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THE ISLE OF
VANISHING MEN
[Illustration: “_Uhumen!_” From their manner it is evident that we are
_de trop_]
THE ISLE OF VANISHING MEN
A NARRATIVE OF ADVENTURE IN CANNIBAL-LAND
BY
W. F. ALDER
ILLUSTRATED WITH PHOTOGRAPHS
BY THE AUTHOR
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1922
Copyright, 1922, by
THE CENTURY CO.
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
TO
MY WIFE
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I WE LEAVE AMBON 3
II THE PARADISE-HUNTER 13
III THE KAMPONG 32
IV THE ASSISTANT AND THE NAUTILUS 45
V WE’RE OFF! 53
VI SHIPWRECKED AMONG CANNIBALS 67
VII WE ESTABLISH DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS 85
VIII WE TAKE UP QUARTERS IN THE KAMPONG 97
IX THE STORY OF THE SWISS SCIENTIST 116
X OUR CONSOLATION PRIZE 129
XI THE FEAST 140
XII THE HEAD DANCE 148
XIII A KANGAROO HUNT 160
XIV THE BIRD OF PARADISE 167
XV THE COMING OF THE BURONG MAS 173
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
“_Uhumen._” From their manner it is evident that we are
_de trop_ _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
Malays bringing on board their varied possessions 16
As the last of the _praus_ was cleared of baggage they
clustered on the gangway, shouting adieus 16
The prison-yard in Merauke, New Guinea 24
Each of the men has perforated the septum of his nose to
permit inserting a pair of boar-tusks 33
A pair of alligator-teeth make a wonderful nose-ornament 33
Enormous nose-tubes of bamboo which entirely close the
nostrils, making breathing possible only through the
mouth 36
The women wear in many cases a tiny breech-clout but no
other covering 36
A long platform which entirely encircles the kampong 45
During the day the men occupy the sleeping-benches,
while the women sit upon the sandy floor of the shacks 45
Seated at a discreet distance, watching our camp-making
intently 80
There had been a disagreement in the village 80
Those who failed to get a package come to the dead-line
and asked for one 85
They may be friendly at one moment and turn upon one the
very next 85
We made presents of tin jewelry to the natives, but what
they wanted was tobacco 92
Feathered head-dresses moving through the tall grass
told us of the natives watching our progress toward
the kampong 92
Twice we encounter stalwart warriors standing like
sentinels, as though disdainful of concealment 97
The body is placed in a sitting position after being
gaily decorated for the funeral 97
The native climbs a cocoanut-palm in a series of humps
and stretches, like a giant inch-worm 100
Making fire. A piece of hard wood is rotated by hand
while in contact with a softer piece 100
One little fellow takes great delight in hearing his
mother describe the battles in which his father
collected his trophies 109
After the heat of midday the men gather in the shade to
discuss the latest scandal or politics 109
Eating mud! That’s it, just plain dried mud 112
“Little Playmate” readjusts his nose-tubes 112
The hairdresser plaits long strands of raffia into the
kinky wool of the Kia Kias 116
The shiny inner surface of a Malay tobacco-box serves
them as a mirror 116
The deserted Jesuit mission which formerly was the pride
and hope of its unfortunate builder 125
In the early evening the women sit around on the
copra-drying-platforms and watch the sunset 125
They are very proud of the scar-patterns 129
The weals caused by the infection of the cuts sometimes
stand out nearly an inch from the surrounding flesh 129
The men occupy their time with revision of their
toilets, rather than in doing the chores 133
Sarah 133
The _kapala kampong_ presents us with human skulls, the
highest token of their esteem 136
A young and very fearsome Kia Kia spends a great deal of
his time with her 136
The circle breaks up and a dance takes place for our
entertainment 140
They sang for us at the top of their leather lungs 140
Long into the night the mad festival continues. To exert
themselves in any productive occupation to a like
extent would kill them 144
The drums are tuned in a peculiar manner. Having no
strings fastened to the heads with which to tighten
them, they place small lumps of resin mixed with clay
on the heads to produce the desired sound 144
The Head Dance. Two girls begin it by slowly walking up
and down in the center of the circle of onlookers 148
The Dutch officials punish them severely for indulging
in these practices 148
Under the influence of the wady, exhilarated by the wild
dance, the men finally take part 157
They again threaten the men with total exclusion from
all intercourse with their families 157
This man confessed to having eaten many human beings. To
accurately estimate the number was beyond his power of
reckoning 161
The sharp-edged stone war-club in the hands of such men
as these makes quick work of a victim 161
The skipper is a jolly fellow with a countenance that
beams good nature, mixed with a shrewdness that speaks
of business ability 176
He beats a gong briskly and chants a prayer in Malay,
while the rest of the crew add their prayers to his
petitions 176
THE ISLE OF VANISHING MEN
CHAPTER I
WE LEAVE AMBON
Two bells tinkles within the master’s cabin, and the quartermaster on
the bridge repeats the announcement of nine o’clock with two strokes
upon the bronze bell near his station at the wheel. It is sailing-time.
The townspeople have turned out en masse to bid us farewell, and the
open spaces on the new concrete wharf are ablaze with color. The chatter
of a thousand voices comes to us as we stand upon the deck looking down
on the scene. Every one seems happy. The great whistle on the ship’s
funnel, after a preliminary gargling of its throat, shatters the
tranquil air with a peremptory warning. The screw churns up a maëlstrom
beneath the overhanging stern, and we swing out into the channel amid a
storm of adieus spoken in a dozen tongues. We are off for the land of
the cannibal Kia Kias,—the Isle of Vanishing Men.
As the ship gathers way, Amboina, spice-scented “Ambon,” drops into the
mists of the morning and we look around the deck for company. We are
alone. Then we remember the information given us by the First Officer
yesterday. We are the only first-cabin passengers on board, this trip.
Few people find their way to the Isle of Vanishing Men. It offers little
to the business man. The commercial traveler never goes there. Merauke,
our destination, has but five white inhabitants, and their wants are
few. One steamer a month carries to them the things they need and the
mail from home.
We shall spend our time for the next few days in lazy languor, playing
an occasional game of chess with the chief engineer, chatting now and
then with the very amiable captain, or, as one learns to do in the
Indies, just draping ourselves over most comfortable steamer chairs and
daydreaming for hours on end. The air is like silk. The piping falsetto
of the deck-hands as they sing at their work lulls one into reverie, and
life glides by with a smoothness that takes no count of time.
There comes the day when the captain greets us at breakfast with the
news that we shall arrive this evening. As he selects from the heaped
platter of sliced sausage his favorite variety he tells us that we shall
sight land at one this afternoon. We are agog with excitement. The
cannibals are not far away now. We ply him with questions and as he
spreads his bread with marmalade he tells us of the Kia Kias and what
their name means. To be _kikied_, he avers, is to be eaten; the natives
are eaters of men; hence the name.
He regales us with reminiscences of his former visits to the island and
roars with merriment as he relates how on one voyage a few months ago he
was accompanied by his wife. The natives thronged the little wharf, clad
in their birthday suits, to witness the arrival of the ship. Some of
them were allowed on board, where they were awed by the marvels of the
white man’s great proa. The captain’s wife was the first white woman
they had ever seen, and one of the natives—a son of a chief, by the
way,—became enamored of her. He immediately offered the captain two fine
pigs for her. The captain refused the offer, saying it was not enough.
The man withdrew, his brow wrinkled with deep thought. He left the ship
and was lost in the throng that strained the underpinning of the little
wharf. Two hours later he returned, accompanied by several of his
friends. Each of these carried a pig trussed up with rattan hobbles. He
had sold his wife and three daughters for five pigs and was raising his
ante, so the captain’s story ran, and was much put out when he learned
that the price offered was still inadequate.
The lady in question was the object of so much attention from the
well-meaning if somewhat amorous natives that she found it expedient to
retire to the privacy of her husband’s cabin, whence she was able unseen
to observe the visitors.
The little saloon in which we breakfast overlooks the main deck and the
men there are making ready the winches and rigging preparatory to the
unloading of cargo manifested for Merauke. Their work interrupts the
captain in his narrative, for the rumbling remonstrances of the rusty
machines make the morning hideous. We hasten to the upper deck, where
after doing our customary half-mile constitutional we busy ourselves
with the packing of our dunnage.
This will take us an hour and we look forward to a comfortable snooze
before tiffin. By that time, or shortly after, the coast-line of New
Guinea will have risen to view out of a murky horizon in the northeast.
There is nothing to do until then. Our letters to those at home will not
be written until the very last moment before the steamer sails, for we
shall want to describe Merauke in them. It will be two months before the
steamer calls again. In those two months we shall have visited the
tribes living far from the little trading-station of Merauke and its
very friendly population of five whites, many Chinese, a few Malays, and
a hundred or so Kia Kias. The missionaries have brought these last from
the interior and they live outside the town in kampongs or villages, the
nearest of which is an hour’s walk from the dock.
The chief engineer—who, by the way, is a real character and something of
a philosopher—disarranges our plans for forty winks. He has spent about
forty-three years on the ships that ply the waters of the Indies, and
has many tales to tell; for he loves to relive his earlier days, when
the native girls were more beautiful to him than now. With the on-march
of years the enervating climate and the demoralizing life of the
kampongs have exacted a toll, and the overdrafts he made in those
never-to-be-forgotten times have been collected in full by the Bank of
Nature.
The old roué boasts of his conquests among the golden-skinned _vahines_
of the Southern Islands and tells us now with shocking candor of the
doubtful virtues of Nasia, an old flame of his who lived in Ambon. He
sees her now and then in Saparoea, where she is the reputable wife of a
half-caste government employee. To the native, marriage means that
respectable status which permits of clandestine meetings with the wife,
censured only by the husband. All others aid and abet the liaison, for
does it not furnish delightful gossip in an otherwise somnolent
community? He tells of a night when he and his chief (he was second
engineer then) went in company with some others to a kampong back of
Dobo in the Arus and proceeded to kiss all the girls in sight. The girls
must have taken kindly to the demonstration, for they unearthed
“square-face” gin in plenty and with dances and what not regaled the
white _Tuans_ (masters) until the east turned from violet to rose.
We cannot find it in our hearts to censure the chief, for the “custom of
the country” has made its insidious way deep into his soul and has
warped his point of view. One has to spend much time in the Indies fully
to appreciate how this can be. Here life is stripped of many
superfluities and conventions and love of life and of love become
paramount factors. He shakes his head at what he calls our “Long Hair”
ideas and tells us we should have brought with us two girls from Ambon,
to keep house for us while we are in New Guinea. The Ambonese girls, he
tells us, are much more comely than the Kia Kia girls.
“Wait till you see Reache’s girl in Merauke,” he says; “or the
Controlleur’s up the coast,—Nona is her name. She came from Ambon. She
is nineteen and as saucy a little trinket as you’d ever want to see.”
Thereupon the chief laughs immoderately.
Seeking further information on the subject, we question him regarding
certain eventualities had we made “temporary” matrimonial arrangements
such as he recommends, and he waves a deprecating hand at us.
“Don’t worry about that,” he says. “When you get ready to leave ’em give
’em a new sarong, a little money, a ticket home, and they’ll bless you
forever and maybe cry a little into the bargain because they hate to
lose a good thing. In a week or two, though, they will be deep in a new
affair and they’ll forget. Don’t let them fall in love, though, or they
might get nasty. Best way is to tell ’em you’re going about ten minutes
before you leave. It saves a lot of powwow an’ palaver. Otherwise it’ll
cost you twice as much to save your face.”
The chiming of eight bells closes the engineer’s dissertation, as he
stands watch until four in the afternoon. He leaves us reluctantly, for
he regards us as babes in the woods who need much assistance and advice
in this very interesting but usually taboo subject. Mayhap he is right,
but, as the Englishman says, “We’ll muddle through somehow.” Somehow we
can’t quite divest ourselves of our “old-fashioned” ideas.
While we talk over the chief’s code of morals, we wonder about many
things. The sort of life he has led has been led by many white men, for
four hundred years, in the Indies and every one seems happy and
contented. True, there are many brown-skinned people with blue eyes and
just as many fair-skinned ones with warm, dancing eyes of sloe black,
but on the lips of each and every one of these there is a smile. They
seem to know no trouble. The warm air makes us drowsy. Tiffin isn’t till
one-thirty: why not take that snooze we planned for?