the individual are due to his relations with other persons. In the
development of the emotional life of the child, persons intervene at
every turn, and there is thus built up a system of sentiments and
representations which forms the very foundation of the individual’s
affective life. In other words the first organised experience that the
individual attains is all connected with persons and their relations to
himself. This early experience provides a basis on which we may and do
organise later experiences. The perception of the leaping waves and
lashing spray of a sea in tempest arouses in us a vague emotional
reaction, but it is an experience that we have not learned to formulate
exactly. The feeling awakened in us is, so to speak, unclassified,
there is no exact word by which we can express it. We therefore fall
back upon that system of affective experiences that have been
classified, and for which we do have adequate words, and we apply the
word “angry” to the scene before us. At the utterance of the word, with
its appeal to infantile memories and to the long series of experiences
that have been associated with it, the emotion becomes more definite,
if not more intense. We are thus enabled to classify our present
experience, to associate it with past experiences that have been
arranged in our minds in an organised system, and to find a place for
it in that system.
Applying this to the case of the myths we must first of all note that
the Andaman Islander has no interest in nature save in so far as it
directly affects the social life. Scientific and artistic interest in
nature are products of civilisation. The Andaman Islander has no desire
to understand the processes of nature as a scientist would wish to do,
nor has he any conception of nature as a subject of esthetic
contemplation. Natural phenomena affect him immediately by their
influence on his own life and on the life of his fellows, and are
thereby the source of a number of emotional experiences. In order to
express these he has to make use of that part of his own experience
that is already thoroughly organised, namely, that relating to the
actions of one person as affecting another or as affecting the society.
Only in this way is he able to organise his experiences arising from
the processes of nature, to classify and render definite the vague
impressions that are aroused in him. He interprets nature in terms of
the world with which he is most familiar, the world of persons, being
enabled to do so by the presence within him of a regulated and definite
body of experience which he has derived from his relations with persons
from the time of his first awakening to the consciousness of the
external world.
There is a parallelism here, as in many other matters, between the
psychological development of the individual and that of the race. The
fundamental need for the child is to learn to accommodate himself to
his environment. In this environment by far the most important objects
are persons—parents and other children—and the first business of the
growing child is to learn to adapt his actions to the requirements of
this intercourse with persons. This is so overwhelmingly important that
the other need (of adapting himself to inanimate objects) is quite
overshadowed by it. The child has to make experiments and observations
upon persons, to learn how they will act. He meets with such a
phenomenon as anger, for example, the anger of a parent, or of another
child, and by means of a succession of experiences he comes to a
satisfactory understanding of this particular thing, and what it means
with reference to himself and his actions. This notion of the anger of
a parent becomes the nucleus around which is organised the experience
of similar phenomena. In play or sometimes in earnest, the child treats
all sorts of inanimate objects and events connected with them as if
they were persons or the actions of persons. By this means, and by this
means alone, he is able to exercise himself in his newly acquired
experience and to extend and organise it yet further.
In the history of the race the development of society depends upon the
organisation of personal relations. The task of man in primitive
society is therefore similar to the task of the child. The needs of his
life compel him above everything else to devote himself to organising
that part of his experience that relates to the actions of persons upon
one another; all else is subordinated to this supreme need; and just as
the child organises and develops his experience by treating inanimate
objects as if they were persons in such a way that we can hardly tell
if he is in play or in earnest, so primitive man, in exactly the same
way, organises and develops his social experience by conceiving the
whole universe as if it were the interaction of personal forces.
This explanation of the nature of personification helps us to
understand some of the Andamanese beliefs. Natural phenomena such as
the alternation of day and night, the changes of the moon, the
procession of the seasons, and variations of the weather, have
important effects on the welfare of the society. The latter, in so far
as it is regulated from within, depends on the adaptation of persons to
one another. Men must learn to live in harmony, to sacrifice their own
desires at times to the needs of others, to avoid occasions of giving
offence, and not readily to give way to anger when offence is given.
The Andaman Islander represents this fundamental law of the society as
though it were the fundamental law of the whole universe. When any evil
befalls the society it is as though some personal power were in
question, as though some one were angry at some offence. Thus the moon
and Biliku are represented as persons who can be offended and whose
anger has unpleasant results. Conversely when all goes well it is
because there is harmony or solidarity between men and the nature
beings which affect men’s lives. In a word, the forces with which the
Andaman Islander is most familiar as affecting his welfare are those of
solidarity and opposition; it is solidarity that maintains the harmony
of social life, opposition that destroys it. The forces of nature in so
far as they affect the society are therefore represented as being of
the same nature; there can be either solidarity or opposition between
men and nature; the former leads to well-being, the latter to
misfortune.
Thus the personification of natural phenomena is one of the methods by
which the Andaman Islander projects into the world of nature the moral
forces that he experiences in the society. The process is essentially
similar to that described in the last chapter in connection with the
ceremonial, save that there the forces we were considering were largely
impersonal. Perhaps, rather than speaking of it as a projection of
moral forces into nature, we should regard it as a process of bringing
within the circle of the social life those aspects of nature that are
of importance to the well-being of the society, making the moon and the
monsoons a part of the social order and therefore subject to the same
moral forces that have sway therein.
The personification of natural phenomena is not, however, the only
method by which their social value can be expressed. The Akar-Bale
legend of the origin of day and night, as we saw at the beginning of
the chapter, expresses the social value of the alternation of light and
darkness by means of a story of how it originated in the time of the
ancestors. If we seek to understand all that this legend means we must
ask why the Andaman Islanders believe in the existence of the
ancestors, and why they attribute to them the characteristics that are
exhibited in the stories they tell about them. The ground of the belief
in the ancestors is to be found in the existence of a sentiment
fundamental in all human society, which I shall call the feeling of
tradition. When an Andaman Islander is asked the question “Why do you
do so and so?” he very frequently replies “Because our fathers did so
before us.” This answer expresses in its simplest form the feeling of
tradition. In all his actions, in the way he obtains and cooks his
food, in the way in which he makes his various implements and weapons,
in the moral and ritual customs that he is required to observe, the
native acts in accordance with tradition. If he should ever feel
inclined to deviate from it he finds himself in conflict with a
powerful compulsive force. In tradition, therefore, the individual is
aware of a force stronger than himself, to which he must submit whether
he will or not. Further, he is aware that the power which he possesses,
as a member of the society, whereby he is able to face the hostile or
at best indifferent forces of nature and provide himself with food and
maintain himself in security and happiness, is not simply a product of
his own personality, but is derived by him from the past. Towards this
past, therefore, on which his own life so obviously depends, he feels a
grateful dependence. So long as he acts in conformity with tradition he
can enjoy safety and happiness, because he is relying on something much
greater than his own qualities of mind and body.
To put the matter in a few words, the individual finds himself in
relation with an ordered system—the social order—to which he has to
adapt himself. The two chief moments in his affective attitude towards
that order are his sense of his own dependence upon it and of the need
of conforming to its requirements in his actions. It is this,—his sense
of his own relation to the social order,—that the Andaman Islander
expresses in the legends about the ancestors, which recount how that
order came into existence as the result of actions of anthropomorphic
beings.
Some of the legends recount the invention of weapons or implements or
the discovery of the uses of natural objects. In one of the North
Andaman stories it is said that all the weapons and implements now used
by men were invented by the first man, whose name, J̌utpu, probably
means “alone,” i.e., the man who was at first by himself. This first
man made himself a wife from the nest of the white ant. The regulated
society of the ants, and the numerous population that a nest contains,
give this story its symbolic meaning.
Besides what may be called general culture legends, of which the story
of J̌utpu is an example, there are several special culture legends
relating to various discoveries and inventions, such as the tale of how
the use of yams for food was first discovered, or that which tells how
the monitor lizard discovered quartz and scarified himself with it. By
means of these legends the Andaman Islander expresses his sense of his
own dependence on the past. He pictures a time when the social order as
it now is had not begun, or was just beginning; the knowledge he now
possesses was then being acquired, the weapons he uses were being
invented, the moral and ritual laws that he obeys were in process of
being formulated.
It is obvious that the Andaman Islander cannot regard the ancestors as
being persons exactly like himself, for they were responsible for the
establishment of the social order to which he merely conforms and of
which he has the advantage. He says, therefore, that they were bigger
men than himself, meaning by this that they were bigger mentally or
spiritually, rather than physically, that they were endowed with powers
much greater than those even of the medicine-men of the present time.
This explains the magical powers that are attributed to many, or indeed
to all, of the ancestors; the belief in the existence in the past of
men or beings endowed with what we may almost call supernatural powers
is the inevitable result of the way in which the man of to-day feels
towards the men of the past on whose inventions and discoveries he is
dependent for his daily nourishment [221].
Besides the social order there is another, the order of nature, which
is constantly acting upon the social order. To this also the individual
has to adapt himself, and his knowledge of how to do so is equally
derived from the past. The order of nature only affects him through the
social order, and the two therefore necessarily seem to him merely two
parts of one whole,—the order of the universe. In the legends he tells
how not only the social order but also the order of nature came into
existence; an example is the story of the origin of night.
The Andaman Islander finds himself in an ordered world, a world subject
to law, controlled by unseen forces. The laws are not to him what
natural laws are to the scientist of to-day, they are rather of the
nature of moral laws. He recognizes only one meaning of the word right
and of the word wrong; right action is that which is in conformity with
law, wrong action is that in opposition to the law; it is wrong to give
way to anger, it is wrong to kill a cicada, or to have a bright light
in camp when the moon is rising in the third quarter, and it is wrong
also to try and use unsuitable material for an implement or weapon.
Wrong actions always lead to harm; if you use unsuitable wood for your
bow it will break and your labour be wasted; if you kill a cicada it
will rain heavily; if you give way to anger readily you will earn the
dislike of your fellows that may some day lead to your undoing. Right
and wrong mean acting in accordance with the laws of the world or in
opposition to them, and this means acting in accordance with or in
opposition to custom. Custom and law are indeed here two words for the
same thing.
The forces of the world, as the Andaman Islander conceives them, are
not the blind mechanical forces of modern science: rather are they
moral forces. Their action upon human beings is not only to be
witnessed in external events, but is to be experienced in the man’s own
consciousness or conscience. He feels within himself their compulsion
when he would run counter to them, and their support when he leans upon
them. The law of the world, then, is a moral law, its forces are moral
forces, its values moral values; its order is a moral order.
This view of the world is the immediate and inevitable result of the
experience of man in society. It is a philosophy not reached by painful
intellectual effort, by the searching out of meanings and reasons and
causes; it is impressed upon him in all the happenings of his life, is
assumed in all his actions; it needs only to be formulated. And the
argument of this chapter has been that it is as the expression or
formulation of this view of the world as an order regulated by law that
the legends have their meaning, fulfil their function.
The legends of the Andamanese then, as I understand them, set out to
give an account of how the order of the world came into existence. But
the Andaman Islander has no interest in any part of it except in so far
as it affects his own life. He is interested in the procession of the
seasons or the alternation of day and night, or the phases of the moon,
only in so far as these things have effects upon the community. In
other words he is interested in natural phenomena only in so far as
such phenomena are really parts of the social order. This I have
expressed earlier in the chapter by saying that the legends deal not
with all aspects of natural phenomena but only with their social
values.
A fundamental character of the natural order (as of the social order)
is uniformity; the same processes are for ever repeated. This character
of nature the legends take for granted; they assume that if a force is
once set into action it will continue to act indefinitely. They assume
also a period in which the present order did not exist. Anything that
happened in that period has gone on happening ever since. One of the
ancestors discovered how to cook yams, and men have been cooking yams
in the same way down to the present day. A cicada was crushed and cried
out and the night came, and since then the darkness has come every
evening as soon as the cicada sings. In one of the legends the tree
lizard was quarrelsome, and has remained so. Thus the legends represent
the social order, including such natural phenomena as may be said to
belong to it, as being due to the interaction of forces of a special
character that came into existence in the beginning and have continued
to act uniformly ever since. In this way they express two most
important conceptions, that of uniformity (or law) and that of the
dependence of the present on the past.
It is the need of expressing these two conceptions that gives the
legends their function. They are not merely theoretical principles but
are both intensely practical. The law of uniformity means that certain
actions must be done and others not done if life is to run smoothly;
any deviation from uniformity in conduct is dangerous as being contrary
to the law that regulates the universe. What actions are to be done and
what are to be left undone was determined once for all in the past when
the present order came into existence. The knowledge of what to do and
what to avoid doing is what constitutes the tradition of the society,
to which every individual is required to conform.
The legends, then, set out to express and to justify these two
fundamental conceptions. They do so by telling how the social order
itself came into existence, and how, also, all those natural phenomena
that have any bearing on the social well-being came to be as they are
and came to have the relation to the society that they possess.
One group of facts that have an obvious relation to the society
consists of the geographical features of the islands. The more notable
features of the part of the country in which a man lives, and which he
regards as his own, are intimately connected with his moral sentiments.
His attachment to his group necessarily involves an attachment to the
country of the group. The same sort of thing exists amongst ourselves.
This attachment of the members of a group to their own country
explains, I think, the part played by what may be called “local
motives” in the legends of the Andamanese. Such motives are of
considerable importance, of much more importance than would appear from
the stories that I have transcribed. The recent changes in their mode
of life have had far more influence on the local organisation of the
tribes than on any other part of their social organisation, and this
has not been without its effect on the legends. We may say, briefly,
that the local motives of the legends serve to express the social
values of localities. In general each locality has its own versions of
the legends, in which the events related are supposed to have taken
place at some spot or other in the neighbourhood. Thus all the more
prominent features of a locality are associated with the events of the
legends. In some cases tales are told that explain these features as
having come into existence when the ancestors were alive; a reef of
rocks was formerly a canoe, for instance. A few such legends were
recorded in an earlier chapter, but it is probable that there were a
vast number of similar tales that I did not hear. In some cases a
locality has a special social value and therefore a special place in
the legends. Thus Wota-Emi was the great meeting-place for the natives
who lived on Baratang and on parts of the South Andaman and the Middle
Andaman, and was also sometimes visited by the natives of the
Archipelago. Consequently Wota-Emi is represented in the legends of the
A-Pučikwar tribe as being the great meeting-place or dwelling-place of
the ancestors. The effect of these associations between the places with
which he is familiar and the events of the legendary epoch in the mind
of the Andaman Islander probably is similar to the effect on ourselves
of the historical associations of our own country; they serve to make
him aware of his attachment to his country or to express his sense of
that attachment.
There still remains a most important feature of the legends which has
not yet been explained, namely the position of the animals as
ancestors. Many of the actors in the legends bear the names of animals
but at the same time are spoken of as though they were human beings.
Many of the legends explain how some species of animal arose from some
one of the ancestors who became an animal and the progenitor of the
species. Thus, in the North Andaman, Kolo was one of the ancestors; he
made wings for himself out of palm-leaves, and so was able to fly; he
lived a solitary life in his home at the top of a tree, and was in the
habit of stealing men’s wives; in the end he became the sea-eagle, and
this species still bears the name kolo. It is necessary to define as
exactly as possible what meaning these stories have to the natives. It
is not simply that the legendary person is a man with the name and some
of the characteristics of an animal; nor is it simply that the
legendary person is the ancestor of the species of which he bears the
name. We can only adequately express the thought of the Andamanese by
saying that he regards the whole species as if it were a human being.
When, in the legends, he speaks of “Sea-eagle” he is thereby
personifying the species in the sense in which the word personification
has been used throughout this chapter; he is regarding the
characteristics of the species as if they were characteristics or
actions or results of actions of a person. Admittedly this is a vague
description, but the vagueness is in the mental phenomenon described;
the Andamanese do not, in this matter, think clearly and analyse their
own thoughts. However, we can help ourselves to understand their
thoughts by recalling the tales that amused us as children, in which
the fox or the rabbit of the tale was an embodiment of the whole
species.
The part played in the legends by any particular animal is determined
either immediately or indirectly by its observable characteristics.
Thus the connection of the kingfisher with fire is due to the fact that
he is a fish-eating bird, and that he has a patch of bright red
feathers, red being, in the Andamanese mind, always associated with
fire. The other birds that are mentioned in the different versions of
the fire legend either possess remarkable plumage (as the dove, and the
parrot) or are fish-eating birds. The Andamanese regard fish as the
fundamental human food, having only one word for “food” and “fish,” and
they never eat their fish raw as the kingfisher does. In the Akar-Bale
story of the origin of the animals the tree lizard is characterised by
his quarrelsomeness, and by the fact that he is very difficult to catch
hold of; these are both actual characteristics of the animal itself.
The crab appears in the same legend as a person with a very powerful
grip, and with a hard shell to his body. The monitor lizard has his
place in the legends determined by the fact that he can climb trees,
run on the ground and swim in the water, and is thus equally at home at
the top of the trees, on the ground, or in the creek. I have already
given this as one of the reasons why he is chosen as the first ancestor
of all the animals and of human beings. The lizard also seems to be
regarded by the Andamanese as a particularly libidinous animal, and is
therefore regarded as the inventor of sexual intercourse and of
procreation. Why he should have this sexual reputation I do not know
[222]. The tale of how the lizard invented scarification depends on the
fact that the marks on the lizard’s skin bear a strong resemblance to
the marks that the natives make on their own skins with sharp fragments
of quartz. The position of the Paradoxurus or civet-cat in the stories
in which she appears is due to the fact that while she can live in the
trees or on the ground she cannot swim; hence, when the flood came, she
fled from the water and climbed a steep hill and thus kept the fire
alight. In the light of these examples we are justified, I think, in
assuming that in all cases, even when the meaning is not clear, the
part played by any animal in the legends is due to some actual
characteristic of it.
There is thus a parallelism between the personification of natural
phenomena and the personification of animal species. I have shown that
the characteristics of such beings as Biliku and Tarai are all to be
explained by a consideration of the actual characteristics of the
phenomena of which they are the personification (the winds) and of the
phenomena immediately connected therewith. The same thing has now been
shown to be true with regard to the personified animals. The process of
personification is carried out in exactly the same way in the two
different classes of cases. I gave as the reason for personifying
natural phenomena the fact that in this way, and in this way only, the
Andaman Islander is able to express the sentiments that are aroused in
him by them. We must see if we can justify the personification of
animals by a similar argument.
The habits of observation fostered in the mind of the Andaman Islander
by his method of winning his sustenance lead him to take a lively
interest in all the creatures of the jungle and the sea, about whose
ways he therefore has a great store of knowledge. Every tree and plant
of the forest, every bird and insect, every creature that lives in the
sea or on the reef has its name. His interest, however, in the case of
many of the animals has little or no relation to practical life, for he
does not make use of them for food or in any other way. There is here
therefore something that contradicts the fundamental assumption of the
philosophy that is expressed in the legends, there is a lack of mental
unity. These interests in the birds and insects are not correlated with
the central mass of interests that control the Andamanese mind and give
it its unity. Although his philosophy assumes that everything in which
he takes an interest has some meaning in reference to his own life, yet
here are things that at first sight have no such meaning. The
correlation that is lacking in his experience is brought about by means
of the legends; a meaning is provided for the apparently meaningless.
The fundamental interest of the Andaman Islander, as of all men in
primitive societies, is his interest in persons and personal relations.
By regarding the animals as persons and relating stories about them he
is able to correlate his interest in them with the fundamental basis of
his mental life.
This explanation does not perhaps sound very satisfactory. We do not at
present understand the forces that compel the normal mind to strive
after unity in its experience. Let us examine the matter a little more
closely. All the thoughts and feelings of the Andaman Islander (or at
any rate all those that are expressed in the legends) centre in the
society; for him the world is merely a stage on which the social drama
is perpetually enacted. He coordinates all his thoughts, emotions, and
interests around the society, and in the legends he builds up a picture
showing the connection between the society and those phenomena of
nature that affect it. The majority of the animals (the birds, the
insects, and innumerable kinds of fish), not being used for food, or in
any other way, bear no apparent relation to the social life. Yet by
reason of the woodcraft developed by the necessities of his life he is
compelled to take notice of these creatures and to become interested in
their ways. Here, therefore, are two conflicting elements in his
consciousness, (1) his belief that the whole of nature derives its
meaning and interest from its relation to the society, and (2) his
consciousness of an alien world (of the birds, etc.) which seems to
have no direct relation to the society, and which nevertheless he
cannot help being constantly aware of. The Andaman Islander, as I have
stated more than once, does not possess any scientific or abstract
interest in nature. He never asks himself “What is the meaning of
this?” in the same way that a scientist of our own civilisation might
do. He asks “What is the meaning of this thing in relation to me and my
interests and feelings, and to the social life of which my life is a
fragment?” It is because he does feel the need of answers to questions
of this kind that the conflict we have noticed arises. This conflict
has to be resolved, and there are apparently three alternatives: (1) to
admit that there is a meaning in nature apart from its relation to the
society, (2) to refuse to take any interest in birds and insects, (3)
to explain away the apparent lack of relation. It is this third
alternative that is chosen by the Andaman Islander, and there are
obvious reasons why it should be so. The explanation is accomplished in
a direct and simple manner. In the beginning men and animals were one;
then came an event or series of events (the discovery of fire, the
great flood, or a great quarrel amongst the ancestors) whereby the men
and the animals became cut off from one another, to live henceforward
in the same world, but separated by an unseen barrier.
The argument may be put in another way that may perhaps be more
convincing. The actual sentiment that is aroused in the mind of the
native by the animals is that here is an important and interesting part
of the universe that is alien to him, from which he is cut off in some
strange way. It is this real sentiment, itself the inevitable result of
his life and his surroundings, that is expressed in the belief in the
animals as ancestors.
If this explanation be correct we should expect to find that the
animals that figure in the legends are those that have no immediate
social value either as food or in any other way, while on the other
hand the animals that are used for food will not appear in the legends,
or will occupy therein a very different place from the others. The only
land animal that is regularly used for food is the pig. It is therefore
a confirmation of the explanation that we find that the pig is never
under any circumstances regarded as one of the ancestors, that is to
say, is never personified in the same way that other animals are. One
legend about the pig [223] explains, not how the animal came into
existence (that seems to be assumed), but how it acquired its senses.
Another legend [224] tells how the civet-cat persuaded some of the
ancestors to play a game in which they pretended to be pigs, and they
were turned into these animals. Here we are clearly dealing with
something different from the ordinary process of personification, for
we have not one ancestor in whom the species is personified, but a
number of persons who were suddenly changed from men and women into
pigs by the magical performance of the civet-cat. In the sea there are
several animals that are regularly used for food. The dugong is spoken
of as an ancestor in an Akar-Bale legend, but in the North Andaman
there is a story of how the dugong originated from a pig that Pe̱rǰido
tried to roast without first disembowelling it and cutting the joints
of its legs. There is also in the North Andaman a story of how turtles
originated [225]. The existence of these legends shows that the pig,
the turtle and the dugong occupy a different position in the minds of
the Andamanese from that of the other animals. This serves, in some
measure, to confirm the explanation given above.
We may briefly consider what may be regarded as a kind of negative
instance by which to test the argument. The world of the stars
constitutes a part of the universe just as alien, just as devoid of
apparent meaning as that of the birds. We may ask therefore how it is
that the Andaman Islanders have no star myths of the kind that are
common in other primitive societies. The answer is, I think, that the
Andamanese do not have their attention called to the stars. As their
camps are in the dense forest there are very few occasions on which
they see the sky at night. When fishing at night on the reefs or in
canoes they are too busy to pay much attention to the stars. They have
not learnt to relate the procession of the stars and the change of the
seasons, nor have they learnt to tell the time at night from their
declination. Their navigation is only along the coast and they have
therefore no use for the stars as guides of direction. On the contrary,
wherever we find a developed star-mythology we find that the stars are
studied either as guides to navigation or journeying overland, or as
giving indications of the changes of the seasons.
We have considered all the more important aspects of the subject matter
of the legends; it remains for us to turn to the form and enquire how
it comes about that the representations which analysis reveals are
expressed in just the way they are, in a word, why the expression takes
the form of a story. It is obvious that in this place no attempt can be
made to deal with the general problems of the psychology of
story-telling. All that I wish to do is to point out one or two reasons
why the legend is an appropriate form (perhaps we might say, the only
possible form) for the expression of the view of the world that is
revealed in the Andaman mythology.
The Andamanese, like other savages, have not acquired the power of
thinking abstractly. All their thought necessarily deals with concrete
things. Now the story form provides a means of expressing concretely
what could otherwise only be put in an abstract statement. (A large
part of the interpretation of the legends, as here undertaken, consists
in restating the content of the legends in abstract terms.) Moreover,
even if the Andaman Islanders were capable of thinking abstractly, yet,
since what they need to express are not thoughts so much as feelings
(not intellectual so much as affective processes), they would still
need a concrete form of expression. For it is a familiar fact that the
concrete has a much greater power of awakening or appealing to our
feelings than has the abstract. In particular the story has ever been a
popular medium by which to appeal to sentiments of all kinds.
The chief ground for the interest in stories shown by children and by
savages is, I believe, that they afford the means of exercising the
imagination in certain specific directions and thereby play an
important part in enabling the individual to organise his experience.
The course of the development of the human mind (from childhood to
adolescence, and from the earliest human ancestor to ourselves) depends
upon or involves the existence at certain stages of growth (and to a
certain extent throughout the whole process) of a conscious egoistic
interest. Mankind, to develop what we call character and conscience,
must learn to take a conscious interest in himself, in his own actions,
and their motives. The development of this self-consciousness in
children is a process of great interest to the psychologist and has
already been studied in an imperfect fashion. You have only to watch a
child playing a game in which he or she enacts some imaginary part to
see how such games afford a means by which the child develops and
widens his interest in himself. Children, and many grown-up people
(particularly during conditions of lessened mental activity), indulge
in what are called daydreams, which take the form of an imaginary
succession of adventures of which the dreamer is always the hero. The
character of daydreams is that they are always frankly egoistic and
boastful. Now this sort of interest in stories is found in the
Andamanese, though not in the legends. At the end of a day a group of
Andamanese may often be seen seated round a fire listening while one of
them recounts adventures. The narration may be merely an exaggerated
account of real happenings, but is more often purely fictitious. The
narrator will tell, with few words, but with many expressive gestures,
how he harpooned a turtle or shot a pig. He may, if his hearers are
content to remain and listen, as they sometimes are, go on killing pig
after pig for an hour or two together. The point to be noted is that
these tales are always frankly egoistic and boastful, and it is for
this reason that they may well be compared with the daydreams of the
more civilised.
Besides this egoistic interest in stories there is another that is
closely connected with it in origin and function. The necessities of
social life, particularly in childhood and in primitive societies where
a small number of people are constantly reacting upon one another,
involve an intense degree of interest in persons and personal
qualities. This interest is aroused and fostered by the constant play
of personal forces in the social life. Its strength accounts, I
believe, for the power of appeal to sentiments that is possessed by
stories.
It is a commonplace that in many forms of play the child or the adult
(and it is also true of animals) exercises faculties that are important
parts of the system of habits or dispositions by which the individual
adapts himself to his surroundings. We may regard the interest in
stories as similar to play-interests in general. Life in society
requires the individual to develop a faculty of what may be called
character-estimation, whereby he may judge the motives that are likely
to influence the conduct of another person. I have myself noticed that
savages such as the Andaman Islanders and the Australian aborigines are
as a rule good judges of character. They can quickly estimate how to
adapt their conduct and conversation to the character of a person they
meet for the first time. They are often excellent mimics, being able to
imitate exactly the tone of voice or manner of walking or any other
idiosyncrasy of a person whom they have only seen for a short time. I
believe, then, that the legends of the Andamanese may be regarded as a
means whereby they give exercise to their interest in human character,
just as in other kinds of play they exercise other interests and
faculties that are integral parts of their adaptation to their
environment. By means of the personification of natural phenomena and
of species of animals, and through the assumption of the existence of
the ancestors and their times, they are able to develop a special kind
of unwritten literature, which has for them just the same sort of
appeal that much of our own literature has for us. Doubtless it is not
a very polished form of art; the characterisation that it exhibits is
simple and even crude; the story is not told very skilfully, and indeed
the story-teller relies much on his use of expressive gesture to convey
his meaning; nevertheless it does fulfil amongst the Andamanese the
same sort of function that more developed literary art does in
civilised society.
There remains one other matter to be dealt with briefly. I have pointed
out on several occasions that the legends contain inconsistencies. Some
of these only appear when the real meaning of the legend is discovered,
but others are on the surface. It is clear that the Andamanese do not
always apply to their legends the laws of logical consistency. It must
not, however, be supposed that they are equally illogical in other
matters, for this is not so. In matters of everyday practical life the
Andamanese show just as much sound commonsense as the inhabitants of a
civilised country. They are excellent observers of natural phenomena
and are capable of putting their observations to practical use. In any
attempt to explain their mythology, therefore, it is necessary to show
why in this sphere they do not apply their powers of reasoning. We can
understand this when we recall the purpose of the legends as here
described, which is, not to give rational explanations, but to express
sentiments. When there are two alternative rational explanations of a
phenomenon between which we cannot definitely choose we say that either
one or other is probably true. In those mental processes in which the
purpose is to find a symbolic expression for sentiments or desires, the
either-or relation is inadmissible owing to the very nature of the
thought-process itself. If two expressions of the same sentiment are
present, both equally adequate, we must either reject one of them or by
making use of both on different occasions admit the possibility of
inconsistency. Where the inconsistency becomes more or less obvious we
expect the reason to step in and insist that a choice shall be made.
But a mind intent on expressing certain feelings, faced with two
alternative and equally satisfactory but inconsistent symbols, will
hesitate to choose between them even at the command of the desire for
logical consistency. It will cling as long as possible to both of them.
This is just what the Andaman Islander seems to do in his mythology.
The view of lightning as a person who shakes his leg seems to express
in some way certain notions of the natives about the lightning. The
alternative explanation of lightning as a fire-brand thrown by Biliku
also satisfies in some way his need of expressing the impressions that
the phenomena make upon him. In spite of the inconsistency he clings to
both symbols as best he can.
The very existence of inconsistencies of this kind proves without any
doubt that the mental processes underlying the legends of the
Andamanese are not similar to those that we ourselves follow when we
attempt to understand intelligently the facts of nature and of life,
but rather are to be compared to those that are to be found in dreams
and in art,—processes of what might conveniently be called symbolic
thought. It would perhaps hardly be necessary to point this out were it
not that many ethnologists still try to interpret the beliefs of
savages as being the result of attempts to understand natural facts,
such as dreams, death, birth, etc. Such writers assume that the savage
is impelled by the same motive that so strongly dominates themselves,
the desire to understand,—scientific curiosity—and that such beliefs as
animism or totemism are of the nature of scientific hypotheses invented
to explain the facts of dreaming and of death on the one hand and of
conception and birth on the other. If this view of the nature of
primitive thought were correct it would be impossible to conceive how
such inconsistencies as those that we meet with among the Andamanese
could be permitted. On the view that the myths of primitive societies
are merely the result of an endeavour to express certain ways of
thinking and feeling about the facts of life which are brought into
existence by the manner in which life is regulated in society, the
presence of such inconsistencies need not in the least surprise us, for
the myths satisfactorily fulfil their function not by any appeal to the
reasoning powers of the intellect but by appealing, through the
imagination, to the mind’s affective dispositions.
The thesis of this chapter has been that the legends are the expression
of social values of objects of different kinds. By the social value of
an object is meant the way in which it affects the life of the society,
and therefore, since every one is interested in the welfare of the
society to which he belongs, the way in which it affects the social
sentiments of the individual. The system of social values of a society
obviously depends upon the manner in which the society is constituted,
and therefore the legends can only be understood by constant reference
to the mode of life of the Andamanese.
The legends give us in the first place a simple and crude valuation of
human actions. Anger, quarrelsomeness, carelessness in observing ritual
requirements are exhibited as resulting in harm. This is the moral
element of the stories strictly so called, and is to be observed in
many of them. The young men who failed to observe the rules laid down
for those who have recently been through one of the initiation
ceremonies were turned to stone. The quarrelsomeness of the lizard led
to the ancestors being turned into animals. The bad temper of one of
the ancestors resulted in darkness covering the earth, or in a great
cyclone in which many were destroyed.
Secondly, the legends as a whole give expression to the social value of
the past, of all that is derived from tradition, whether it be the
knowledge by which men win their sustenance, or the customs that they
observe. In the wonderful times of the ancestors all things were
ordered, all necessary knowledge was acquired, and the rules that must
guide conduct were discovered. It remains for the individual of the
present only to observe the customs with which his elders are familiar.
The legends of a man’s own tribe serve also to give a social value to
the places with which he is familiar. The creeks and hills that he
knows, the camping sites at which he lives, the reefs and rocks that
act as landmarks by reason of any striking feature they may present,
are all for him possessed of a historic interest that makes them dear
to him. The very names, in many cases, recall events of the far-off
legendary epoch.
Again, many of the legends express the social value of natural
phenomena. By reference to Biliku and Tarai, for instance, the native
can express what he feels with respect to the weather and the seasonal
changes that so profoundly affect the common life. Finally, in the
legends he is able to express what he feels about the bright plumaged
birds and the other creatures with which he is constantly meeting in
the jungles, which are a source of perennial interest, and are yet so
clearly a part of the world cut off from himself and his life, having
no immediately discernible influence upon his welfare.
This system of social values, or rather this system of sentiments, that
we find expressed in the legends is an essential part of the life of
the Andamanese; without it they could not have organised their social
life in the way they have. Moreover the sentiments in question need to
be regularly expressed in some way or another if they are to be kept
alive and passed on from one generation to another. The legends, which
are related by the elders to the young folk, are one of the means (the
various ceremonial customs analysed in the last chapter being another)
by which they are so expressed, and by which their existence is
maintained.
Although the term “social value” has been used as a convenient
expression, yet the meaning of the legends might be expressed in other
ways. We may say, for instance, that they give a representation of the
world as regulated by law. The conception of law which they reveal is
not, however, that to which we are accustomed when we think of natural
law. We may perhaps adequately state the Andaman notion by saying that
moral law and natural law are not distinguished from one another. The
welfare of the society depends upon right actions; wrong actions
inevitably lead to evil results. Giving way to anger is a wrong action,
as being a cause of social disturbance. In the legends the catastrophes
that overwhelmed the ancestors are in many instances represented as
being caused by some one giving way to anger. There is a right way and
a wrong way to set about making such a thing as a bow. We should
explain this by saying that the right way will give a good serviceable
weapon, whereas the wrong way will give an inferior or useless one. The
Andaman Islander tends to look at the matter from a different angle;
the right way is right because it is the one that has been followed
from time immemorial, and any other way is wrong, is contrary to
custom, to law. Law, for the Andaman Islander, means that there is an
order of the universe, characterised by absolute uniformity; this order
was established once for all in the time of the ancestors, and is not
to be interfered with, the results of any such interference being evil,
ranging from merely minor ills such as disappointment or discomfort to
great calamities. The law of compensation is absolute. Any deviation
from law or custom will inevitably bring its results, and inversely any
evil that befalls must be the result of some lack of observance. The
legends reveal to our analysis a conception of the universe as a moral
order.
Here I must conclude my attempt to interpret the customs and beliefs of
the Andaman Islanders, but in doing so I wish to point out, though
indeed it must already be fairly obvious, that if my interpretation be
correct, then the meaning of the customs of other primitive peoples is
to be discovered by similar methods and in accordance with the same
psychological principles. It is because I have satisfied myself of the
soundness of these methods and principles, by applying them to the
interpretation of other cultures, that I put forward the hypotheses of
these two chapters with an assurance that would not perhaps be
justified if I relied solely on a study of the Andamanese. To put the
matter in another way, I have assumed a certain working hypothesis, and
I have shown that on the basis of this hypothesis there can be built up
a satisfactory explanation of the customs and beliefs of the
Andamanese. But the hypothesis is of such a nature, stating or
involving as it does certain sociological or psychological laws and
principles, that if it be true for one primitive people it must be true
for others, and indeed, with necessary modifications, must be true of
all human society. Such a hypothesis, it is obvious, cannot be
adequately tested by reference only to one limited set of facts, and it
will therefore be necessary, if it is to become something more than a
hypothesis, to test its application over a wider range of ethnological
facts.
The matter is so important that it is necessary, even at the risk of
wearisome repetition, to give a final statement of the hypothesis that,
in this chapter and the last, has been applied to and tested by the
facts known to us concerning the Andaman Islanders.
In an enquiry such as this, we are studying, I take it, not isolated
facts, but a “culture,” understanding by that word the whole mass of
institutions, customs and beliefs of a given people. For a culture to
exist at all, and to continue to exist, it must conform to certain
conditions. It must provide a mode of subsistence adequate to the
environment and the existing density of population; it must provide for
the continuance of the society by the proper care of children; it must
provide means for maintaining the cohesion of the society. All these
things involve the regulation of individual conduct in certain definite
ways; they involve, that is, a certain system of moral customs.
Each type of social organisation has its own system of moral customs,
and these could be explained by showing how they serve to maintain the
society in existence. Such an explanation would be of the
psychological, not of the historical type; it would give not the cause
of origin of any custom, but its social function. For example it is
easy to see the function of the very strong feelings of the Andamanese
as to the value of generosity in the distribution of food and of energy
in obtaining it, and as to the highly reprehensible nature of laziness
and greediness (meaning by the latter word, eating much when others
have little). It has only been by the cultivation of these virtues, or
by the eradication of the opposite vices, that the Andaman society has
maintained itself in existence in an environment where food is only
obtainable by individual effort, where it cannot be preserved from day
to day, and where there are occasional times of scarcity. It could be
shown, to take a further example, how the manner in which the life of
the family is organised is closely related to certain fundamental
social needs. If we were attempting an explanation of the Andamanese
culture as a whole and in all its details it would be necessary to
examine all the moral customs of the people and show their relations
one to another and to the fundamental basis on which the society is
organised.
The necessary regulation of conduct in a given society depends upon the
existence in each individual of an organised system of sentiments. That
system of sentiments or motives will clearly be different in different
cultures, just as the system of moral rules is different in societies
of different types. Yet there is, so to speak, a general substratum
that is the same in all human societies. No matter how the society may
be organised there must be in the individual a strong feeling of
attachment to his own group, to the social division (nation, village,
clan, tribe, caste, or what not) to which he belongs. The particular
way in which that sentiment is revealed in thought and action will
depend upon the nature of the group to which it refers. Similarly, no
society can exist without the presence in the minds of its members of
some form or other of the sentiment of moral obligation—the sentiment
that certain things must be done, certain other things must not be
done, because those are right, good, virtuous, these are wrong, bad,
vicious or sinful. Further, though perhaps less important, yet not less
necessary, there is the sentiment of dependence in its various
forms—dependence on others, on the society, on tradition or custom.
For a culture to exist, then, these sentiments (and others connected
with them, that need not be enumerated) must exist in the minds of
individuals in certain definite forms, capable of influencing action in
the direction required to maintain the cohesion of the society on its
actual basis of organisation. This, we may say, is the social function
of these sentiments.
Leaving aside altogether the question of how sentiments of these kinds
come into existence, we may note that they involve the existence of an
experience of a particular type. The individual experiences the action
upon himself of a power or force—constraining him to act in certain
ways not always pleasant, supporting him in his weakness, binding him
to his fellows, to his group. This force is clearly something not
himself—something outside of him therefore, and yet equally clearly it
makes itself felt not as mere external compulsion or support, but as
something within his own consciousness—within himself, therefore. If we
would give a name to this force we can only call it the moral force of
society. The very existence of a human society, the argument has run,
necessarily involves the existence of this actual experience of a moral
force, acting through the society upon the individual, and yet acting
within his own consciousness. The experience, then, is there, but it
does not follow that the primitive man can analyse his own experience;
it is obvious enough that such analysis is beyond him. Still the
experience does lead him to form certain notions or representations,
and it is possible to show how these notions are psychologically
related to the experience of a moral force.
The experience of this moral force comes to the individual in definite
concrete experiences only. We first learn to experience our own
dependence in our dealings with our parents, and thus we derive the
concrete form in which we clothe our later adult feeling of our
dependence upon our God. Or, to take an example from the vast number
provided by the customs of the Andamanese, the Andaman Islander, like
other savages, the main concern of whose lives is the getting and
eating of food, inevitably finds his experience of a moral force most
intimately associated with the things he uses for food. Inevitably,
therefore, he regards food as a substance in which, in some way, the
moral force is inherent, since it is often through food that the force
actually affects him and his actions. The psychology of the matter can
be traced, I hope, in the arguments of the last chapter. From the
analysis there given of different customs and beliefs it should be
obvious that the way in which the Andaman Islander regards all the
things that influence the social life is due to the way in which they
are associated with his experience of the moral force of the society.
In this way there arises in the mind of primitive man, as the result of
his social life and the play of feeling that it involves, the more or
less crude and undefined notion of a power in society and in nature
having certain attributes. It is this power that is responsible for all
conditions of social euphoria or dysphoria because in all such
conditions the power itself is actually experienced. It is the same
power that compels the individual to conform to custom in his conduct,
acting upon him both within as the force of conscience and without as
the force of opinion. It is the same force on which the individual
feels himself to be dependent, as a source of inner strength to him in
times of need. It is this force also that carries him away during
periods of social excitement such as dances, ceremonies or fights, and
which gives him the feeling of a sudden great addition to his own
personal force.
The Andamanese have not reached the point of recognizing by a special
name this power of which they are thus aware. I have shown that in some
of its manifestations they regard it, symbolically, as being a sort of
heat, or a force similar to that which they know in fire and heat. In
more developed societies, however, we find a nearer approach to a
definite recognition of this power or force in its different
manifestations by means of a single name. The power denoted by the word
mana in Melanesia, and by the words orenda, wakan, nauala, etc.,
amongst different tribes of North America, is this same power of which
I have tried to show that the notion arises from the actual experience
of the moral force of the society.
These sentiments and the representations connected with them, upon the
existence of which, as we have seen, the very existence of the society
depends, need to be kept alive, to be maintained at a given degree of
intensity. Apart from the necessity that exists of keeping them alive
in the mind of the individual, there is the necessity of impressing
them upon each new individual added to the society, upon each child as
he or she develops into an adult. Even individual sentiments do not
remain in existence in the mind unless they are exercised by being
expressed. Much more is this the case with collective sentiments, those
shared by a number of persons. The only possible way by which such
collective sentiments can be maintained is by giving them regular and
adequate expression.
Here then, according to the argument of the last chapter, we find the
function of the ceremonial customs of primitive peoples such as the
Andamanese. All these customs are simply means by which certain ways of
feeling about the different aspects of social life are regularly
expressed, and, through expression, kept alive and passed on from one
generation to another. Thus the customs connected with foods serve to
maintain in existence certain ways of feeling about foods and the moral
duties connected with them, and similarly with other customs.
Affective modes of experience (sentiments, feelings or emotions) can be
expressed not only in bodily movements but also by means of language. I
have tried to show that the function of the myths and legends of the
Andamanese is exactly parallel to that of the ritual and ceremonial.
They serve to express certain ways of thinking and feeling about the
society and its relation to the world of nature, and thereby to
maintain these ways of thought and feeling and pass them on to
succeeding generations. In the case of both ritual and myth the
sentiments expressed are those that are essential to the existence of
the society.
Throughout these two chapters I have avoided the use of the term
religion. My reason for this is that I have not been able to find a
definition of this term which would render it suitable for use in a
scientific discussion of the beliefs of such primitive peoples as the
Andamanese.
When we use the term religion we inevitably think first of what we
understand by that term in civilised society. It is not possible, I
believe, to give an exact definition which shall retain all the
connotations of the word as commonly used and which shall at the same
time help us in the study of the customs of undeveloped societies. The
definition of religion that seems to me on the whole most satisfactory
is that it consists of (1) a belief in a great moral force or power
(whether personal or not) existing in nature, and (2) an organised
relation between man and this Higher Power. If this definition be
accepted it is clear that the Andamanese have religious beliefs and
customs. They do believe in a moral power regulating the universe, and
they have organised their relations to that power by means of some of
their simple ceremonies. Yet it does not seem possible to draw a sharp
dividing line between those beliefs and customs that properly deserve
to be called religious, and others which do not deserve the adjective.
It is not possible, in the Andamans, to separate a definite entity
which we can call religion from things that may more appropriately be
regarded as art, morality, play, or social ceremonial.
Nevertheless the purpose of these two chapters has been to explain the
nature and function of the Andamanese religion. Amongst the fundamental
conditions that must be fulfilled if human beings are to live together
in society is the existence of this thing that we call religion, the
belief in a great Unseen Power, between which and ourselves it must
ever be the great concern of life to establish and maintain harmony.
The Andaman Islander with his somewhat childish faith, the Australian
black-fellow decorated with paint and feathers impersonating his
totemic ancestor, the Polynesian sacrificing human victims on the marae
of his god, the Buddhist following the Holy Eight-Staged Path, are all
following in however different ways the same eternal quest.
APPENDIX A
THE TECHNICAL CULTURE OF THE ANDAMAN ISLANDERS
In this appendix I shall give a brief account of the technical culture
of the Andaman Islanders, with a few comparative notes on the
technology of the Semang of the Malay Peninsula and the Negritos of the
Philippine Islands. The Andamanese, the Semang and the Philippine
Negritos are so similar in physical characteristics that it is
reasonable to suppose that they are descended from a single stock. It
is on the basis of this hypothesis that they are all spoken of as
belonging to one race, the Negrito race. It is therefore of some
interest to compare the culture of these three different peoples to see
if we can determine what was the culture of their ancestors.
In such hypothetical reconstructions of the past it is necessary to
proceed with extreme caution, as there is no means of controlling
results. The method I have adopted is to compare first of all the
different types of technological products or activities found in
different parts of the Andamans in order to determine as far as
possible what was the technical culture of the ancestors of the
Andamanese when they first reached the islands, and what changes have
taken place since the islands were occupied. It is only this primitive
or generalised Andamanese culture that can be compared with that of the
Semang or the Philippine Negritos.
From the point of view of technical culture the natives of the Andamans
must be separated into two main divisions, which will be spoken of as
the Great Andaman Division and the Little Andaman Division respectively
[226]. The most plausible explanation of the differences of culture and
language between these two divisions has been mentioned already. We
must assume that when the islands were first peopled, or at some later
time, the inhabitants of the Little Andaman became isolated from those
of the Great Andaman. The language and the technical culture of each of
the two groups underwent a number of changes during the many centuries
that followed. At a much later date, after the differences between the
two divisions had been developed, and probably not many centuries ago,
a party or several parties of natives must have made their way from the
Little Andaman as far as Rutland Island. Here they came in conflict
with the natives of the Great Andaman Division, and in this way arose
the antagonism between the Jarawa (the immigrants from the Little
Andaman) and the other natives of the South Andaman (who formed in 1858
the Aka-Bea tribe), which has lasted down to the present day. We shall
find that the technical culture of the Jarawa has been only very
slightly influenced by contact with the natives of the Great Andaman
Division, and therefore differs very little from that of the Little
Andaman at the present day.
Primitive Andaman Culture
|
_____________/ \____________
/ / \
________/|\________ / \
/ | \ / \
N. Sentinel Little Jarawa Southern Northern
Andaman Group Group
\____________ ____________/ \_____ _____/
\/ \/
Little Andaman Division Great Andaman
Division
I have provisionally included the natives of the North Sentinel Island
in the Little Andaman Division. The ground for so doing is that the
form of bow in use in the North Sentinel Island is similar to that of
the Little Andaman and unlike that of the Great Andaman. Unfortunately,
almost nothing is known about the technology of the North Sentinel, and
nothing whatever about the language. It is possible that the natives of
this outlying islet have been isolated for many centuries from both the
Little Andaman and the Great Andaman, and further information about
them might show that their technology is different in important
respects from that of the Little Andaman.
Within the Great Andaman Division there are a number of differences in
technology between the tribes of the North Andaman and those of the
South Andaman and Middle Andaman.
In order to render the exposition and argument that follows more easily
understood the supposed relations of the different types of culture are
shown in the form of a diagram or tree. The justification for this
arrangement will appear as we proceed.
There is only very scanty information available about the technical
culture of the Negritos of the Malay Peninsula, whom we may speak of as
the Semang. There are differences of technology between the Semang of
different parts, and a careful study of these differences would serve
to throw much light on changes that have been introduced since the
Semang were isolated from the rest of their race. There is no doubt
that the Semang have adopted many elements of their present culture
from their neighbours the Sakai and others. In some instances it is
possible to trace this external influence, but in others it is doubtful
whether we are dealing with a primitive Semang form or with a form
adopted from their neighbours [227].
The same thing must be said about the Philippine Negritos. Our
information is not sufficient to enable us to discuss the local
differences, nor to determine what elements of the culture have been
introduced by contact with other races [228].
HABITATIONS.
The huts of the Andamanese are best understood by considering first of
all the simplest and most temporary structures. A man away from the
main camp at night (on a hunting expedition) erects for himself a
simple shelter of leaves. Such hunting shelters vary considerably
according to circumstances. In the rainy season they are built much
more substantially than in the dry season. Sometimes shelter is found
between the buttresses of large trees, a few leaves being added. There
is, however, one type of hunting shelter that is usual. Two poles are
cut and erected perpendicularly in the ground so that they stand about
four feet apart and about four feet high. To the top of these is tied,
with cane or creeper, a horizontal pole. A few poles or sticks of
sufficient length are placed so as to lean against the horizontal pole
at an angle of about 45°, the ends resting on the ground. On these are
placed any leaves that can be obtained, preferably the leaves of canes
and other palms. The shelter thus consists of a single rectangular
roof, one end of which rests on the ground, while the other rests on a
horizontal bar attached to the top of two perpendicular supports. The
shelter is built facing to leeward.
The usual family hut of the Andamans is built on exactly the same
principles as a hunter’s shelter, but, being intended for occupation
for some weeks or even months, is more carefully built. For a small
hut, to be occupied by one family, four posts are erected, two at the
back being from two to four feet high above the ground, while two at
the front are from five to seven feet high. Two horizontal poles are
attached, one to the top of the front posts and the other to the back
posts, with strips of cane. If poles of a convenient size and forked at
the top are available these may be used for the posts of the hut, the
horizontal poles being supported in the forks, but a native would not
trouble to search for such timbers, being satisfied with an unforked
post. A few slender timbers, preferably of mangrove wood (Bruguiera),
are placed on the two horizontal poles and bound to them with cane.
These rafters, as they may be called, project for a foot or two above
or beyond the higher horizontal, and similarly project a foot beyond
the lower one so as almost to reach the ground.
In the better kind of hut a mat is made of palm leaves, and this mat is
placed on the rafters and tied to them with strips of cane. To make a
mat a number of strips of bamboo or cane of sufficient length are taken
and placed on the ground parallel to each other. Leaves of a species of
cane are collected and each leaf is divided into two parts down the
middle. These half-leaves are then attached to the strips of bamboo or
cane, by means of strips of the outside of canes, the technique being
wrapped-twined work. The half-leaves are attached so that the leaflets,
which are attached to the leaf-stem at an angle, incline alternately to
one side and the other. The photograph reproduced in Plate VII shows a
hut of the kind here described. Mats in course of making are shown
lying on the ground in Plates VI and VII.
A quicker, but less efficient way of thatching the hut is to take the
half-leaves such as are used for making a mat and fasten them in
bundles of five or six directly to the rafters.
Huts of this type, each occupied by a single family, are built by the
natives of the Great Andaman Division in the form of villages. The
Jarawa and the natives of the Little Andaman build similar huts in
their hunting camps, occupied during the fine weather.
Some huts of this type are provided with a floor raised above the
ground. Such a floor is erected on short posts, and may be made of
bamboos or of planks or pieces of broken-up canoes. A floor of this
kind, raised a foot or so above the ground, is shown in Plate VII. Huts
are sometimes to be seen with a floor raised as much as three feet
above the ground.
The simple Andaman hut as above described is entirely open at the front
and on each side. In an exposed situation screens of palm-leaves may be
erected at the side. If still more shelter is required, a hut may be
built with two roofs. Such a hut requires six posts, two taller ones
six or seven feet high, and four shorter ones, two on each side. For
such a hut two mats are made, and are so attached that one mat projects
above the other. No attempt is made to fasten the two mats together at
the top, but on the contrary a space of several inches is left between
them to allow the smoke of the fire to escape, rain being excluded by
the overhang of one of the mats. Huts of this type may be seen in Plate
VI.
Each of the huts hitherto described is occupied by a single family. In
order to understand the communal huts it is necessary to consider the
arrangement of small huts in a camp or village. In the tribes of the
Great Andaman there are two main types of such arrangement. The first
type is that of the hunting camp, which is occupied for a few nights
only. In this all the huts are placed facing in the same direction (to
leeward) and in a line with one another. The second type is that of a
village to be occupied for some weeks or months. In this the huts are
arranged round an open space, all facing inwards, as described earlier
in this book [229]. All encampments in the Great Andaman tend to
conform to one or other of these types, but variations are introduced
according to the nature of the site occupied. Thus in a hunting camp
the site may not permit of the erection of the huts in one line. A
village is, as a rule, only put up at a spot that has been used from
time immemorial, where there is an open space of sufficient size, but
if, for any reason, a site is selected where there is not room to
arrange all the huts around the dancing ground, the arrangement of the
village may be irregular.
The hunting camps of the Jarawa are sometimes arranged on the same
principle as those of the tribes of the Great Andaman Division, i.e.,
all facing in one direction and as nearly in one line side by side as
the site will allow.
The natives of the Little Andaman erect hunting camps in the fine
weather. In the only one that I have seen the huts were arranged
irregularly so as to make the best use of the available space.
A few words must be said on the sites chosen for encampments. It must
be remembered that the islands are entirely covered with forest. The
natives will not, if they can avoid it, put their camp under high
trees, for fear of the danger of falling branches in a storm. At the
same time they prefer a situation where there is an open space
surrounded with forest so that they are sheltered from the wind. The
coast-dwellers always camp immediately within the jungle on the shore
of the sea or of a creek. The forest-dwellers usually choose a position
on a hill or ridge, and this is particularly the case with the Jarawa.
The camp must be close to a supply of fresh water. In the tribes of the
Great Andaman Division no precautions are taken against a possible
attack by enemies, but the Jarawa do take precautions, clearing the
trees around their camps so that they have a good view of the
approaches, and even, apparently, placing look-out stations at the tops
of the paths [230].
Amongst the coast-dwelling tribes there are sites that have been used
for encampments for many centuries. At these spots there are found
heaps of refuse that have accumulated year by year. These
kitchen-middens, as they are sometimes called, consist of the shells of
molluscs, bones of animals, stones that have been used for cooking,
fragments of pottery, and loam produced from decayed wood and other
refuse.
The two types of camp arrangement which are seen in the village and the
hunting camp are exhibited in two different types of communal hut. One
of these, corresponding to the hunting camp, may be termed the long
shelter. It is apparently only used in the North Sentinel Island. A hut
of this type was seen by Mr Gilbert Rogers in 1903. It was rectangular,
40 feet long and 12 feet wide. The roof was supported on three rows of
small posts ranging in height from 3 feet at the back to 6 feet at the
front of the hut. The roof projected about 2 feet in either direction
beyond the posts and was about 2 feet from the ground at the back and 7
feet above the ground at the front. There were twelve places for fires,
six in front and six at the back of the hut, and near each, on the
right-hand side, was a platform supported on four sticks, of the usual
Andamanese type, for keeping food. There were two rows of sleeping
places which were separated by small poles, making rectangles on the
ground about 5 feet by 4 feet, each of which was probably occupied by a
man and his wife and small children [231].
The relation of this type of communal hut, in which all the members of
one local group are brought together under a single roof of one slope,
to the ordinary family hut of the Andamans, and the arrangement of the
hunting camp in a line, is obvious.
To the arrangement of huts in a village around a central open space
corresponds the second type of communal hut, which may be called the
round hut. Communal huts of this type were formerly built by the
natives of the Great Andaman Division, but have fallen into disuse in
recent times, owing to the natives having become much more migratory in
their habits. Huts of the same type are built at the present day by the
natives of the Little Andaman and by the Jarawa.
In its typical form this kind of hut is built by erecting two circles
of posts, a smaller circle of tall posts, and a wider circle of shorter
posts. The tops of these posts are connected by horizontal and sloping
timbers, which make the framework of the roof. The roof is made of a
number of mats of palm-leaves, which are laid on the rafters and tied
to them with strips of cane. The mats are made in exactly the same way
as the smaller mats used for the small huts and already described. They
are sometimes rectangular in shape, though occasionally an attempt is
made to make them narrower at the top and broader at the bottom. They
are arranged on the roof so as to overlap one another and thus make the
hut rain-proof. They are not joined in the centre, but a small space is
left for the smoke of the fires to escape, and the rain is prevented
from entering by letting one or two of the mats overhang the others at
the top.
In the round huts of the Jarawa and the Little Andaman there is no
centre-post, and according to the statements made to me by the natives
of the Great Andaman they did not use a centre-post for their huts. In
the description attached to a photograph in the British Museum Mr
Portman speaks of the centre-post of a communal hut, which is shown in
the photograph still standing, although the hut had been pulled down.
It would therefore seem that in the Great Andaman the natives did
sometimes erect a centre-post for their round huts. The typical round
hut, however, has no centre-post.
It is clear that the round hut has been developed from the village. If
all the small huts of a village be drawn together so as to touch each
other, and if the mats of thatching be lengthened so as to meet and
overlap in the middle, we have a round hut in its typical form. The
evidence that this is so is afforded by the thatching, consisting of
separate mats, often rectangular in shape (like the mats used for
family huts), placed so as to overlap one another. This crude way of
thatching could hardly have originated in any other way. Further
evidence is afforded, as we shall see, by the internal arrangement of
the hut.
Although the hut is here called a round hut, it must not be supposed
that the shape is always regularly circular. It may be somewhat oval,
and in any case is rarely very regularly constructed. In general,
however, the shape approaches more or less nearly to a circle.
Huts of this kind vary in size according to the number of families
occupying them. The height in the middle may be as much as 30 feet and
the diameter may be 60 feet. The smallest I have seen was a Jarawa hut
on Rutland Island, which was only nine feet high and 15 feet maximum
diameter. In exposed situations the mats of thatching reach as far as
the ground, but huts are sometimes built in sheltered situations with a
space of a foot or two left between the ends of the thatch and the
ground. A low doorway is provided on one side.
Within the hut there is a central space that is the common part of the
hut and corresponds to the dancing ground of the village. In the wet
season the communal fire is situated in this open space, and here the
communal cooking is performed. In Jarawa huts the roof of the central
part of the hut is hung with trophies of the chase consisting of pigs’
skulls bound with cane. In former times the natives of the Great
Andaman Division hung similar trophies in their round huts. Around the
central space are the spaces allotted to the different families, these
being marked off by means of short lengths of wood laid on the ground.
It is thus clear that the basis of Andamanese architecture is the use
of a single rectangular roof giving a shelter open at the front. This
is the usual form of the hunter’s shelter and of the family hut in the
village. For additional shelter two such roofs may be used, but no
attempt is made to join them, one being made to overlap the other.
There are two customary modes of arranging huts, either side by side
facing in the same direction or round an open space facing inwards.
Where, instead of separate roofs for each family, we have a united
roof, these two arrangements of the camp give rise to two different
types of communal hut, the long hut and the round hut.
In a village each hut is occupied by one family. In the communal hut
(of either type) each family has a special portion of the hut marked
off for its special use. Whether in a village or in a communal hut each
family has its own small fire, at which the family meals are prepared.
At one side of this fire is erected a small platform about a foot above
the ground, supported on either three or four upright sticks. This
platform is used for storing food. The natives of the Little Andaman
erect low bamboo platforms to serve as beds, arranged round the
communal hut, each family having its own. In the Great Andaman the
natives, as a rule, make a bed of leaves on the ground and lay a
sleeping mat on the top of this. In damp situations, however, they
sometimes, as already mentioned, make a floor to the hut, raised a foot
or two above the ground, and sleep on that. The Jarawa have a habit of
sleeping in the wood-ashes of their fires in their cold weather hunting
camps.
Turning now to the Semang, we find some differences in respect to their
habitations. Those of the Semang who have not been influenced to a
great extent by their neighbours and have not settled down to
agricultural pursuits, never camp in the same spot for more than a few
days, and have therefore no need to build anything except temporary
shelters [232].
The Semang often erect their shelters in trees, well above the surface
of the ground. This is a feature which distinguishes them from the
Andamanese. It seems probable that these tree-shelters have been
adopted by the Semang as a protection against wild beasts [233]. As
there are no dangerous beasts in the Andamans, the extra labour
involved in building a shelter in the branches of a tree instead of on
the ground would serve no useful purpose. The difference in this
respect between the Semang and the Andamanese is therefore due to a
difference in the circumstances in which they live.
The typical form of Semang shelter, occupied by one family, is erected
by planting three or four stout sticks or poles in the ground in a row
at an angle of about 60° or 75° and lashing palm-leaves across these.
The screen or roof thus formed is further supported, if necessary, with
one or two poles used as props in front [234]. These shelters are
similar to the Andaman shelters in having a single sloping rectangular
roof, but differ from them in being supported, not by upright posts,
but in an altogether less adequate manner. However, the Semang shelters
are apparently very easy to erect, and as they are only occupied for a
night or two there is no inducement to the natives to make them more
substantial.
The Semang sometimes make a shelter by planting a number of palm-leaves
in the ground in a semicircle so that the overhanging ends meet in the
centre [235].
As the Semang are constantly moving from place to place, they have
little use for a communal hut of substantial build. One communal
shelter has been described, which contained eleven sleeping-places
arranged in two long rows. The upright timbers of the shelter consisted
of young saplings planted in two opposite rows, across them being
lashed the leaves of a palm. There were, besides, two central posts or
pillars, each about a third of the distance from either end of the
shelter, and a dozen poles placed as props or wind-braces in various
positions and at various angles, in order to strengthen the structure
and keep it from being blown over in a high wind. The two slopes of the
roof were not united over a ridge-pole, but a longitudinal aperture was
left between them for about two-thirds of the entire length of the
roof, and through the gap thus caused the greater part of the smoke
from the many fireplaces issued. All round the walls were ranged a
number of bamboo sleeping-platforms, five to six feet in length by
about three feet in breadth. The owner of each sleeping-platform or
family unit possessed a separate fire or hearth [236].
We have only scanty information about the huts of the Philippine
Negritos. In Zambales (Luzon) a certain number of the Negritos have
adopted a settled mode of life and depend on agriculture for some part
of their subsistence. The most advanced of these have adopted the form
of hut common amongst their neighbours. The less settled Negritos of
Zambales erect huts which are almost exactly the same as the family
huts of the Andamanese. Two short upright posts are erected for the
back of the hut, and two taller ones for the front, and on these four
posts a rectangular roof of one slope is erected. A bamboo floor or
platform is erected a foot or so above the ground, just as in some
Andaman huts [237]. In the Zambales huts the upright posts are forked
and the horizontal poles are supported in the fork.
At Casiguran the Negritos erect palm-leaf shelters similar to those of
the Semang. A few poles are thrust into the ground at an angle and in a
row and palm-leaves are attached to these, the screen being further
supported with props [238].
A comparison of the three branches of the Negrito race in the light of
present information shows that the usual form of habitation amongst
them is a sloping roof or screen of palm-leaves. One form of this, the
simplest to construct, but only suitable as a temporary shelter, is in
common use amongst the Semang and is found amongst the Negritos of
Casiguran. The other form, more permanent but requiring more labour to
erect, is in common use in the Andamans and amongst the Negritos of
Zambales. Of communal huts we have no evidence in the Philippines. The
communal shelter of the Semang consists of two screens leaning towards
one another. The two types of communal hut of the Andamans are both
derived from the family hut.
HUNTING, FISHING, ETC.
The Andaman Islanders depend for their subsistence entirely upon the
natural productions of the forest and the sea. They make no attempt
whatever to cultivate the soil. Until the introduction of dogs in 1858
they had no domestic animals. Young pigs are occasionally kept in
captivity till they are grown, but they are killed for food and are not
bred in captivity. Thus the Andamanese provide themselves with food by
three different forms of activity: (1) collecting such things as roots
and fruits and honey, (2) fishing in the sea and in the creeks, (3)
hunting the wild animals of the forest.
For hunting the Andamanese rely entirely on the bow and arrow. Since
they have had dogs they occasionally make hunting spears, but they did
not do so in former times. They make no use whatever of any method of
trapping game or birds. For fishing they also make use of the bow and
arrow, wading out on to the reefs and shooting the fish, and in this
they are very skilful. Crustaceans, such as crabs and crayfish, are
captured in the same way. In the North Andaman a sort of short fish
spear was formerly in use as an occasional substitute for the bow and
arrow. In all parts of the islands small nets are used by the women for
catching small fish and prawns. In the Great Andaman large nets were
formerly used for capturing turtle, dugong and large fish near the
shore. At the present time the natives of the Great Andaman Division
make use of harpoons with which they capture turtle, dugong and large
fish from their canoes. Harpoons are not used in the Little Andaman.
The Andamanese are also aware of methods of poisoning or stupefying
fish in pools by means of certain plants that they crush and place in
the water, but I have never seen them use this method of fishing,
although they say that they formerly did so. They have no fish hooks
and no fish traps. At the present time a few of the natives have learnt
to take fish with hook and line, but they are unable to make hooks for
themselves, and have to obtain them from the Settlement at Port Blair.
In collecting roots a digging stick is used, and a hooked pole is used
for gathering fruit, but they have no other special implements in use
in collecting natural productions, and have no need of any. The adze is
used for obtaining molluscs and for cutting honey-combs from hollow
trees.
It is thus clear that by far the most important utensil of the
Andamanese is the bow and arrow. We may say that they are essentially a
bow and arrow people. This is even more true of the natives of the
Little Andaman Division than of those of the Great Andaman Division.
It may be noted here that the Andamanese have no weapons that are used
only for fighting. They fight with their chief hunting weapon, the bow
and arrow. Nor have they any special defensive weapons, the shield
being unknown.
The Semang in their natural condition depend for their subsistence on
collecting roots and fruits from the forest, on catching fish in the
streams, and on hunting animals. Their mode of subsistence is thus
essentially the same as that of the Andamanese. One difference is that
they have not the sea from which to draw supplies, and another is that
the forests in which they live afford a much larger variety of game. A
number of the Semang now practice a little rude agriculture which they
have undoubtedly adopted in imitation of their neighbours of other
races [239].
The principal weapon of the Semang, as of the Andamanese, is the bow
and arrow. In hunting they also use spears [240], thus showing a
difference from the Andamanese. Some of the Semang make use of the
blow-pipe with poisoned darts, but it is practically certain that they
have adopted the use of this weapon from their neighbours the Sakai
[241]. They also make use to some extent of traps with which to capture
jungle animals and birds. The wilder Semang living in the mountains
have little opportunity of obtaining fish. Those of them that dwell
near rivers use fish-spears and harpoons for catching large fish, and a
small basket-work scoop for catching small fry [242]. They also fish
with rod and line, the hooks being, as a rule, roughly manufactured
from bits of brass or other wire [243]. The Semang have no special
fighting weapons either offensive or defensive.
In the Philippines some of the Negritos practice a little rude
agriculture [244]. It is practically certain that they have only
adopted this mode of subsistence through contact with agricultural
peoples of other races. They originally depended entirely upon
collecting, fishing and hunting, and even those who now grow a few
scanty crops devote a large part of their energies to hunting and
collecting the natural products of the jungles [245]. The chief weapon
of the Negritos of the Philippines, as of the Andamanese and the
Semang, is the bow and arrow. They use the bow and arrow for shooting
fish, having special fish-arrows [246]. It seems doubtful if they use
spears, unless they have adopted them from their neighbours. In hunting
deer the Negritos of Zambales use large nets like fish nets. They are
acquainted with the use of traps for game but they seem to prefer to
depend on the bow and arrow [247]. In the larger streams of Zambales
they make fishing weirs of bamboo, after the manner of the
Christianised natives of the same part [248].
As the most important weapon of the Andamanese, and indeed of the
Negritos in general, is the bow, we may consider this first. Different
kinds of bow are in use in different parts of the Andamans, but by a
careful comparison of them it is possible to show how they are all
derived from one original pattern.
The first kind of bow to be described is that in use in the Little
Andaman. These bows are all made of a reddish-brown wood (possibly
Mimusops littoralis). They are cut with an adze from a straight piece
of wood, and are planed but not polished. The length varies within
fairly wide limits. Six specimens selected as typical have lengths of
131, 150, 159·5, 163, 168 and 188 centimetres, giving an average of
about 160 centimetres (= 63 inches). In section the bow is markedly
convex on the one side and slightly convex on the other. The two
figures (Fig. 1) show the section at the middle and at a point 7 cm.
from the end of a typical specimen. The shape in section varies a
little from one example to another, and the dimensions of breadth and
thickness also vary. At the broadest point, which is in the middle, the
average breadth of six bows is 3·2 cm., the broadest being 3·7 cm., and
the narrowest 2·3 cm. The average thickness in the middle is 1·8 cm.,
the actual figures ranging from 2·1 to 1·3 cm. From the middle the bow
tapers slightly towards each end. At a distance of 7 cm. from the end
of the bow the average breadth is 1·8 cm., and the average thickness
1·2 cm.
The flatter side is the inside of the bow. Referring to the figures,
the side marked A is that which faces a man as he holds the bow ready
to shoot (called here the inside). C is thus the right-hand side and D
the left-hand. By breadth is meant the distance from C to D, and by
thickness the distance from A to B.
At each end of the bow there is a shoulder, as shown in Fig. 2. The
length from the shoulder to the end of the bow, i.e. the length of the
point on which the string is looped, is about 10 to 12 mm. Both ends
are the same. For a few centimetres below the shoulder the bow is
served over with string or fibre. In a carefully finished bow the
serving is usually done with ornamental string, i.e. with string round
which is twisted the dried yellow skin of the Dendrobium. In other
examples plain string is used, or a strip of twisted Ficus fibre, or
even nowadays a twisted strip of cotton cloth.
Bows are never ornamented in the Little Andaman either with paint or
with incised patterns.
The bow-string of the Little Andaman is made of strips of the bark of
the Ficus laccifera. The number and width of the strips used depend on
the size of the bow. In a small bow now in the Cambridge Museum the
string is made of a single strip of bark about 1 cm. in width. This
strip is simply twisted, the twist being that of a right-hand or male
screw. When two strips are used they are not twisted around one another
in the way that a two-ply rope is made, but are laid flat together and
twisted together, so that when the string is finished only one of the
strips is visible, the other being inside. In a stout string for a
large bow three or four strips may be twisted together in this way. The
bow-string is not a rope, but a twisted strand (Fig. 3.)
At one end of the string a loop is made, as shown in Fig. 4. The end is
doubled over to make a loop of the right size, a round turn is made
over the standing part (A) and the end (B) is twisted in with the
standing part by untwisting the latter, laying the end in, and twisting
up again. If this splicing, as it may perhaps be loosely called, be not
sufficiently secure, it is served over or stopped with finer fibre of
the same kind. This loop is of sufficient size to slip down over the
shoulders. At the other end the string is attached to the peg either
with a knot, or else by means of a small loop (just large enough to go
over the peg, but not large enough to slip over the shoulder) made in
exactly the same way as the loop already described. When the bow is to
be strung the larger loop is slipped over the peg at the top end of the
bow and is pushed down over the shoulder. The other end (with the
smaller loop) is then slipped on the peg at the lower end, resting on
the shoulder. The lower end is placed on the ground, while the top end
is held in the hand. The man places his foot against the middle of the
bow and draws the top towards him until he is able to slip the top loop
of the string up over the shoulder so that it catches the peg or tip.
The bow is then ready for use.
Toy bows are made for small boys of exactly the same general pattern as
the large bows. A toy bow of this kind, now in the Cambridge Museum, is
107 cm. long and 18 mm. broad in the middle.
The next type of bow to be considered is that used by the natives of
the North Sentinel Island. I have only been able to see one specimen of
this type, which is in the British Museum. It is made of a different
kind of wood from that used in the Little Andaman. The length is 155·5
cm., and the breadth at the middle is 4·3 cm. The section in the
middle, which is shown in Fig. 5, is slightly different from that of
the average Little Andaman bow, but it has the same feature of greater
convexity on the outside and less convexity on the inside, and it lies
just within the range of variation of the Little Andaman type. The ends
of the bow are shaped in the same way as those of the Little Andaman
bow. The breadth at the shoulder, however, is 2·5 cm., which is greater
than the corresponding measurement of the Little Andaman bow. The bow
is not ornamented either with a painted or incised pattern. The string
is missing. There is no binding at the ends below the shoulders, but
this has possibly been present and come off, as the specimen is one
that has been thrown away by its owner owing to the wood having split.
So far as we can tell from this single specimen the bow of the North
Sentinel differs very little from that of the Little Andaman.
We now come to the bows of the Jarawa of the South Andaman. The Jarawa
of Rutland Island, of whom there are now very few, but of whom there
were a larger number twenty or thirty years ago, make bows exactly like
those of the Little Andaman, and apparently do not make any other kind.
The Jarawa to the north of Port Blair, who have been driven northwards
by the spread of the Penal Settlement, also make bows of this type,
which it is not possible to distinguish from Little Andaman bows. These
northern Jarawa, however, also make bows of a different kind. These
will be spoken of as belonging to the “modified Jarawa type.” They are
larger than Little Andaman bows, having an average length of about 185
cm., with a breadth of about 5 cm. The section, throughout the greater
part of the length, is either plano-convex, or, more frequently,
concavo-convex. The section of a typical example is shown in Fig. 6. At
the middle of the bow, where it is held in the hand, there is a slight
thickening produced by a protuberance on the inside, i.e. on the flat
or concave side. In a certain number of specimens the bow, instead of
being straight, is slightly recurved outwards. Finally, the wood from
which these bows are cut is not the same as that used in the Little
Andaman.
The Little Andaman bow, the North Sentinel bow and the Jarawa bow are
all varieties of one type. The Little Andaman form is probably nearest
to the original of the type, and I shall show later how the
modifications found in the modified Jarawa type came to be adopted.
We now come to bows of a different type, of which there are two
varieties, one used in the South and Middle Andaman, and the other used
in the North Andaman.
The bow of the South Andaman tribes is not cut from a straight piece of
wood, but is cut from a tree that has bent in the course of its growth
into a suitable curve. A tree has to be found that will provide a piece
of wood of the required shape. From this the bow is shaped with an
adze, and is finished by planing with a boar’s tusk.
Bows of this kind vary in length between 180 and 210 cm., the most
usual length being between 190 and 195 cm. At the upper end the bow is
brought to a point approximately circular in section. From this point
it broadens out until, at a distance of about 50 or 55 cm., or between
one-quarter and one-third of the length of the bow, it reaches its
maximum breadth, which is, on the average, about 5·5 cm. The section of
the bow at this point is convex on the outer side, while on the inner
side it may be flat or slightly concave, or even in rare instances
slightly convex. In many specimens there is a very slightly raised keel
running down the middle of the inside of the bow. The thickness of the
bow at the point mentioned is usually 1·5 to 1·75 cm., and there is
little variation in this respect in different specimens. (See Fig. 8.)
At the middle the bow decreases in breadth and increases in thickness
to form a handle. At the handle the usual section may be described as
pear-shaped, the greatest diameter being the thickness (from inside to
outside) and not the breadth.
From the handle towards the lower end the bow again increases in
breadth, so that the lower portion is about the same breadth and
thickness as the upper portion. At the lower end it tapers to a point,
circular in section, but the point is blunter than at the upper end.
Thus the whole bow consists of a leaf-shaped upper portion or blade
which is straight (i.e. neither curved inwards nor outwards), a waist
or handle, and a lower blade that is curved backwards or outwards at
about its middle, this being the position of the bend in the wood from
which it is cut. A bow of this type is shown in Plate V.
Near each end the bow is served over with string for a distance of 3 or
4 cm., leaving a bare point at the upper end of about 7 cm. long, and a
point at the lower end of about 1·5 cm. (Fig. 7.)
A bow-string is made from the fibre of the Anadendron. A number of
strands of the fibre are taken and are waxed with black bees’-wax. Four
of these strands are taken, three of them are placed together and the
fourth is wound spirally round them. When the end of the active strand
(the one being twisted round the others) is neared, a new strand is
taken and laid in. The twisting is continued for a few turns and the
newly inserted one is then taken, the end of the first active strand
being laid in and wound over in its turn. The process continues in this
way, new strands being added until a cord of sufficient length has been
made. This is again waxed over on the outside.
At one end of the cord a knot is tied. At the other end a loop or eye
is formed. To make this eye, when the cord is of sufficient length, the
end of it is bent over to form a loop of about 1 cm. or a little more
in diameter. This loop is then served over with thread made of
Anadendron fibre. The serving is continued over the neck of the loop
for about 1·5 cm. This gives an eye with the appearance shown in Fig.
9. A loose strand of fibre is left at the neck of the loop. This is
wound spirally over the cord, as described before, new strands being
added one after another until the cord has been treated in this way for
about 35 cm. from the eye. It is then stopped by serving it over for
about 2 cm. with Anadendron thread. It is clear from this description
that the cord is somewhat thicker for about 35 cm. from the end with
the eye than it is in the rest of its length.
To string the bow the knotted end of the bow-string is fastened round
the top end of the bow with a slip knot, so that it rests on the top of
the string serving. The bow is then turned upside down and the top end
(now temporarily at the bottom) is fixed in the ground or against a
stone, so that it will not slip. The other end of the bow is taken by
the left hand, while the cord is held in the right, the right foot is
placed against the handle or middle of the bow and the bow is bent, the
end held by the hand being drawn towards the operator until he is able
to slip over it the eye or loop at the end of the string.
After the bow has been strung the upper portion, which before was
straight, is now curved inwards, and the bow therefore appears as
S-shaped when seen from the side. When a man starts out hunting or
fishing he strings his bow and tests it, and it remains strung till he
returns, when he unstrings it and places it in his hut.
The advantage of having a knot at one end of the string seems to be
that should the string be stretched by use it can be tightened by
altering the position of the knot.
At the point where the nock of the arrow is placed when the bow is
drawn, it is usual to serve the string over with thread of Anadendron
fibre.
The peculiar features of the South Andaman bow depend on the fact that
the bow takes advantage of the greater toughness and elasticity of wood
that has been compressed in the course of its growth. When the bow is
drawn the strain does not fall evenly, but, by reason of the shape of
the bow, is concentrated on one portion, namely the lower portion of
the bow where it is curved outwards. This is easily seen when a bow is
strongly drawn, for from the S-shape that it has before, it becomes
very nearly true arc-shaped when fully drawn. The lower portion of the
bow works as though hinged, and thus the strain is largely borne by the
curved portion of the bow. Now this portion is cut from the concave
side of a tree that has been bent while growing, and consequently the
fibres of the wood are here stronger, tougher and more elastic. The
result is that for a given amount of energy spent in drawing the bow a
greater force of propulsion is given to the arrow than with a bow of
the Little Andaman type.
The breadth of the bow is necessitated by its shape, for if it were
narrow the string would slip round on to the outside of the bow. The
narrowing at the handle is necessary for holding the bow. The adoption
of tapered ends instead of shoulders is a definite improvement as it
makes the bow less liable to split at the ends.