NATIVE HOUSES
The island is divided into districts, more or less defined, which are
the remnants of former days when these districts marked the division
into hostile tribes; but now, under one government, these separate
districts are but little regarded as tribal divisions, and within them
the houses are scattered indiscriminately in small groups. Such a thing
as a village street or even a road between rows of dwellings nowhere
exists; there is, therefore, nothing of what we would call village
life, when
“all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree.”
The large “bachelor houses,” to be sure, are adequate meeting places
for the men, but the poor neglected women have no common ground where
the heart-easing and nutritious gossip of the day may be exchanged.
In the coconut groves, which form a broad band along the coast all
round the island, each house is surrounded by a neatly-swept clearing,
and this little lawn, if that can be called a lawn which is devoid of
grass, is brightened here and there by variegated crotons, suggestive
of the neatness of the Uap housewife, and affording an attractive
playground of chequered shade under the lofty palms. The houses are
always built upon a platform, about two and a half to three feet high,
of masses of coralline rock, which look like huge pieces of pumice
stone; when first taken from the water this soft lime-like rock lends
itself admirably to being smoothed and fashioned with the primitive
implements of the natives. The platform is made level on top by filling
in with rubble and earth or with a covering of large flat stones. This
loosely built foundation is, I suppose, to serve the same purpose as
the high piles whereon tropical houses are usually built, namely, to
keep the floor, which is also the domestic bed, as high and dry as
possible above the level of the ground, which at times is deluged with
rain in the usual tropical abundance. Well constructed houses have
a broad and long foundation platform, whereon is built a second stage
just large enough to be covered by the house; the lower and larger
then serves as a broad uncovered veranda round at least three sides of
the building. The cornerposts for the framework are embedded in the
upper dais of stone so that the occasional typhoons which sweep the
island and level even the coconut palms may not carry away the whole
structure. Every beam and stanchion is mortised to its fellow and bound
with innumerable lashings of twine made from the fibre of coconut
husks; not a nail is used and scarcely a peg.
[Illustration: A NATIVE RESIDENCE]
* * * * *
In the little yards or clearings about the houses and on the larger
broad platform of stones whereon the houses are built, all that there
is of village life goes on; here guests are received and entertained,
councils of the wise held, and news passed round. It is decidedly bad
manners for any visitor to enter a house, except by special invitation,
no matter how intimate a friend he may be. Very often, to add to
comfort, upright stones are imbedded in the lower platform to serve as
back rests when sessions of the councils happen to be prolonged or the
orator prosy. A matting of bamboo grass, or else panels of interwoven
fronds of the coconut palm form the side walls of the house; security
and secrecy, it must be remembered, are hardly necessary in such
small communities, where all are acquaintances, and every article of
household use or of luxury is almost as well known to everybody as to
the actual owner; stolen goods are not marketable and thefts are quite
rare, except, of course, of coconuts that happen to fall unexpectedly
and temptingly from a neighbour’s tree.
The interior of the house is neither bright nor cheerful; it is not
strange, therefore, that there is but little indoor life. The eaves
of the palm-thatched roof overhang so far that they almost touch the
level of the floor and all the light and air come through the doorway,
or through one or two panels in the wall which are occasionally raised
like shutters and held by a wooden hook suspended from the rafters.
[Illustration: A RICH MAN’S HOUSE. ON THE RIGHT IS A FINE WHITE
“FEI,” AND, HANGING FROM THE RAFTER IN FRONT OF THE DOOR, A
BANANA FIBRE MAT]
How any dust at all can collect on a small island in mid-Pacific is a
mystery; nevertheless, every article in a Uap house is coated deep with
cobwebs and fine dust. This is also the case, however, in the houses of
all Pacific Islanders that I have ever visited, and is possibly due to
absence of chimneys and abundance of smoke.
There is always in private houses in Uap an inner room or corner,
screened off from the common room, where the owners of the house sleep
at night. This little sleeping-room is totally dark except for what
little light may filter through the walls or under the eaves. There
is, of course, no second story to the houses, except a general storage
place under the rafters, on top of the cross beams, where any article,
not in daily use, such as a leaky canoe, a ragged fish net, a broken
spear, etc., is tucked away.
I have groped my way through many a Uap house, of course with the full
permission of the owner, rummaging in every dark corner in search of
articles of ethnological interest, but only once or twice was my search
rewarded. The owners did not seem to object in the slightest degree
to my curiosity, and after giving me liberty to poke and pry to my
heart’s content, they stood by smiling and good-naturedly answering my
questions as to the names and uses of everything. They knew well enough
that I should not find what they considered their really valuable
possessions, which were probably hidden away in the darkness of the
inner chamber, and were sure moreover that whatever I found that I
wanted would be paid for by many a stick of “trade” tobacco.
* * * * *
It was near a scattered collection of houses such as these that, on a
cloudless afternoon in February, I landed at Friedlander’s charming
little copra station. He is married to a native of Guam, a convert
to the Roman Catholic faith, but not to the western method of living
and style of house; so Friedlander has built for her a home to her
liking, bare of all furniture, except mats on the floor, and with an
open hearth for cooking and for the comforting circulation of smoke
throughout the house, or rather room; here she lives “shut up in
measureless content” with her select circle of native friends, together
with a sprinkling of elderly relatives, which seems to be an inevitable
household element in the Orient.
[Illustration: HOUSE OF A COPRA TRADER]
My host and I, however, put up at his own little house built within
the same compound, on piles six feet high and furnished with two
comfortable cot-beds, tables, and chairs. The whole house is about
twenty feet long by ten wide and constructed as openly as possible,
with roof and walls of palm-leaf thatch, for coolness’ sake. This is
also his office where he transacts business, such as the purchase of
coconuts or the payment for the manufacturing of copra. Copra, by the
way, is made by cutting out the meat of ripe coconuts and placing it on
screens to dry in the sun. When thus dried, it is exported to Europe,
where the oil is expressed and used in the manufacture of fine soaps.
After my luggage had been carried up from the little jetty of rough,
spongy, coral blocks to the house, about twenty feet away, and while
Friedlander was busy with his group of natives, settling accounts for
coconuts delivered during his absence, and with unpacking his boxes of
new articles of trade, I strolled forth to take a preliminary survey of
my field, provided with a note-book wherein were certain useful phrases
in the Uap tongue which I was anxious to put to the test.
The compound about Friedlander’s several houses was quite deserted;
everybody had gathered about the master to watch the unpacking and
drink in with open ears and gaping mouths every syllable that fell from
his lips; and, of course, to ask innumerable irrelevant questions. The
declining sun cast long bands of orange light between the gray and
mossy-green trunks of the palms, and the sandy earth of the well-swept
little compound was rippling with the flickering shadows of the
over-arching coconut fronds. There was no song nor twitter of birds;
the only sound was the murmur of voices from the crowd within the
house, and from a little inlet beside the deserted husking sheds came
a rhythmical swish of innumerable coconut husks floating there in an
almost solid mass. I turned out of the bamboo wicket gate eager for
exploration, and, feeling very much
“Like some lone watcher of the skies,
When a new planet swims into his ken,”
I became suddenly aware, however, of the drollest, coffee-coloured,
curly-headed, little seven-year-old girl gazing at me with solemn black
eyes, awestruck and spellbound. The expression of those wide open eyes,
framed all round in long black lashes, was awe, fear, and curiosity
mingled; her hands, prettily and delicately shaped, not overly clean,
were pressed one upon the other on her little bare chest as if to
quell the thumpings of fright, and, whether from astonishment or by
nature, her glossy black curls stood up in short spirals all over her
head. She was such a typical, little, wild gingerbread baby, that I
could not avoid stopping at once to scrutinize her as earnestly as she
scrutinized me. Although she was the only one of her kind in sight, she
stood her ground bravely and betrayed nervousness only in the slight
digging of her little stubby brown toes in the sand as if she were
preparing a good foothold for a precipitate dash. As I looked down
upon her, the bunchy little skirt of dried brown grasses and strips
of pandanus leaves, her sole garment, gave her the appearance of a
little brown imp just rising out of the ground. I thought I detected
a slight turning movement in those nervous little feet, so for fear
of frightening her into the headlong dash, I looked as benignant,
unconcerned, and unsurprised as I could, and turned down the path
outside the fence toward the first house in sight. With no particular
objective point I followed one of the wide, native-built paths
constructed of sand, finely-broken shells, and decomposed coral, and,
inasmuch as they dry off almost instantly after a heavy shower, they
are excellently devised for rainy seasons. These footpaths (there
is not a cart in the community) extend from one end of the island to
the other and branch off toward all the principal settlements; many
of the smaller branches are, however, constructed with no great care
and consist merely of a narrow paving of rough coral and stone, well
adapted for tough bare feet, but not for stiff, slippery, leather
soles.
[Illustration: A NATIVE-MADE PATH]
The road past Friedlander’s Station at Dulukan is one of the main
thoroughfares and well kept up; down this I turned, with the long vista
before me of gray, sun-flecked road, overarched by the cloistered
fronds and bordered by the slanting stems of coconut palms, with here
and there spots of bright color from variegated crotons and dracænas. I
was lost in admiration of the beauty of it all and was still thinking
of my first encounter with an island-born elf, when I heard the patter
of tiny feet behind me, and turning, saw again the little jungle baby
trotting close after me. Curiosity had spurred on her valour to conquer
discretion, and now she stood close beside me, and, with a sidelong
glance, smiled coyly and inquiringly, showing a row of white baby
teeth set rather far apart. I too smiled in return at the droll little
figure, and, not having my Uap Ollendorf at my tongue’s end, I said
in English “Come along, little elf, and take a walk.” The spell was
broken; I became to her a human being with articulate speech, and not
a green-eyed demon. At once there issued forth in a childish little
treble a stream of higgledy-piggledy words, and then she wistfully
waited for a reply. The Uap vernacular failed me, so I simply shook my
head despairingly. Then I heard her say distinctly one of my note-book
phrases, _Mini fithing am igur?_ “What’s your name?” This I could
answer and she tried hard to repeat the name I gave; after several
ineffectual struggles, she looked up consolingly, and patting her chest
with her outspread hand, and nodding her head each time to emphasize
it, she reiterated “Pooguroo, Pooguroo, Pooguroo,” clearly intimating
that this was her own name. Here then was all the formal introduction
necessary, so we two sauntered down the path together, she keeping
up a constant chatter and patter, while pointing toward houses here
and there in the open grove of palms. I think she was telling me the
name of every house-owner in the neighbourhood and the whole of his
family history and also his wife’s, but I was restricted to “Oh’s”
and “Ah’s” and grunting assents; but all distinction of race or age
vanished and here I gained my first little friend, staunch and true,
among the people of Uap. I never found out who she was, further than
that she was Pooguroo; she was always on hand when anything was astir,
and always proved a fearless little friend among the children; but
who her parents were, or where her home, I never knew. Adoption, or
rather exchange of children at an early age, is so common that it is a
wise father that knows his own child. To the mind of the Uap parents
children are not like toothbrushes whereof every one prefers his own;
they are more or less public property as soon as they are able to run
about from house to house. They cannot without extraordinary exertion
fall off the island, and, like little guinea-pigs, they can find food
anywhere; their clothing grows by every roadside, and any shelter, or
no shelter, is good enough for the night. They cannot starve, there
are no wild beasts or snakes to harm them, and should they tear their
clothes, nature mends them, leaving only a scar to show the patch;
what matters it if they sleep under the high, star-powdered ceiling
of their foster mother’s nursery, or curled up on mats beneath their
father’s thatch? There is no implication here that parents are not fond
of their children; on the contrary, they love them so much that they
see their own children in all children. It is the ease of life and its
surroundings which have atrophied the emotion of parental love. Has
not “too light winning made the prize light?” When a father has merely
to say to his wife and children “Go out and shake your breakfast off
the trees” or, “Go to the thicket and gather your clothes,” to him the
struggle for existence is meaningless, and, without a struggle, the
prizes of life, which include a wife and family, are held in light
esteem. Parental love, by being extended to all children, becomes
diluted and shallow. Is it not here then, in an untutored tropic
island, that the realization is to be found of the Spartan ideal?
Somebody’s children are always about the houses and to the fore in
all excitements, and never did I see them roughly handled or harshly
treated. As soon as they are old enough they must win their own way,
and, if boys, at a very early age, they make the _pabai_ or
_failu_--the man’s house--their home by night and day, sharing the
cooked food of their elders, or living on raw coconuts, and chewing
betel incessantly.