there

its servants swelter, patient and uncomplaining, after the manner of

Britons.

Clustered about the Government buildings are various other buildings—the

jail, which more resembles a pleasure-ground, shipping offices, stores,

and the hotel. On an elevation at the farther end of the bay stands

Government House, a pleasantly situated bungalow raised off the ground

on five-foot posts. The best building in the place, as one might expect,

is the station of the London Missionary Society.

Life at Port Moresby is not without its events, and one of the most

noteworthy of its public spectacles, and one which I was fortunate

enough to see on a subsequent visit, is the annual starting of the

_lakatois_ or huge sailing rafts, laden with pottery for trade in the

western part of the possession.

Those who are familiar with the postage-stamp of British New Guinea

must, no doubt, have often wondered what manner of strange craft is

depicted thereon. The stamp, as will be seen from the accompanying

illustration, bears the representation of a boat, or rather a raft,

carrying two gigantic sails resembling the wings of some weird bird, and

the whole appearance of the vessel is one that arouses curiosity. This

is the _lakatoi_, the remarkable trading vessel of the hereditary

potters of Hanuabada, a little village not far from Port Moresby. The

hamlet, with its neighbour, Elevada, is built partly on land and partly

on piles in the water; but while the land part of Hanuabada stands on

the mainland, that part of Elevada which is not aquatic is founded on an

island.

The inhabitants belong to the Motu tribe, and their numbers do not

exceed 800. Their long grass-thatched huts rise from sixteen to twenty

feet above land or water, and each has its little landing-stage on a

lower tier. The main poles supporting these structures are of rough-hewn

tree trunks driven down into the soft sand. At a height of from five to

six feet above the water the natural forks of the main poles are

retained, and across these logs are laid, forming a rude platform.

Ladders of very irregular construction give access almost at haphazard

from stage to stage. Looking through the village below the houses, the

eye encounters a perfect forest of poles, and between the dwellings in

this queer Venice of the East run little waterways just wide enough to

let a canoe pass along without grazing its outriggers. The houses

themselves each contain only one living apartment.

In and out among the houses ply the dug-out canoes, and a very charming

feature of the village is its crowd of children, playing with toy

_lakatois_. The smallest of these toy craft are made of a section of

bamboo ballasted with stones, with a sail of the same shape as that of

the great rafts used by the grown-up people. The bigger children,

scorning the bamboo vessels, have a larger kind, in which the canoes are

real little dug-outs. These youngsters are wonderful swimmers, and as

they conduct their little regattas they jump about in the water,

swimming and diving fearlessly, and enjoying the merriest possible time.

The people of Hanuabada are an agreeable and rather comely race. They

are typical south-east coast natives, with shock heads of black wiry

hair. The women, who carry on the characteristic industry of the place,

the work in earthenware, are lithe picturesque figures in their long

_ramis_ or kilts of grass.

It is a curious fact that, although the Hanuabada and Elevada people

live actually on waters that teem with fish, they are poor fishermen,

being, in fact, too lazy to follow that craft. They are accordingly

helped in this industry by the Hula people, whose fishing fleet presents

at night one of the most weirdly picturesque sights in Papua. Of this I

have more to say in a later chapter.

For weeks before the annual trading expedition Hanuabada is full of

life. At every turn one comes upon women crouching on the ground,

fashioning lumps of clay into the wonderfully perfect pottery for which

the village is famous. The men-folk, although they do not condescend to

take part in the actual fashioning of the pots, are good enough to dig

the clay, which they take out of the ground with a stone adze—a flat

stone blade lashed to the shorter extremity of a forked stick, the

longer extremity forming the handle.

[Illustration:

HANUABADA GIRLS DANCING AND SINGING.

Before the young braves sail on their annual pottery trading voyage,

which they make on board Lakatois (sailing rafts of canoes), they

have great rejoicing, and the young women dance on the decks of

their strange-looking vessels.

]

There is a distinct organisation of labour among the potters, the women

being divided into “makers” and “bakers.” Several “makers” work together

in a group. They use no wheel, but seize a lump of clay with both hands,

and make a hole large enough to get the right hand in, whereupon they

gradually give the vessel its contour. After being roughly shaped, it is

smoothed off with flat sticks or the palm of the hand. The finished

article of Hanuabada ware is in the form of a flattened sphere with a

very wide mouth, and a neatly finished rim six or eight inches across.

Farther to the east, along the coast, the pottery is highly decorated,

but it is much more crude in form, and has no fine rim. The pots are

dried in the sun for several days, and then they are turned over to the

“bakers,” whose fires are blazing in every street. There are two methods

of baking. One is to lay the pot on a heap of hot ashes; the other to

build the fire right round it. The vessel is watched through the whole

process, and is continually turned on the fire with a little stick

thrust into the mouth.

When many hundreds of pots have been completed, the Hanuabada people

begin to think about the disposal of their wares. Their great market is

at Paruru, a long way up the coast. They barter their pottery for sago

with the nations of that district, and it is very curious to note that

this extensive trading organisation on the part of an utterly savage

people has been in existence from time immemorial, and is no imitation

of European methods. To reach Paruru the potters must undertake a

perilous voyage, for which they are dependent on the tail of the

south-east monsoon.

Then comes the preparation of the craft, the _lakatois_. Several hundred

large dug-out canoes are brought together, and are moored side by side

at the landing stages in groups of six or ten. While this is being done

many people are out in the forest cutting rattans and bamboos for

lashing the dug-outs together, and for the upper framework of the rafts.

Across the canoes, after they have been ranged at the proper distance

(amidships, about six inches apart, although their taper ends cause a

wider gap at bow and stern), are placed long bamboos, extending a

considerable distance beyond the port and starboard sides of the

outermost pair. Along the gunwales of each canoe, at regular intervals,

stout bamboo uprights are erected, and to these the horizontal cross

bamboos are strongly lashed with fibre and cane, until the whole

framework is perfectly rigid. To the cross framework the potters fix

down a floor of split bamboo, and all round the outer edges they wreathe

dried grass to prevent slipping as one steps on board. This platform

overlaps all round the raft fore and aft, and the cross-pieces are very

strong and firmly lashed. Openings are left in the floor above each

dug-out to enable the pottery to be stored in the holds of the canoes. A

clear space is left on the platform, extending about six feet from bow

and stern, and on the whole of the intervening space houses are erected

in skeleton bamboo framework. These can be entirely covered in with mats

to afford a shelter in stormy weather or in rain. The roofs as well as

the sides are formed of mats. Wooden masts are now stepped amidships and

held in place with stout stays of fibre, and then the _lakatoi_ is ready

to receive its sails. These resemble vast kites, and were formerly made

of native matting stretched upon an outer frame of bamboo, but are now

made of calico. It is difficult to describe their form, and they can

best be understood by a study of the accompanying illustration.

Why the strange segment should be cut out of the upper part, leaving two

great wings, I have never been able to discover. The sails of the

_lakatoi_ are of themselves—things apart. Being stretched on a frame

they cannot bulge, but swing like boards. Their points rest on the deck

and work freely in a socket. The sails are hung lightly to the masts by

braces, and there is no clewing up. In spite of their comparative

rigidity they are quite manageable, and in case of sudden squalls can

easily be let go. The _lakatoi_ is now ready for use—perhaps the most

remarkable-looking craft that ever went to sea—and has only to be

tested. From the rigging and the sails float long streamers of Papuan

grass decorations, and the fleet of eight or ten _lakatois_ now lying

off Hanuabada affords, as the sun strikes the brown sails, a really

charming spectacle.

Before they proceed to sea the careful people institute a trial trip,

and celebrate a regatta with several days of extraordinary festivity.

The fleet is sometimes augmented by some _lakatois_ from other villages.

These sail up to Port Moresby from the east to join the main expedition.

About eleven o’clock in the morning, if the wind be strong enough, the

people of Hanuabada and Elevada begin to test each vessel in the

harbour, trying how the ropes run, how the sails work, and how the

lashings hold together. Everything is thoroughly overhauled, for the

lives of the men-folk of the village depend upon the fitness of their

queer craft. The crew go on board and take up their positions. At the

bow stands the professional pilot, a man thoroughly acquainted with the

coast, and behind him, stretching in Indian file down the gunwale on

port and starboard, stand his crew, each man handling a long pole. The

steering is done from behind with two poles slightly flattened at the

ends, and forward, for certain emergencies, they use a small Chinese

sweep. The crew pole gently out from land until the breeze strikes the

sails, and then far away they go merrily down the harbour, tacking about

in every direction with wonderful dexterity, for the _lakatois_, clumsy

although they appear, are quick “in stays.”

[Illustration:

GIRLS DANCING ON A LAKATOI (A RAFT OF CANOES).

]

At last comes the day when the Hanuabada people say, “If the wind is

favourable, we will start tomorrow.” Vast quantities of farinaceous food

are brought on board, and the small dug-outs are busy darting out from

the village to the fleet, bearing the stores that are to last the

voyagers for their two months’ trip. Then the festivities begin. The

damsels of the village deck themselves most artistically with finely

woven garlands that lie in close cinctures round their brows. In most

ravishing _ramis_ they go on board and celebrate the departure of the

young braves by the wildest dances on the platforms fore and aft—dances

that would put a _première danseuse_ to shame. They spin round with such

dizzying rapidity that, when I photographed them, although I used a

shutter snapping at a hundredth of a second, the image of the dancers

was somewhat blurred, as will be seen from the annexed picture. As an

accompaniment to the dances, they sing the appalling and discordant

songs of the coast native, and the merriment and motion cease only for

the intervals of feasting on yams, taro, and fish. The dancing is for

the most part independent, but occasionally there is some attempt at

rudimentary figures, and the little girls, with arms interlaced after

the manner of a “lady’s chain” in the Lancers, form a ring in the

centre, while the bigger girls circle around.

Some of the young braves sleep on board the last night, and the next day

at dawn, if the wind should be favourable, a start is made. The last

good-byes are said, the small canoes dart to and from the shore with

final messages, and as the great _lakatois_ slowly get under way, the

girls crowd upon the beach, shouting and waving to their young heroes,

until the last odd-shaped sail has disappeared round the farthest

promontory. The men of the village will not be seen again for two

months, and some perhaps not at all, for the voyage is long and beset

with divers perils, and not every _lakatoi_ weathers the sudden

treacherous squalls and storms of the Papuan coast.

Their captains, of course, have no knowledge whatever of the science of

navigation, and sail their vessels by cross bearings, or—when out of

sight of land—by sheer instinct.

During the whole time that the traders are absent, gloom reigns in

Hanuabada. At nightfall the desolate women bar themselves into their

houses, and remain in the most jealous seclusion until the daylight

reappears. It is a most unflattering reflection that this custom has

only arisen since Europeans first came to Papua.

From Port Moresby I intended to go sixty miles westward to Yule Island,

and thence push into the interior of British New Guinea, where I

proposed to pursue the special scientific work for which my expedition

had been undertaken. The point which I intended to use as my centre of

operations would require a journey up country of at least three weeks’

duration, through an almost unknown region, where only native paths

existed, or, at the best, a missionary road extending for a short

distance. Wheeled traffic was, of course, impossible, and everything

would have to be transported by carriers. The first necessity was,

therefore, to procure transport, a work of infinite difficulty; but at

last, chiefly through the great assistance and courtesy of Mr. Hislop,

then resident magistrate of the district of Mekeo, sixty miles west of

Port Moresby, I obtained a sufficient number of carriers. Mr. Hislop

then took the trouble to go as far inland with me as our first

halting-place, Epa, in order to help me and to use his influence to

persuade the natives to give me their services. The gross weight of the

baggage to be carried must have been, at least, 2000 lbs., and it

consisted first and foremost of what is technically known as “trade,”

that is, beads, axes, 18–inch knives, 9–inch knives, 6–inch knives,

tobacco, looking-glasses, red calico, bright-coloured cotton prints,

plane-irons for axe-heads, Jew’s-harps—for which a Papuan will do almost

anything—and, most valued of all, dogs’ teeth. In addition to this, I

had to carry the whole of my apparatus for collecting—100 nets, 60 to 70

cyanide bottles and enough cyanide of potassium to poison the whole

population of New Guinea, store boxes, pins, cork bungs, and lamps. I

had also a complete photographic equipment.

For our own sustenance we carried a great quantity of tinned provisions,

and enough rice to feed our carriers for the journey both ways. I ought

not to omit to mention our tents, another heavy item of transport. For

arms we had our 12–bores, our revolvers, one Winchester repeating rifle,

and one Winchester repeating shot-gun, with sufficient ammunition. We

also carried a store of empty cartridge cases, recappers, loose powder,

shot, and caps, extractors and refillers. Before setting out it was

necessary to make bags of stout canvas, sewn with twine and fortified

with two coats of paint. Into these all our baggage was packed, and each

bundle was duly numbered.

CHAPTER IV

_WE STRIKE INLAND_

We start Inland—Friendly Natives but Hostile Mosquitoes—Bioto Creek—

Bioto—Guest Houses—A Splendid Game Region—Daily Migration of Flocks of

Pigeons—Greedy Coast Natives—Carriers Inadequate—A Double Journey in

Relays—We meet the Chief Mavai, a great Papuan Character—Mavai’s Way of

Life—His Harem—His Western Notions—His Trousers—His Red Coat—His Severe

Discipline—As we proceed, Construction of Native Houses more elaborate—

On to Ekeikei and Dinawa—March through Wet Vegetation—Tortured by

Leeches and an Abominable Parasite, the Scrub-Itch—A Gloomy Forest—

Magnificent Orchids—Carriers stimulate Laggard Comrades with Nettles—The

Aculama River—I discover a New Fish.

CHAPTER IV

WE STRIKE INLAND

We left Yule Island at 10 A.M. in a small boat, accompanied by two

Mission Fathers. Our baggage came on with us at the same time in a rough

boat. We reached the mouth of the river at noon, and found some natives

there fishing. They were very friendly and gave us some fish. At that

point the entrance to the river was about half a mile broad, but across

it there was a big bar. At 2 P.M. we had entered the Bioto Creek, where

we suffered tremendously from mosquitoes. Here, in fact, they are quite

a terror, and this is believed to be the very worst place for mosquitoes

in all New Guinea. During the first night that we halted there I had not

fixed my net properly, so I slept very little owing to the annoyance of

these insects. It is an unhealthy spot, and fever rages. The village is

very small, containing only nineteen houses for the regular inhabitants,

and two houses, one at each end, for visitors. This provision for the

stranger within their gates is a general custom in every Papuan village.

Despite this form of hospitality, however, the Bioto people are not very

amiable, and I found them extremely greedy. The region is a perfect one

for game, especially for duck and pigeon. Every evening one sees clouds

of pigeons flying over the sea from the mainland to Pigeon Island. In

the morning they return. This migration is to secure safety, as Pigeon

Island is uninhabited, and in its mangrove swamps the birds know that

they can sleep unmolested. After a night’s rest, such as it was, we

prepared to start again, but found the natives somewhat unwilling to go

on. At length they agreed to take us by canoe as far as the path to Epa,

about ten miles from the Bioto Creek, and from that place they would

take us five miles by road to Jack’s camp, which was six miles distant

from Epa. For this journey they demanded an absurd price—each carrier

wanted a 16–inch knife, a tomahawk, or a pearl-shell—and in this

extravagant rating of their services they showed themselves typical

coast natives. The mountain people would have done the same work for one

stick of tobacco. Before we had come to terms the day had worn away, and

it was necessary to remain another night at Bioto. Next morning we were

up early, and by the time we had breakfasted, the carriers, fifteen in

all, who had come from their gardens the night before, were ready to

take up their burdens. The number available was still inadequate, but as

no more were to be had we had to make up our minds to a double journey.

We stayed the night at Jack’s camp, sending on a messenger to Epa to ask

the chief Mavai to bring his people down the next day. By ten o’clock

the next morning Mavai had not arrived, so we decided to walk to Epa and

see him, at the same time hoping that we might meet him by the way. We

took Sam (my Cingalese servant) with us, and as there were two tracks,

he took one and I the other, each arranging to fire a gun if either

should meet Mavai. As it happened we met Mavai most opportunely just

where the two tracks met, and Sam, who had only gone a few yards, was

with us in a minute. Mavai explained that, as it was already late in the

day, he would not call his people together, but would make arrangements

for them to carry for us on the following day.

[Illustration:

EPA VILLAGE, MAVAI’S CAPITAL.

]

Mavai, the chief of Epa, is a magnificent autocrat, and is proud to be

the white man’s friend. He was credited with powers of sorcery—hence his

extraordinary influence. He overshadowed me with his favour, and

commanded his entire village to “carry for Parki”—the Epan attempt to

pronounce my name. Thus I obtained the force I required to take me

onwards, and I went, one might almost say, on the shoulders of Epa—men,

women, and children. The chief himself shouldered a load, without loss

of dignity, and with great advantage to his royal pocket.

My princely benefactor was no ordinary man. He stood about six feet

high. His features were of Roman type, his bearing active and alert, his

frame strong and wiry. Keen eyes looked out of a dark copper-coloured

visage, which gained by contrast with a scarlet coat—a discarded British

uniform, his only ceremonial garment, donned on occasions of great

gravity. Such an occasion was the issuing of his command to carry for

me. With due ceremony he mounted a platform erected near his house, and

assuming the red coat he addressed his assembled people with magnificent

oratory, emphasising his speech by actions. Mavai is a strict

disciplinarian, and I have seen him administer personal chastisement to

recalcitrant villagers. He is a mighty hunter, a fact attested by his

crushed right hand, which was maimed by a bite from a wild pig. Our

friend is a great polygamist, and formerly had fifteen wives. When we

were there at Epa he possessed only five, to whom he was extremely kind,

although he made them work pretty hard. One of them was specially

appointed to wait upon her lord at his meals. On the death of another he

was deeply affected, and cut off his mop of hair. He kept up

considerable state, and at meal times sat in his house in a different

apartment from that in which he slept. He was not above taking food with

us, and used to ask for tobacco in a very lordly way. He smoked a

European pipe, of which he was particularly proud, and when it was

between his lips he used to touch the bowl consequentially and say,

“Parki,” thus signifying to me that he was no small beer. He would pay

the deepest attention throughout a long story, looking steadily at you,

and when you had finished he would tell you what he thought, giving

elaborate reasons. In the centre of his house hung a hurricane lamp,

which he had got from Jack Exton, the sandalwood trader. He understood

the working of the lamp quite well, and kept a supply of kerosene in the

house in a tin. He was also indebted to Mr. Exton for a further adjunct

of civilisation, viz. a pair of trousers very unfashionably big at the

knee. His Highness used European spoons, forks, and knives.

Mavai had adopted a coloured orphan, whom he kept under very strict

discipline. This youth refused to go with Sam to Oo-fa-fa, and when the

chief found out that his express orders had been disobeyed, he cut off a

stick and thrashed the boy indoors for all he was worth. The boy

received ten cuts, but neither moved nor howled, although the women of

the village set up a dolorous wailing while the punishment was going on.

As soon as the castigation was finished, Mavai seemed to be seized with

sudden shamefacedness, for he ran at top speed to his sago plantation,

and remained in retirement for a considerable time.

At Epa the native houses begin to be beautifully constructed. They are

on a raised platform, and look like inverted boats, the roof being

formed by bending over long sticks, so as to form an arch that is

thatched with sago leaf. The floor is particularly good, and at Epa

there is an admirable guest-house, with a fine level floor of split

sago, the pieces being 1¼ inches wide, neatly laid and bound together.

Mavai’s guest-house, which adjoined his dwelling-house, was open at both

ends. The house poles are very substantial, for they are driven into the

iron ground, which is very stony, and radiated great heat, so that one

could not go comfortably without boots, although in this respect the

natives seem to be pachydermatous.

We saw Mavai’s son build a house, neither asking nor requiring

assistance. Single-handed he brought up his poles, peeled off the bark,

and drove them in.

One evening during our stay there was a terrific wind storm, a heavy

north-wester, which tried the architecture of Epa severely. One slender

house began to heel over, and it was accordingly tied to a tree with

strands of cane, and a large gang of men held these stays until the

worst of the storm was passed. Even Mavai’s substantial house gave way a

little under the tempest.

It was about 9.50 when we started on our journey from Epa to Ekeikei. We

sent twenty-five carriers on with their loads, and we ourselves followed

with the remainder of the baggage. Of course we could not carry

everything on this trip, and it was my intention, when we finally

reached our destination at Dinawa, to send back mountain men to bring

the rest of the material up the forty miles’ tramp from Epa.

At first the path led downwards, and very soon we came to a small river,

over which—as the existing bamboo bridge was unsafe owing to a freshet—

we had to be carried by the natives. We always took great care to avoid,

as far as possible, getting our clothes wet, as this accident renders

the European traveller particularly liable to fever. In this case,

however, this precaution proved futile, owing to the oncoming of a

downpour of rain—the last we were to see for nine months.

[Illustration:

EKEIKEI NATIVES.

]

At times the brushwood was very dense, and we had to cut our way, but

where the forest was closely matted above, forming a thick canopy which

excluded the light, nothing, of course, could grow beneath. At points

where the light penetrated, the undergrowth was immediately thick again.

The path, such as it was, was stony and hard. As we trudged along in the

wet, we made the acquaintance of a new discomfort. This manifested

itself in the presence of a leech, a little creature about ¾–inch long,

with a slender body, very much smaller than the European variety, but

inflicting the same sort of three-cornered bite. The native carriers

offer the easiest victims, for the leeches fasten upon their bare heels

in great numbers, and they had constantly to stop and brush them off

with little switches which they carried in their hands. Sometimes, when

the leeches had bitten very deep, the carriers had to lay down their

loads and pull them off with their fingers. They would endure them until

they became too bad, say, when a dozen or so had adhered to each foot.

At this time we did not suffer much, but later on, in the journey from

Faula to Mafulu, they got over the tops of our boots and socks and

attacked our ankles. The bite was not actually painful, and the presence

of our enemy was not revealed until we realised that our feet were wet

with blood. The chief haunts of the leech are wet stones and moss and

low herbage.

Another discomfort which we experienced at this point of our journey was

the abominable attack of the scrub-itch, a nasty little parasite that

the wayfarer brushes from the low herbage as he moves along. This

hateful microscopic creature, which is of a bright red colour, gets

under the skin and causes terrible irritation. The affection spreads,

and if one is so unwise as to scratch the place, there is no hope of

relief for at least three weeks. The only satisfactory remedy is to

bathe the part in warm salt and water. Scrub-itch, leeches, and

mosquitoes at times render life in the forest anything but blissful, yet

Nature, according to her law, offers her compensations, even in the

primeval forest.

About the elevation that we were traversing there grows a particular

kind of palm, peculiarly grateful to the native when he is hungry—a not

infrequent occurrence—and at such moments of stress they discard their

loads, search out this palm and cut it down. At the top, just below the

crown of the palm, the last shoot, about six feet long, remains green.

It is opened lengthways, and is peeled until the inside layers are

reached. These layers are straw-coloured, like asparagus, and to the

taste are sweet, slightly dashed with acid. Europeans, as well as

natives, can eat great quantities of this wholesome and enjoyable food

with impunity. It is excellent also for quenching thirst, for which it

is often most convenient, as it grows in waterless regions.

The gloom of the forest was diversified by the colours of its

extraordinary orchids. One of these (_grammatophyllum speciosum_), which

had made its home on a lofty tree, was of almost incredible luxuriance,

and could the whole plant have been secured, it would not have weighed

less than half a ton. I despatched one of my native boys to climb the

tree to see if he could secure a specimen. He went about his task in the

native fashion. The climber stands with his face to the trunk, which, as

well as his body, is encircled with a hoop of rattan cane. This hoop he

holds in each hand, and his ankles are tied together. First, he leans

back until his body has purchase on the hoop, and then at that moment,

by the leverage of his ankles, he makes an upward movement of about a

foot. Then, falling backwards against the hoop, and pressing his feet

against the trunk, he is supported for the next spring. This operation

is repeated with marvellous dexterity and rapidity, and with this

contrivance the youth makes his way to the top. There is no tree in New

Guinea that a native cannot climb thus.

In the present instance, my man was not destined to have any luck, for

the network of roots round the tree formed such a wide-spreading dome

that he could not make his way over to the crown to secure a specimen of

the orchid, and the attempt had accordingly to be abandoned.

We pressed on along the rough track, which was everywhere beset with

precipices and ravines that compelled us to take the greatest care. The

road was fairly practicable, however, for transit, and there were no

very serious obstructions at this stage of the journey. My people were

in good spirits, and we plodded on as gaily as might be, occasionally

stopping and giving the men a smoke. Despite the toils of the road,

these halts in the forest were perfectly delightful, for we had in the

improvement of the air a foretaste of the pleasant freshness that was to

make life in the mountains of New Guinea so tolerable and even

attractive.

After five hours’ march we arrived at Ekeikei, rather tired and ready

for slumber, but here, alas! there was no rest for us. The native

carriers had to lodge, some in our hut, some under it, and their method

of spending the night was not favourable to repose. Their idea is to

sleep for half-an-hour, and then light their pipes and spin yarns,

which, to judge by their uproarious laughter, must have been extremely

diverting. After the story-telling, they obliged us with songs, and the

music wooed them again to a brief period of slumber. It did not woo us,

for the coast natives have no ear, and their music is very unlike the

soft and flowing song of the mountaineers. This performance went on

until daybreak, when we rose. In order to make a satisfactory day’s

journey it was necessary to start at 5 A.M. We had to prepare our own

breakfast and give the natives theirs, and then we set out for Madui.

Again, the path wound past high precipices and deep ravines until we

came to our first resting-place, Bamboo Camp, so called from a clump of

bamboo that formed a natural shelter. Here the forest trees were so high

and thick that scarcely any sun or light could penetrate. It was gloomy

in the extreme, and very depressing, the silence broken only by the

drip, drip of the rain, and the only sound of life was the “wauk,”

“wauk” of the bird of paradise.

For two hours the track skirted the Deeanay precipice, and our way led

under enormous overhanging boulders which would reach out some distance

overhead. These were the more impressive in that they seemed to have no

hold, and the imagination made teasing suggestions as to what would

happen if one of them were to topple over. From the crevices little

springs issued, and in these damp nooks there was a luxuriant growth of

lichens and begonias in flower. While accomplishing the long

circumvention of the crags, it was impossible to obtain a view of the

Deeanay, but as we broke out into more open forest, close to Madui, one

could form some idea of its rocky magnificence.

[Illustration:

THE CAMP AT EKEIKEI.

]

Close to the Deeanay precipice we noted an extraordinary sight. Under a

large tree that rose to a height of some 150 feet, were huge mounds,

quite five feet high, of veritable sawdust, that seemed to proclaim the

presence of man. On a nearer approach the wonder became greater, for the

heaps were being continually augmented by a constant rain of sawdust of

different grains, some finer than others. No human sawyer, of course,

was there, but the tree, to a height of at least 100 feet, was riddled

by coleopterous larvæ. Several families of these were represented. The

tree, which was about five feet in diameter, and had a thin bark, was,

as might be expected, dying. It must have possessed some strange

attraction, for it was most unusual in New Guinea to find beetles thus

congregated. The distribution is usually very scattered. The holes were

probably made at first by small beetles of various families, but chiefly

anobiadæ, followed as a rule by brenthidæ, later probably by

longicorniæ. One species follows the other into the same hole, each

succeeding species bigger than its predecessor. Sometimes the

lepidoptera make borings, but this sawdust was much finer. Only a few

living branches remained on the tree, which was a mere shell. It was,

however, so well protected from winds that it still stood. Close by we

saw a native hut, uninhabited, of very rude construction. This point of

our journeyings is otherwise memorable, for it was here, near a creek,

that we found some of our finest butterflies—lycenidæ, papiliosidæ,

satyridæ, and ornithoptera primus.

We were glad to continue the ascent to Madui, where once more we emerged

into the welcome light of the sun. When we were two hours’ distance from

Madui, one of our carriers struck work and refused to go any farther.

There was only one way of persuasion, to which I was greatly averse, but

his comrades considered it necessary, and their method, which was, after

all, not very harsh, had the desired effect. The other carriers picked

the leaves of a gigantic nettle, and with these they gently whipped the

reluctant one until he was fain to “jog on the footpath way, and merrily

hent the stile a’.” A little later, he tried to desert, but his comrades

brought him back, and when we halted he was kept in the centre of the

camp under strict surveillance. When he had had a good rest and a hearty

meal, however, he went on as cheerfully as the others.

We reached the foot of Madui Hill at 3.30 P.M., and a climb of

half-an-hour brought us to the summit, which commands a fine view. On a

clear day Hall Sound is visible on the coast side, and inland there is a

grand prospect of mountain scenery. All the way up it had rained

incessantly, and we were drenched to the skin. Our journey over rocks

and precipices, watercourses and ravines, had completely tired us out,

and, fortunately, the natives were too fatigued to sing. Accordingly, we

contrived to get a good night’s rest, and did not leave Madui until 9.25

A.M. next day.

[Illustration:

THE RETURN OF MY COLLECTORS WITH BIRDS OF PARADISE AFTER A FEW HOURS’

SHOOTING AT EKEIKEI.

]

Getting under weigh again, we descended from Madui into a ravine, where

we passed a delightful waterfall, far away up on the precipices of the

river Aculama, which we were to know better during our stay in New

Guinea. The waterfall was on one of the tributaries of a little river,

which we could see far below us rushing over its rocky bed in small

cataracts that alternated with still blue pools. The trees in the ravine

were loaded with lycopodiums and ferns, and, in their season, a few

rhododendrons. The cluster of flowers was like a golden ball the size of

a man’s head. On a later journey I secured the root, but it died before

I could get it down to the coast for shipment. These rhododendrons did

not grow alone, but attached themselves to tree trunks.

Another curiosity of the Aculama was a large fresh-water prawn, of which

I got wind from the natives’ talk. As soon as I heard it mentioned, I

told my boys that if they could bring me a specimen I would pay well for

it, and also for examples of the fish of the Aculama. They accordingly

went in quest of the crustacean, and before long they brought me a

specimen. The prawn haunts the eddies under the large boulders, around

which the natives draw their net so as to lie close to the shape of the

stone. They then pull it out of the water gradually, and occasionally

find that they have caught one or two specimens. The variety is about 5

inches long, of a transparent brown when caught, very much like our

British prawns, and when cooked of a rich red. The pincers and legs are

longer than those of the marine species. They make delightful morsels,

and are a welcome addition to the explorer’s larder, which provides

changes none too many.

In the waters of the Aculama I had also the good fortune to discover an

entirely new fish, the _rhiacichthys Novæ Guineæ_, which has been

described by Mr. Boulenger, and I am permitted to print his account in

the Appendix.

CHAPTER V

_THE FIRST CAMP_

Journey continued—A Glorious Scarlet Creeper—Dinawa—Site for Camp

selected—Building Camp—Native Assistance—Organisation for Scientific

Work—Daily Routine—Teaching the Natives how to Catch and Handle

Entomological Specimens—Sudden Affluence leads one of my Native Boys to

Desert—He is Caught and Reformed—My best Native Assistant and his Wife—

Female Influence a great Asset with other Women—The Day’s Work—

Collecting at Night—Photography—A Dark Room in the Wilds—Native Interest

in Developing.

CHAPTER V

THE FIRST CAMP

To return, however, to our journey. We crossed the Aculama by a

missionary bridge, a rough structure made of two trees placed about a

couple of feet apart, and laid with cross strips of wood. At once we

began our climb to Dinawa up a winding forest path—the last stage of the

march which was to bring us to our permanent camp. I was always on the

look-out for natural treasures, and when we got to the top of the ridge

just beyond the Aculama, I was fortunate enough to see in a ravine just

below a magnificent example of D’Alberti’s creeper. D’Alberti had

discovered it on the Fly River. The one I found here in the mountains

was of the variety named _Macuna Bennetti_. It ran up its supporting

trunk on a stem which was about 6 inches thick at the base. At the

height of 200 feet it found light, threw out slender arms, and then

dropped down bunches of festoons 20 feet long, a magnificent blaze of

scarlet blossom. The flowers of the _Macuna Bennetti_ are distinguished

by a calyx covered with short hairs, some short and pliable, a few

stiff. When we reached the top of Dinawa Hill we found patches of grass

growing, which did not occur anywhere on the lower slopes.

We at once set about selecting a piece of ground for our camp, and found

a level, grassy space, which required only the cutting of a few trees to

make it clear enough for our purpose. There was, however, very little

brushwood to cut. Pending the building of a more permanent home, we

pitched our tent and settled down for the first night at our base of

operations. Dinawa village was fifty yards away, and the native men came

timidly out to look at us. They were very suspicious, and their

womenkind so shy that it was a considerable time before they would

venture to approach our camp.

The day after our arrival the carriers went back, and it was to the

Papuans of the vicinity that we had to look for the labour that was to

build our house. My Cingalese servant, Sam, spoke the language, and he

made the overtures to our dusky neighbours. We were careful to let them

get some inkling of the “trade” we carried, and this seemed to encourage

them to greater boldness. Occasionally we would open a box in front of

our visitors and show them an axe or a knife, whereat they would say

“lo-pi-ang,” that is, “good,” the first word, probably, that a European

would hear from the lips of a Papuan. A little present of tobacco would

help matters greatly, and in return for this the beneficiary would say

with the ingratiating guilelessness of a child, “Parki lo-pi-ang” (good

Pratt). In time the neighbouring villages, hearing of the vast wealth

that had arrived at Dinawa, came in too, and I was able to engage a

force of workers, whose numbers varied from ten to fifteen, and who

commenced immediately to build my house. These were to be paid when the

house was finished; but during the ten days that the building was going

on they were given occasional supplies of tobacco as a gratuity. The

average wage per day was three sticks of tobacco, or one rami, which

would mean about 1¼ yards of scarlet calico. At the end of the time each

man was to receive a large 18–inch knife, or an axe, and a certain

number of sticks of tobacco.

[Illustration:

HILL NATIVES AT DINAWA.

]

For our house, we first drove into the ground two stout poles 18 feet

apart. These carried the main beam of the roof. At a distance of 6 feet

on each side of these poles we placed the corner supports of the house,

each 12 feet high. The framework was then joined up with poles of

unsplit bamboo tied with split cane, and the framework of the walls

consisted of upright pieces of split bamboo set in the ground 1 foot

apart. We then wattled these uprights with smaller pieces of split

bamboo, the sides and gables of the house forming a complete

basket-work. From the ridge-pole we dropped bamboo rafters extending far

beyond the walls, so as to give very wide eaves, and throw the drip of

the rain as far out as possible. We were now ready to thatch the roof,

and for this we required large quantities of grass. The natives by this

time had gained sufficient confidence in us to allow their women to work

for us, and accordingly I employed ten women as grass-cutters, and kept

them for several days at work cutting with 6–inch knives, which we

supplied. They had no distance to go to find sufficient grass for our

purpose, but the procuring of heavier poles and bamboo was a different

matter. The wood had to be cut at a point some distance down the hill,

and it took quite three hours to bring up each of the heavier logs. When

the roof was on we nailed down our floor, which was made of bamboo fixed

to cross-pieces 6 inches off the ground. The material was not ideal, for

the joints were never closed, and small articles used to fall down into

the cracks. We made our door frame of axed wood and covered it with

thick canvas.

We had also to build our collecting verandah, which we placed on the

edge of a precipice not far from the house. It had a 20–foot frontage,

and was 12 feet wide, with a division down the centre at the ridge-pole

of the roof, which made it, properly speaking, two verandahs placed back

to back, so that when the wind was unfavourable on one side, we could

find shelter on the other. The whole of the structure was raised off the

ground on poles, and the boys had their quarters beneath.

Such was our establishment at Dinawa. When we had finished it we began

to settle down, and were able to organise the camp for work. A native

boy called Doboi, from near Dinawa village, was engaged as cook, and we

had also a water-boy, Matu, whose duty was to go down the hill, a tramp

of three-quarters of an hour, to a beautiful spring whence we derived

our supply. It was lovely water, for the declivity gave no opportunity

for decomposing vegetable matter to collect. The well always ran clear,

and, even at the worst part of the drought, did not fail us altogether,

although its trickle had sunk to the size of an ordinary lead-pencil,

and the boy had to wait quite a long time before he could fill the

billies.

We built our fire outside the house in the open space, gipsy fashion,

and hung the billy, in which we did all our cooking, on a stick resting

on two forked upright sticks. Gradually our working day fell into a

regular routine. We awoke with the dawn, but had always to trust to

ourselves to make the first start, as your Papuan will not wake a

sleeping man. He has indeed a superstitious awe of the slumberer. If one

must be awakened, it must not be by a shake, and when Doboi had advanced

far enough to bring us a cup of tea in the morning, he would tread very

warily.

When we were fairly astir, we found Doboi already about and the fire

going. Then he would make tea while Harry or I baked cakes. The bread

rises easily in New Guinea owing to the temperature, and we were never

at a loss for yeast; for I had brought with me a small quantity of hops,

and we kept our supply going by keeping back a piece of dough from every

batch. This fragment, no bigger than a pocket matchbox, we placed in an

ordinary pound tin, and by noon it had swelled right over the edges. We

breakfasted on bread and dripping of pig, when we had been able to buy

one from the natives, and sometimes we substituted coffee for tea. By

seven o’clock breakfast was finished, the boys having had theirs under

the verandah. It was then time for them to be off to their collecting,

but they were difficult to move. They wanted to sit and smoke. Once off,

they might do a day’s work, but on the other hand there was just the

chance that they would waste their employer’s time in the forest,

smoking and telling stories; or, if they had killed and caught anything,

they would immediately sit down and cook it. If this happened they would

come home empty-handed, quite shamelessly, saying “awpapoo achi” (no

butterflies).

Each boy was supplied with a large butterfly net and collecting box. In

every box we stuck a certain number of pins, and told the boy that if he

filled his box with good specimens he would receive a stick of tobacco.

Bad specimens I always discarded in the culprit’s presence, so that his

iniquity might come home to him. I had, of course, to undertake the

training of the collectors myself, although Sam helped to explain the

method.

First, I got a butterfly and showed how to handle it and pin it sideways

into the box. The crucial matter was the seizing of it once it was in

the net. It must be carefully taken between finger and thumb and the

thorax pinched on the under side. If it be pinched from above—as every

butterfly collector knows—the operator’s finger-marks would show on the

wings and betray slovenly handling. Some of the boys became very

neat-fingered after a time, but others would not learn at all, and were

so shameless that they would bring in part of a wing carefully stuck on

the pin—in fact, it was “anything to fill your box.” Occasionally the

less scrupulous would appropriate the pins to their own use. Of course

there was nothing for it but to pay off and send away such useless

fellows.

[Illustration:

DOBOI, OUR NATIVE COOK AT DINAWA.

]

Making due allowance, however, for the fact that they were savages, the

general character of my collectors said a great deal for human nature.

Doboi was a really good fellow, and had only one reprehensible escapade

to his discredit. It was a case of the deceitfulness of wealth! He had

worked extremely well and had amassed a small fortune, a blanket, many

ramis, and a quantity of tobacco. With these possessions, he became a

small king in his village. One day he vanished with all his goods. Now

Doboi was under contract to remain with me while I was in the interior,

and although he had received much, he had not really worked off his part

of the bargain. Accordingly I had him pursued and brought back, and

thereafter for the rest of his time he was a good boy. He was fourteen,

but had attained to full manhood, and was a very capable fellow.

My best mountain boy, however, was Ow-bow. He was my right hand, my

native first officer. I could send him anywhere, for he was quick and

alert, but he always stipulated that he must go armed, and believing him

to be justified, I invariably provided him with a weapon. He loved

firearms passionately, and to see Ow-bow enter a village with his gun

over his shoulder was to realise on a small scale what a Roman triumph

must have been! He understood the weapon—his fellow-tribesmen did not.

Therein lay Ow-bow’s power. He would fire a shot in the air and then lay

down the law to his comrades. If there were any possibility of getting

what you wanted, Ow-bow would get it. He would, indeed, have done well

on an American newspaper. He understood how to make the most of what

knowledge he had, and was fully conscious that it gave him superior

power, which he was not slow to wield. When he went to a village to

recruit carriers, he arrayed himself in his best, donned his finest

beads and feathers, and painted his cheeks in scarlet stripes. Thus

resplendent, with his gun over his shoulder, he entered the village,

strutting consequentially, and immediately made his presence felt. He

was a man who would not and could not be refused. He showed his wages

and told the tribesmen that they, if they carried for Parki, would

become rich in like manner.

More subtle still was his dealing when he had been sent to engage women

for grass-cutting or similar employment. Ow-bow was a married man who

had permission for his wife to stay in camp with him, and this lady

proved his great advocate with her own sex. While Ow-bow waxed eloquent

and persuasive with the men, Mrs. Ow-bow would display to the womenkind

what wealth had also come to her, and as she reasoned, her sisters were

persuaded, and took service with the white man. But Ow-bow’s flourishes

with the gun were no mere vainglorious show. In two months’ time he had

become a really good shot, and after a morning’s sport would often

return to camp with five or six birds. He invariably accounted for his

empty cartridges, while other boys would return with spent cases and

never a feather to show for them. He grasped the method of aiming at

once and never showed any amateurish disposition to squint along the

barrel, but got his sights on the bird neatly and quickly and fired

without hesitation. He seldom missed.

During the morning, while the boys were out at work, Harry and I would

also be engaged with our nets; or, as our collections increased, we

would be busy putting specimens together, tending them and seeing that

they were not suffering from damp. Sometimes, taking a couple of the

laziest boys with me, I descended to the Aculama and followed the stream

up its course, collecting as we went. As the boys’ skill increased, it

became possible to send them two by two so that several localities could

be worked simultaneously. Work, still further afield, fell to Sam, who

often went away with five or six carriers on collecting expeditions that

lasted a week or a fortnight.

The best time of day for butterflies is from 8 A.M. till noon. The boys

returned to camp at times varying according to their luck or their

laziness, and in any case, we had all returned by three o’clock. Then

Doboi or Weiyah cooked a meal which varied in excellence according to

the state of the stores or our luck with the gun, and afterwards we took

our siesta. The late afternoon or early evening found us at work again

on the collections or putting the camp straight. Darkness descended

quickly, and when there was no moon we went to the verandah and began

collecting moths. On favourable nights we often continued at work till

daybreak.

The boys did not care about night work and usually sat round the camp

fire smoking, spinning yarns, or crooning their charmingly plaintive

mountain melodies until about 1 A.M., when they curled up under the

verandah and went to sleep. Occasionally one or two very hard-up young

gentlemen, whose need of tobacco was urgent, would volunteer to assist

in the moth-catching, but for the most part they preferred free evenings

like the young working people of more advanced nations. Visitors from

Dinawa dropped in until the camp became a thronged resort. Then

unfortunately things began to disappear, and it was necessary to keep

the natives at a greater distance and restrict liberty of entrance. “No

admission except on business” became the rule for outsiders. On my own

boys, I found it was best to impose no cast-iron regulations.

Nor were these all our occupations. Besides the lepidoptera, there were

ornithological and botanical specimens to collect and preserve. Of the

last, the more succulent required constant care and changing, and some

took three weeks to dry. Photography proved a pleasant change, and on

nights unfavourable for moths, we darkened the house with blankets and

had a spell of developing. At such times one realised poignantly the

limitations of a savage country, and the value of things that at home

are too commonplace to be remarked. Our chief lack was a good flat

shelf. Amateur photographers with luxurious equipment should figure to

themselves the discomforts of a ridgy shelf of split bamboo on which no

bottle will stand upright. Groping in the dim red light among one’s

materials on that crazy ledge was as productive of maledictions as the

royal and ancient game itself.

[Illustration:

THE NATIVE VILLAGE OF DINAWA.

]

The natives were, at first, very much frightened at the camera, the

women especially, and some of them were never reconciled to it. I showed

them stereoscopic slides of Papuan views on Negretti and Zambra’s

veroscope. One fellow, on seeing his own portrait stand out in bold

relief, dropped the stereoscope and ran up a tree. I occasionally

allowed a few privileged natives to come into the dark room to watch the

developing. At first they were rather alarmed at the red light, but

gradually they became interested in the process, and as the image

appeared we heard the inevitable “lo-pi-ang.”

Such was our daily life at Dinawa—very enjoyable in the crisp and

bracing mountain air that reminded one of an English October. But for

the unavoidable cares of camp management and fears for the endurance of

our food supply and the safety of our specimens, it would have been

altogether ideal.

CHAPTER VI

_VICISSITUDES AND A DIGRESSION_

The Drought affects our Work—Butterflies begin to Fail—Forest Fires—We

descend to the St. Joseph River—A Temporary Camp—A Wonderful Native

Suspension Bridge—River Scenery—Native Methods of Fishing—Dull Weather

and Little Success in Collecting—A Comic Incident—A Native besieged by a

Wild Pig—War—Native Hostility—A Chief threatens to Cook and Eat our

Heads—Strict Guard kept on Camp—The Bird of Paradise—Papuan Game Laws—

Natives’ Interest in Writing—Further Stay at the St. Joseph

Impracticable—A Flood destroys our Bridge—A Visit to a Native Village—

Curious Means of Ingress—Return to Dinawa—My Cingalese Headman’s

Experiences—He evades Native Treachery—Sudden Growth of a New Township.

CHAPTER VI

VICISSITUDES AND A DIGRESSION

As the days went on at Dinawa, there was no sign of any breaking up of

the great drought, which began seriously to affect the success of our

work. Butterflies grew scarce, and daily the catch fell off, for the

vegetation was getting very dry. Lycopodiums were dropping off the

trees, and often we could see, in the lower grounds, great forest fires,

which consumed the undergrowth throughout large tracts of country, miles

and miles being left blackened and burnt up. In these conflagrations,

millions of low-feeding and high-feeding larvæ must have been destroyed,

and there was a corresponding decrease in the insect life of the

district. Seeing that, for a time, there was not much more to be done,

we decided to quit our camp at Dinawa and descend to the St. Joseph

River; so, on July 22, we set out with thirty carriers, and went down

into a deep valley, whence we climbed a ridge which brought us to a

native village so strongly stockaded that we knew that the tribes must

be at war—village against village—and this unsettled state of affairs

made it very difficult to persuade the natives to pass with us through

the open country that lay between the hamlets.

At this place we changed carriers, and, accompanied by the chief of the

village, we descended by an extremely rough native path to the St.

Joseph River, which we reached at 4 P.M., after a march of about six

hours. We found the river very low but beautifully limpid and very

rapid. For our camp we immediately chose a small patch of sand close to

the stream, the only clear space we could find; for the river bed and

the gorge itself were filled with enormous boulders piled one upon the

other in the wildest confusion.

Our temporary dwellings were of the simplest. Harry and I occupied an

ordinary fly-tent, and another was pitched for our native followers. On

the day after our arrival we set about constructing a rough bridge for

our own convenience. This we did by felling a tree on one side of the

stream and letting it fall across the river bed as far as it would go.

We repeated the operation with a thinner tree, which we let fall from

the opposite bank, and the branches of the two intertwining in the

middle, gave the structure some sort of continuity. Along the two trunks

we could scramble without any very great difficulty. Our feat of

engineering, however, was as nothing compared to the one achieved by our

savage neighbours, for at a little distance up the stream the Papuans

had spanned the gorge with a most wonderful suspension bridge. Across

the ravine they had swung four main chains of bamboo. These were

fastened at each end to a rigid horizontal cross-piece, and this again

was braced on one side of the river to two trees, of no very great

thickness, but of tremendous sustaining power, while on the other the

chains were laid over the top of an enormous crag, then across a little

depression in the ground behind it, and so were made fast to trees at

the height of a few feet from the ground. The four main chains were

under-girt with loops of bamboo, forming a cradle, along the bottom of

which single bamboos were laid on end, affording a precarious footway.

The total length of the span was at least 150 feet, and it swung clear

of the tree-tops on the wooded sides of the gorge. At its greatest dip

the bridge must have been 70 feet above the river. The elasticity and

swing were tremendous, and I confess that the passage of the bridge was

no joke to one unaccustomed to its giddy eccentricities. On this

veritable tight-rope custom is everything, for I have seen fifteen

native carriers at one time dancing carelessly across it, regardless of

their heavy loads and of the tremendous increase in the oscillation that

their numbers caused.

I crossed with some natives of the district, and having descended the

right bank of the St. Joseph for about a mile, we came to the mouth of a

small tributary, the bed of which we ascended for a distance of half a

mile. It was a toilsome ascent owing to the enormous boulders, to which

I have already alluded, and I found that the safest way was to take off

my shoes and stockings and clamber along bare-foot. At intervals among

these boulders occurred calm pools of exquisite deep blue water, and

these the natives choose as their fishing grounds. They favour the pools

with the narrowest outlets, and dam with leaves the little waterfalls,

or natural weirs over which the water rushes from one clear expanse to

another.

My native companions, being very agreeable and obliging fellows, were

kind enough to send to their villages for the great fishing-nets, 30

yards long and 6 or 7 feet wide. When the nets arrived, the natives

collected stones about the size of an orange, wrapped palm leaves round

them, and then tied them to the edge of the net, until it was evenly

weighted all along, at intervals of about 6 inches. They then lowered

their net into the water, so arranging it as to form a half-moon, and,

scrambling along the sides of the watercourse, they gradually drew the

mesh towards them, until they reached the upper end of the pool, where

natives, standing breast-high in the water, landed the fish, as they

were pressed towards the bank, in large dip nets. Some of the fish

jumped over the net, and some escaped down stream, and even managed to

plunge over the weir, for they were strong enough to take a leap of 6

feet. We caught eight beauties, none under 2 lbs. in weight, and some up

to 4 lbs. They were, as far as I could make out, a species of

fresh-water mullet, and in the main stream of the St. Joseph similar

fish, weighing as much as 15 lbs., are no uncommon catch.

These fish are wonderfully provided by Nature with an appliance which

helps them to combat the extraordinary current. At one moment you will

see them being swept down resistlessly, but suddenly they shoot off into

the quieter water and attach themselves to the rocks by a strong sucker

near the mouth. There they hang just outside the current, their tails

moving gently with the eddy; and when they have recovered their

strength, they make another dash through the swifter waters, coming to

anchor again when baffled—otherwise it would be impossible for them to

stem the stream. The fish we caught that day made a most welcome

addition to our larder, as they are delicious eating.

[Illustration: