THE STORY OF THE SWISS SCIENTIST
With the passing of the days our hosts forget the gloom caused by the
death of the old man and resume their usual laughing, care-free
demeanor, much to our relief. They spend hours in the shade of our tent,
during which time we pick up many of their words,—enough, in fact, to
enable us to converse in a limited way with them. Curiously intermingled
with the pure words of their somewhat limited vocabulary are many of
either pure Malay or Malayan derivation, and the presence of these, we
find, helps us greatly.
[Illustration: The hairdresser plaits long strands of raffia into the
kinky wool of the Kia Kias]
[Illustration: The shiny inner surface of a Malay tobacco-box serves
them as a mirror]
By writing all their words down phonetically and setting the meaning
beside them, we are able to study the language, which is a surprisingly
simple one. They have no writing and their means of counting is limited
to the ten digits. All reckoning is done upon the fingers and when they
run out of fingers they are hard put to it to continue. However, if the
reckoning runs up to, say, thirty or forty, they count one another’s
fingers and remember the names of those individuals included in the
calculation. The task of remembering more than four participant pairs of
hands would be beyond the power of their intellects.
At Merauke we heard of the death, under mysterious conditions, of a
Swiss scientist who came to study these people about three years ago.
With the memory of this incident fresh in our minds, we inquire casually
concerning the white man reputed to have been eaten by them, but are met
with blank looks or glances of suspicion. Between ourselves, we decide
that if it is humanly possible to do so we will find the remains of the
unfortunate man, a martyr to scientific progress, and send his bones to
his institution in Switzerland. The demeanor of the natives makes us
sure that they have guilty knowledge of his death, at least.
Pursuing the matter further, and after having won the confidence of one
of the middle-aged men—whom, by the way, we have christened
“Intelligence”—we secure an admission that the man died in this very
locality, though by what means Intelligence will not divulge. After a
good deal of discussion, and deep cogitation on his part, Intelligence
agrees to bring all the older men of the kampong to a conference in the
afternoon, to discuss ways and means of finding the desired bones, which
he says he thinks were buried somewhere in the jungle. He is very
reticent, for he says the Tuan at Merauke sent soldiers to find the
white man and killed many men when he found that the white man was dead.
The only thing that moves Intelligence to admit as much as he does is
our story of how the man’s friends at home mourned his loss and how
greatly they desire to have his bones to inter properly, according to
the customs of their tribe.
Intelligence leaves us, his head bowed in thought. The situation is a
grave one and our story of the great mourning caused by the poor
scientist’s death, coming so shortly after the death of a member of the
tribe, sits heavily upon him. With all their savage characteristics,
these primitive men seem to have within them the milk of human kindness.
They are creatures of impulse.
While they are debating the thing among themselves, we go for a short
excursion in the environs of the camp. In the course of conversations
with Intelligence we have learned that in this neighborhood a Jesuit
missionary formerly held forth, but that he, also, died, about the same
time that the Swiss lost his life. This is interesting, and we are
reminded that these people who have been so very cordial to us are
really eaters of men and will bear watching. Our attitude toward them is
one of firm superiority tempered with kindliness, but we are ever
watchful for any signs of treachery. As long as the tobacco holds out
our relations with them probably will be amicable enough. There is no
danger of their trying to take it by force when it is given them gratis
daily, and of course they do not know that our supply is not
inexhaustible.
As we stroll along a scarcely discernible path that threads the jungle
the mosquitos begin their accustomed attack, and we are thankful to
reach a tiny clearing on which the creepers and obliterating growths of
the primeval jungle are fast encroaching. When we finally get clear of
the thicket and round a large clump of young cocoas, there appears to
our astonished eyes a neat palm-thatched structure surmounted with a
cross. This, then, is the former missionary’s little church, in which he
gave up his life while trying to bring the light to these benighted
people. For his pains he was eaten.
The door of the little building is closed, though not latched, and the
windows are all tightly shut. We go inside and with eyes straining in
the darkness try to make out the details of the interior. Everything is
just as the poor man left it. Nothing has been touched. The soldiers who
came to the place to avenge both his death and that of the scientist
ordered that the natives whom they spared keep away from the place upon
pain of another raid, and the black men have declared the place taboo.
The church is tenanted now by countless bats, whose noisome bodies
render the air fetid with their odor and whose wings almost touch us as
they wheel to and fro, roused from their slumber by the opening of the
door. Their squeaking remonstrance at being thus disturbed makes the
place eery,—like some abode of evil spirits of the nether world,—and we
beat a hasty retreat to the sunlight of the clearing outside.
We sit down to rest a moment on a fallen trunk a few yards from the
church and try to imagine the emotions of the man who, with total
sacrifice of self, came alone to these people to do them only good
according to his lights, and who in turn suffered the extreme penalty at
their ungrateful hands. What his last thoughts on earth must have been
and what he said are part of our conjectures. We find ourselves
wondering if he was strong enough to say with his last expiring breath,
“Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”
Mixed with our anger at the Kia Kias as we gaze upon the mute witness to
their murderous proclivities, however, there comes pity for their
ignorance, and we tell ourselves that their crime was due to savage
ignorance and a natural hunting-instinct for the animal food their
bodies crave. Man-eating is their custom, and this is their country, and
it is reasonable to expect that some lives must be sacrificed before
they can be shown the error of their way,—error in our eyes, but not in
theirs to whom the land belongs. We whites have become so accustomed to
taking that which we desire from those not gifted with the power for
sheer conquest which our cultural progression has produced and which
gives us our feeling of superiority to others, that, filled with
self-importance, we must needs seek lands afar belonging to others, farm
them regardless of the owners’ remonstrances, and then add insult to
injury by punishing these owners for continuing in their age-old
practices. There are two sides to the question. True, there is no doubt
that our civilization is the better,—for us. They have not found it so
for them. Laurence Hope has said the Creator, after molding One,
sublimely perfect, “doubtless in some idle moment mixed the forces that
fashioned me.”
Our kodaks perpetuate the little church for us and we leave it with no
regret, for it does not engender the most pleasant of thoughts. When we
return to camp, we find that our intermediary, Intelligence, has
arranged for the conference earlier than was expected, and that the
others are ready to gather at our pleasure. There is no time like the
present, so we tell him to summon his clan that we may start the powwow.
We place our chairs under the shade of the fly at the rear of our tent
and soon the older men begin to drift toward us. They seat themselves in
a semicircle facing us and at a distance of ten or fifteen feet. When
all are seated, Intelligence begins a long harangue,—a torrent of words
which fall from his lips so fast that they are wholly unintelligible to
us. His discourse is received coldly by some of his fellows, but one or
two—those who have seemed most friendly to us—take kindly to our plan,
judging from the expression on their faces.
A hot debate ensues. After several hours of earnest palaver in which we
take no part, Intelligence turns to us and signifies that he would like
us to speak on the subject. This we do, assuring them that the Dutch
Government has no part in our plan, and that if they will deliver the
bones of the Swiss to us we will guarantee that no punishment whatever
shall befall the members of the community. We draw as vivid a picture of
the scientist’s grieving relatives as is possible with our limited
vocabulary, and at length prevail upon the savage assembly to promise to
bring the poor man’s bones to camp upon the morrow.
[Illustration: The deserted Jesuit mission which formerly was the pride
and hope of its unfortunate builder]
[Illustration: In the early evening the women sit around on the
copra-drying platforms and watch the sunset]
Our apparent victory, has not, however, been achieved without the
exchange of some very black looks among several of the Kia Kias. There
are still a few who remain firm in their belief that this is some trick
of the white man’s to make them incriminate themselves. Upon the
decision of the majority to hand over the remains to the white men, the
meeting breaks up and all but Intelligence leave for their respective
quarters. He lingers to tell us that he, himself, will bring the bones
in to-morrow afternoon. So grateful are we that we present him with a
shiny trade hatchet and an American trench mirror. He departs with many
thanks.
The request we have made has caused a stir in the kampong and the
accustomed afternoon meeting in the shade of the grove back of the
village does not take place. A few of the younger people gather there
for their usual enjoyment of one another’s society, but the elders are
all grouped about their doorways, earnestly discussing something. Now
and then speculative glances in our direction tell us that we are the
chief topic of conversation. Moh is distinctly uneasy.
In the very outer fringe of the grove, and directly back of our tent,
there is a little knot of young men and women who are apparently very
much interested in something which is screened from our view by the
intervening bodies of the watchers. We do not wish to miss anything
unusual, so we hasten over to see what is taking place. From the extreme
absorption of the onlookers and the absence of the laughter and gaiety
which usually attend these gatherings we know that something of moment
is under way.
An amazing sight greets our eyes. Lying at full length upon the ground
is a young woman of perhaps eighteen years, undergoing what must be the
most exquisite torture. Ah, what woman will not endure to be in fashion!
At work upon her quivering body is an ancient crone, who with a
sharpened piece of shell is cutting deep cicatrices in the flesh of the
abdomen. The girl undergoing the operation is bearing with stoic courage
the pain it must cost her, though her face twists and her muscles
contract in a spasmodic tremor each time the old woman gashes her. The
artist is cutting a scar pattern, which is the highest type of personal
adornment these people know. The cuts are made diagonally underneath the
skin and to a depth of a full quarter of an inch, so that as each is
made there is a flap of skin turned up which varies from a thin edge to
a thickness equal to the full depth of the cut.
The poor girl looks as if she regrets having asked that the thing be
done, but, having started, is afraid of ridicule unless she goes through
with it. The others gaze upon her with varying expressions. Some of the
very young girls are palpably envious, while those whose bodies are
similarly adorned are commiserating in demeanor; they know the pain the
girl is suffering. The men look on with indifference, though they offer
suggestions now and then as to how to enhance the beauty of the design.
As each cut is made, a handful of dirt is scooped up from the ground and
rubbed well into the wound, care being taken to fill the cut to its
fullest depth.
Eight cuts have been made when the girl decides that she can stand no
more at the present and the old woman desists after carefully patting
the edges of the wounds and applying broad, fresh green leaves to them
as a dressing. These are held in place by thongs of kangaroo hide bound
around the body. The purpose of the dirt rubbed into the wounds is to
make them fester and thereby raise the great wales that are so admired
by the Kia Kias.
As the girl rises stiffly to her feet, the men present look at us with
approbative grins and nod their satisfaction. The decoration of this
particular girl promises well, for the old woman who has been doing the
work is acknowledged to be an artist at it, and one of the girls whose
scars have long since healed displays those upon her body, calling to
our attention proofs of the fine technique. She obligingly poses for our
cameras and in return for her kindness we present her with an extra
allowance of tobacco.
[Illustration: They are very proud of the scar-patterns]
[Illustration: The weals caused by the infection of the cuts sometimes
stand out nearly an inch from the surrounding flesh]