In many Papuan villages the visiting magistrates have raised one of the
chief men to the rank of local policeman, rewarding him with the princely
salary of ten shillings per annum (usually paid in tobacco) and two
uniforms. The latter consist of a neckless tunic with long sleeves, and a
strip of dark blue cloth covering the wearer from waist to knee. A flaming
red belt lends colour to the costume.
The Wedau policeman lived a peaceful life on the whole, though when an
energetic magistrate swooped suddenly down on the village the
functionary’s life was, for the time being, scarcely worth living.
Luckily, the magistrate’s little vessel could be seen directly it rounded
the cape and long before it had crossed the bay, so that there was time
for preparations. Women set frantically to work with handfuls of stiff
stalks, which served as brooms, and swept fallen leaves into heaps, which
were immediately burned. Children buzzed backwards and forwards, carrying
loads of stones and rubbish, which they threw into the swamp on the beach.
“Gabemani” (Government) had ordered it to be filled in long ago, but the
villagers preferred swarms of malaria-disseminating mosquitoes rather than
exerting themselves to do away with the cause of them.
[Illustration: THE HOUSE AT WAMIRA WHERE THE AUTHORESS LIVED FOR SEVEN
MONTHS, SPENDING AN EXCITING TIME OWING TO “EVIL SPIRITS” AND NATIVES
“RUNNING AMOK.”
_From a Photograph._]
The magistrate would find the village suspiciously neat and clean, and
after trying a few cases of petty theft would sail away satisfied, leaving
the policeman to distribute small portions of the tobacco he had received
and to enjoy his hard-earned rest.
Another of the officer’s duties was to make journeys into the interior and
capture murderers, when such were heard of, and convey them down the coast
to Samarai to be tried. I saw one insignificant-looking little man on his
way to jail, whom I knew to have committed a cruel murder. A white man
named Sexton, a “fossicker,” whom we had entertained at the mission
station, had gone a few miles inland in quest of gold. One day, while
seated at his midday meal, he was seized from behind and his throat cut.
It seemed that a native of the village had died while working for a white
man; therefore, in accordance with Papuan ideas of justice, the next man
of that race who came along had to be slain in revenge for the native’s
life.
The first photograph shows a house at Wamira where I lived for seven
months soon after my arrival in Papua. The missionary for whom it was
built was going on furlough, and during her absence I was in charge there.
It was situated on the edge of a coral cliff which rose straight up out of
the sea, so that the Pacific Ocean was, so to speak, at the door. Close by
was another house, used as a dormitory for the village girls who came as
boarders to the mission. There was also a boys’ dormitory and a kitchen.
This kitchen one day caught fire and was burnt to the ground in a very
little while. I rushed in and saved the pudding from the oven, while the
pupil-teacher, a Papuan boy, brought out our tin of kerosene before it
ignited. The kitchen was the only building that suffered, and the
villagers promptly built me a new one for five shillings, labour and
materials included! From this it will be obvious that there is not much
scope for a fire-insurance agent in Papua.
My house was divided into two apartments, a bed and a sitting room, and
was built of native timber, the walls being composed of plaited coco-leaf
and the roof of grass. The floor was made of slender strips of wood laid
side by side, and, though airy, was anything but durable. It was slightly
discomposing to see a small boy enter at the doorway and then suddenly
disappear through a gap in the floor, though, having sufficient presence
of mind to spread out his arms, he was able to hold himself in that
position until someone could rescue him. For windows I had openings in the
leaf walls, closed when necessary by means of wooden shutters.
Soon after I took charge the girls became much alarmed on account of some
midnight visitor who, they said, had tried to get into their house. The
natives were inclined to think the intruder was a prowling “bariawa,” or
spirit, and there were frightened faces and hushed voices among them as
night fell. Unfortunately, I was a heavy sleeper, and was usually only
roused by the girls’ shrieks after their mysterious visitor had left. A
few of the elder boys sat up one night, but saw nothing. Some barbed wire
was sent me, and complicated and formidable entanglements were constructed
between the girls’ house and mine. Soon after they had been placed there,
however, when we were congratulating ourselves that we were safe at last,
a little village child who was playing near fell over the wire and
severely injured himself, so I had to order the entanglement to be taken
away. One of the missionaries then lent me a revolver, but I am sure I
should never have been able to use it, even on a spirit. However, I showed
it to the old chief, and published the news of my acquisition, and soon
afterwards we were relieved to find that our mysterious visitor came no
longer.
Another source of excitement at Wamira was a kind of madness which
attacked a man now and again, a state of exaltation somewhat resembling
the Malay “amok.” At first the victim only sat in the house suffering from
“heat in the heart.” Then, after muttering unintelligibly, he would seize
a handful of spears, rush out of the house, and career wildly through the
villages, flinging the spears to right and left and shouting as he ran.
Women would come shrieking to my house and take refuge inside the fence,
hoping to be safe with the “foreigner.” Once one of these half-crazed men,
exhausted after an attack, came up the path and demanded water. I gave him
some particularly nauseous medicine, which he drank greedily, afterwards
asking for more. On another occasion one of them, who had already aimed a
spear at a villager, came on to the school, where the pupil teacher and I
had our flock of fifty or sixty children. Seeing him approaching, however,
we hastily closed and barricaded the doors, standing the siege until the
old chief influenced our would-be assailant to withdraw.
When my predecessor returned to her work a somewhat similar house to the
one I have described was built for me at Wedau, where I remained for
nearly two years. Ordinary village houses are built in very much the same
style: they possess only one room, and the supporting piles are higher.
The means of access to the interior is a sloping pole. These odd
“staircases” have slight notches cut in them, which afford very slight
purchase for a shod foot, though the nimble natives run up and down them
easily enough.
While I was living at Wamira news was brought of a murder in the hills.
The girl who came to tell me said that her uncle had taken a journey there
to obtain betel-nut. On the way he heard voices and promptly hid himself.
From his place of concealment he saw two men attacking a third. One held
the victim’s arms while the other cut his throat with a “gatigati” (long
knife). As he did so the dying man cried, “Au dobu, au dobu!” (“Oh, my
home!” or, literally, village). The hidden onlooker, being a Papuan, did
not dream of interfering. His “skin trembled,” he said, and he hastily
made his way back to safety.
[Illustration: A TYPICAL PAPUAN HUT.
_From a Photograph._]
The village policeman went out to capture the miscreants, and was
successful in bringing one to punishment. The crime, it was discovered,
had been committed for a very simple reason. The dead man had been
visiting a sick friend, who was the murderer’s brother. The invalid
received every kindness from his friend, but eventually, in the course of
nature, died. Therefore, argued the murderer, it was clear that the
visitor had bewitched the sick man and caused his death, and his own life
must necessarily be forfeited.
The hill-folk generally only came into prominence through committing
murders or other crimes. Being removed from the coast, and able to hide in
many obscure caves and lurking-places, they naturally stood less in awe of
the power of Government than the coastal tribes.
One day we were visited by two hill-women who had run away from their
husbands. Their bodies were covered with hideous raised scars, the result,
they assured us, of spear-thrusts inflicted on them by their inhuman
partners. They were in much fear of being pursued, but were given shelter
for the night at Dogura, the head station on the hill behind Wedau, where
I was living.
That same evening I was startled by cries from the village. The natives
called to me to bring my lantern, and I ran down to find the place in an
uproar. The men were rushing about, searching and looking up in the trees,
while the women were huddled together, talking excitedly. I managed to
make out that the husbands of the two fugitives had traced them as far as
Wedau. One of the men had lurked outside a house in the village, and, so a
woman averred, would have speared her as she came out, thinking her to be
his missing wife. Fortunately for herself, however, she spoke, and he,
knowing her by her voice to be a Wedauan, ran off in the darkness.
The villagers searched in vain, and the tumult subsided, but rumours soon
reached us that the baffled husbands were collecting a force and intended
to visit the head station at night and carry off the recalcitrant wives by
force.
It was not thought safe for me to sleep alone in the village, so I went up
the hill to add one more to the crowded house. Our girl boarders were
packed in dozens into the different bedrooms, having forsaken their native
dormitories for the night, and I was accommodated with a cane lounge. It
was not furnished with mosquito curtains, and I decided by morning that
even the hill men’s spears could scarcely be sharper than the bites of the
vicious insects. No invaders arrived, however, so we put the story of
their intended raid down as an idle rumour. The women stayed with us for
some weeks and then slipped away. Some months later a policeman from up
the coast told me that the brothers of one of the injured wives had taken
summary vengeance on her husband, who paid for his cruelty with his life.
We got excellent drinking water from a little stream, though care was
necessary in selecting the place from which to draw it, as the village
pigs were only too apt to bathe indiscriminately. The natives used
water-bottles made from hollowed coco-nut shells, fitted with a stopper of
twisted leaves, and carried six or seven at a time in a netted bag
suspended from the head. One of my girls, with a fine disregard for
proportion, styled them “New Guinea tanks.”
[Illustration: “TOMMY” AND “TEDDY,” THE TWO LITTLE MITES WHO WERE SAVED BY
THE MISSIONARIES FROM BEING BURIED ALIVE.
_From a Photograph._]
The natives of Papua have some very curious superstitions, giving rise to
barbarous customs. For instance, a woman gave birth to twin boys. The
mother died, and the villagers, coming to the conclusion that the infants
were accursed, decided to bury the hapless babies alive on the woman’s
grave! This terrible deed would actually have been carried out had not a
native who had come under mission influence told his teacher what was
intended before it was too late. The missionary was thus able to save the
little mites, who were taken care of by a nurse. She is seen in the
annexed photograph with “Tommy” and “Teddy” when they were a year or two
old. Other babies, for various superstitious reasons, have been killed at
birth or hung in trees to die a slow and terrible death from starvation.
[Illustration: A PAPUAN SERPENTINE--NATIVE BOYS SAILING THEIR HOME-MADE
BOATS IN A LAKE.
_From a Photograph._]
A favourite pastime with the village boys was sailing model boats, which
were surprisingly well made. The picture at the bottom of the page shows
lads sailing their “sikunas” (schooners) at a Papuan “Serpentine,” for all
the world like youngsters at home.
[Illustration: PAPUANS FISH-SPEARING.
_From a Photograph._]
Favourite sports, though their object was utilitarian enough, are
fish-spearing and pig-hunting. The natives are wonderfully quick in
detecting the presence of a fish under the surface, and the many-pronged
fish-spear, shooting violently downwards, is more often than not recovered
with a brightly-coloured victim impaled upon it. The snapshot above shows
a group of Papuans, spear in hand, watching for fish in the shallow
water.
The lower picture shows a number of fishing-nets hung up to dry. These are
made, of course, by the natives themselves. The twine is woven from the
peelings of liquorice-stalks netted together, the floats are light pieces
of wood, and the sinkers are cockle shells in which holes have been bored.
[Illustration: A NATIVE WAITING TO SPEAR DRIVEN PIGS.
_From a Photograph._]
Pig-hunting is carried out in a very thorough fashion. Stout nets are
placed across the forest paths and clearings, and one party of natives
then beat the jungle, driving the game before them, while the spearmen
wait, as seen in the photograph, for the arrival of the quarry.
[Illustration: DRYING NETS--THE NETS ARE MOST INGENIOUSLY MADE FROM THE
PEELINGS OF LICORICE-STALKS, WITH WOODEN FLOATS AND COCKLE-SHELL SINKERS.
_From a Photograph._]
Although stationed in a village, I often took short trips to other places,
travelling either by canoe or whale-boat. The native canoes are made of
logs, hollowed out with much labour, having an outrigger attached and a
small platform lashed between the two at either end. This the
passengers--myself and often Maebo, my little girl friend--shared with the
cargo. Canoes were of many shapes, varying according to the tribe of the
maker. Canoe travelling was idyllic in calm weather. Sometimes a turtle
would lift his lazy head and take a long look at us before diving, and we
could gaze far down into the depths of the crystal water and watch
brilliantly-hued fish disporting themselves among the branches of still
more dazzlingly-tinted coral, while the golden sunlight filtered mistily
down in cloudy rays. The crews paddled well, and we crossed the bay in
fine style, the men being quite content with a penny each as wages.
[Illustration: A GROUP OF NATIVE CANOES--THE AUTHORESS MADE MANY TRIPS IN
THESE FRAIL CRAFT.
_From a Photograph._]
But, alas! it was very different in rough weather. Tired and hungry,
perhaps several miles from my destination, the captain would call to me,
“Misika (my native name), you’ll have to get out and go by the beach, for
the wind is rising.” My heart would sink, and I would beseech him to make
the crew paddle on; but the wind caught us up, and the waves broke
mercilessly over the little vessel, which was hugging the shore. Then,
perforce, after a thorough drenching, I got out, the canoe was hauled up,
and we tramped wearily home, the captain carrying me over the streams on
his back. This was rather a pleasant mode of crossing; but when the stream
was very deep I had to sit on the boy’s shoulders and hold on to his chin,
which--I speak from bitter experience--is a very unsafe position. Once,
with myself thus perched on high, we attempted to cross a wide river at
the mouth of which some natives were fishing with a drag-net. It so
happened that when we reached mid-stream--I holding only too insecurely to
a wobbly chin--something very special, I don’t know what, occurred in
connection with the fish, and we were ordered to remain where we were! It
seemed impossible, but there I remained, clinging desperately to my human
steed, until the slow old fishermen had gathered their net in and--to my
rather malicious satisfaction--discovered not a single fish in the meshes.
[Illustration: MAEBO, MISS KER’S LITTLE TRAVELLING COMPANION.
_From a Photograph._]
My little girl companion, Maebo, who is seen in the annexed photograph,
had much charm of manner, but was not exactly pretty. She wore, as did all
Wedauan woman, several skirts of shredded coco-nut leaf; she had even,
while teeth, pretty hands and arms, and a satiny brown skin. On the many
occasions when she shaved her head, and even her eyebrows, her appearance
was certainly not improved. She was a nice child, however, and accompanied
me on many journeys.
Maebo was betrothed to a village boy by her father when she was only ten
years old, though that did not prevent many others from wishing to marry
her. But she would have none of them, not even the highly educated, who
applied for the honour of her hand by letter. She would not marry out of
her village, she said, for fear of her life being taken by a sorcerer. A
short time ago her _fiancé_ became her husband, and so I lost my
travelling companion.
Suicide is committed in Papua for what would seem very inadequate reasons
to white people. For instance, if a man goes on a long journey without
bidding farewell to his nearest relatives, one of them may feel it
incumbent on him to climb a coco palm and fling himself off it to his
death. A village girl who was very anxious to accompany me on a trip up
the coast finally reluctantly refused to go. If she did, she said, her
father would “throw himself from a high tree.”
Ridicule and opposition are always very trying to a Papuan, and a sad case
of double suicide took place in consequence of the latter.
A girl and a young man became much attached to each other and met
regularly. Each morning, however, the girl’s father and mother would say
to her, “Why do you talk to that boy? He is poor, and has not enough food
to give you.” At the same time the boy’s parents told him continually how
foolish he was to have anything to do with a girl who would never do good
work for him at the gardens. The constant opposition told on the unhappy
couple and at last the girl’s patience wore out. She said to her
lover--the speech is truly characteristic of a Papuan--“The tongues of our
people will never be silent. Let us cease to live, and their talk will be
done!” And the boy agreed.
The next night they decked themselves in their best ornaments--necklaces,
shell armlets, and sweet-scented flowers--so that they appeared as though
dressed for a feast. Then they took a piece of tough jungle creeper and,
having made nooses, bade farewell to each other. They were found when
morning came hanging dead in the same tree.
[Illustration: THE MISSION LAUNCH UNDER REPAIR--PRACTICALLY EVERY KIND OF
MISHAP SHORT OF BEING BLOWN UP HAS BEFALLEN THIS HARD-WORKED LITTLE
VESSEL.
_From a Photograph._]
The mission launch was, on the whole, my quickest mode of travelling--that
is to say, as long as it was whole. As seen in the accompanying picture,
it is being repaired after one of its many mishaps. It would be quite
beyond me to relate all the adventures that have befallen it during its
period of existence. It has not, I believe, been blown up yet, though it
came perilously near it when on fire once, for an over-zealous native,
imagining the benzine tank to hold water, was only hindered just in time
from chopping it open with an axe!
(_To be concluded._)