H. M. Dauncey

Some years ago the Editor of News from Afar had a series of articles describing “How We Go” in different lands. Only one of the series dealt with Papua, and that mainly with a journey in a small cutter. In Delena district we have no cutter, so every journey must be made either in the whale boat, or a canoe, or by tramping. After the comfort of fast trains and trams in England, the labour of a short journey in Papua would be laughable if it were not so wearisome. To talk of a journey when the distance to be covered is only some 50 or 60 miles, seems absurd till you have had experience of it, and then you will measure the distance not by miles, but by hours or days.

These journeys are necessary because each missionary, in addition to the head station at which he lives, has charge of villages scattered over a wide area, where the South Sea and Papuan teachers who help him are doing their work.

If the journey is to be performed in comfort (and there is no need to seek discomfort, plenty will come in the ordinary way) careful thought must be given to the preparation. Much more has to be done than just pack a portmanteau, for everything that will be needed till the return must be remembered and packed, or done without, for nothing can be got on the way. Food is the first consideration, and if we are to be away three weeks, then it is not safe to start with provision for less than a month. A time-table may be made out, but that does not say that it is going to be kept. A tide may be lost, or a strong wind may blow, and then there is nothing for it but to “dohore,” or more often the real trouble of Papuan travel causes delay. Carriers cannot be got to take the baggage on to the next village. How many weeks are lost to travellers in Papua in the course of a year, from this cause alone, it would be difficult to estimate. The total would surprise one, and unfortunately no amount of arrangement will overcome the difficulty. Remembering this it will be well to be liberal in the estimate of the number of meals that will be required before we return to the starting-point.

Next comes the provision for paying the carriers and buying native food for them. A missionary from China once told me of the trouble caused by the quantity of Chinese cash that had to be carried on a journey. A big purse indeed would be necessary, but no purse would be any good in Papua. A good sized box, heavy enough to require two men to carry it, takes its place. Instead of £ s. d. it contains an assortment of barter goods. The real currency is black tobacco, made up in small sticks going 26 to the pound. For ordinary work three of these constitute a day’s pay, in the Delena district but do not imagine that the man who receives the pay smokes it all. As often as not when he has been paid he says, “Now give me a smoke.” His unbroken sticks of tobacco are like so many unchanged shillings. They are safe, and can be passed on in payment for food, but if once broken they are like the coppers—they soon vanish. One after another his friends will borrow, or beg—it amounts to the same thing in this case—till there is nothing of the original stick left.

Matches, print, knives, hooks, lines, mirrors, beads, hatchets—all find a place in the trade box. I have tried soap, but it does not “take.” Some of the Papuans will receive it as a present, but not as payment for work done.

Having provided for the inner man, and for paying our way, we next think of the saucepan, the “billy,” the frying-pan, lamps, bucket, hatchet, kerosene for the lamps, hammocks and tent if we are going to villages where we have no teacher, table requisites, and are careful to see that the mosquito nets are in the bag. Once only did I forget to do this, and the lesson I learnt has never been forgotten. Beds one can do without, but not mosquito nets. Rice for the boys must not be overlooked, for it is not always possible to buy native food.

When all is ready it is a wonderful assortment, beating “Mrs. Brown’s Luggage,” and so wonderful that even a Waterloo porter would have his attention arrested, and wonder what it all meant.

Having made our preparations, now where are we going, and how are we going? The where you will find out as we go along, the how is answered by the whale boat, over the launching of which there has been so much shouting. The start is to be made about midnight, and to try not to be late, the crew are invited to a supper, and are kept about the place till it is time to load the boat. A wide margin must be allowed for this, or it will be long after midnight before we get away.

Midnight seems to be a strange time for starting, but it is chosen for reasons which can, like the sermon, be divided into three heads. Firstly: to escape the terrible heat of the sun. Secondly: to allow the strong south-east wind to die down, and make the pulling easier for the boys. Thirdly: to allow of landing at the end of the first stage early in the morning, when the sea is at its calmest.

There will be a big gathering to witness the start, but you must not run away with the idea that the white folks are the centre of interest. The men who form the crew have mothers and fathers and wives, and all have come to see them off, much as though they were going to the other side of the world. Now the start is not so distressing as it was a few years ago, when all the relatives considered it necessary to hug the members of the crew, and howl over them as though they had little hope of ever seeing them again.

As we have no landing-stage the passengers will have to submit to being carried to the boat, and if they have any respect for their clothes they will look out that the men who carry them have on some kind of covering, otherwise they may find themselves smeared with reddish oil. Papuans would never take a first-class certificate as stevedores. The boat is large and has plenty of room for all the cargo, but unfortunately the crew seem to think it necessary to put all the big, awkward things at the stern where the passengers’ legs ought to go, and the locker is always full of high-smelling blankets and small bags belonging to the crew. A certain amount of re-stowing is necessary, and perhaps rearrangement of the boys at the oars, and then we settle down for the remainder of the night. We are bound for the Nara and Kabadi villages, but as we are short of one man in the crew, we call at Geabada. No one lands; but in answer to our “Coo-e,” Avi the teacher appears. We inform him of our need and turning round he soon wakes the village and asks for a volunteer. Many questions have to be answered as to how long we shall be away, where we are going, and who forms the crew, before a man steps into the boat, rubbing his eyes as though they were full of sleepy-dust. As soon as he gets hold of an oar he is all awake, and again we get under way. The night being dark there is nothing to see, and the boys beguile the time by telling of experiences they have had at each point as they pass it. One yarn leads to another, and interesting bits of native history come to light, especially if there happens to be in the boat an older man who was with Lawes or Chalmers on their early journeys.

At last light begins to show behind the Owen Stanley range to our left, and the beauty of the sunrise is often worth the long hours in the boat. We are in good time, so will land and have a morning cup of tea. Water is in the boat, and firewood is all around, so there is not much time lost, and while we are enjoying real “Billy tea” the boys are roasting bananas in the fire. Had we been smart we might have had turtle eggs for breakfast, for natives coming along a few hours later found that our fire was made within a couple of yards of a nest containing a bucketful of eggs.

Nara Dancers.

See page 75.

Delena Man at Nara Dance.

See page 76.

Who is he?

See page 77.

Round the Rocks.

See page 79.

In less than an hour we have again started, and another hour brings us off the opening of Namoa Creek. The entrance is so hidden by mangrove trees that it is well we have on board boys who know it. There is barely room for the boat to enter, but once inside there is deep water, and the boat will be safe till we return to her in about three weeks.

Unloading the boat takes less time than loading her, and having seen that the boys have made her fast at both ends, we get ready for the walk inland. There are plenty of volunteers to carry the small packages, but none of them like the look of the boxes. Apportioning the various loads takes time, but at last it is done, and seeing that the food box and our clothes have gone ahead of us, we start, leaving what we cannot carry till we can send men down from Nara.

The road leads away through the forest, and being a government road is at least six feet wide. It is impossible, however, to make use of the whole six feet, for natives never walk side by side, and the beaten track worn just wide enough for their feet winds along like a great snake. Sweet-potato vines are the only thing I know harder to walk in than one of these tracks. The rain cuts it deeper and deeper, till it is a gutter not more than a foot wide, and often deeper than that. One may want to look about at the trees and the butterflies, but it must never be forgotten that you must look well where you are going, or a tumble will be the result.

We have not got as far as that part of the track which was used as the dressing-room on the night of the Nara dance, when we meet Matareu the teacher. Some one has gone ahead and told him we are on the way, and he has come to take us to the house, while the men with him go on to the creek for the baggage we have left behind. The house is built on the side of a steep hill, so we enter it at the back, and walking through to the front verandah have a view we are not likely to forget. We have the village immediately in front of us, then the green hills and valleys, and away in the distance mountains rising higher and higher till Mount Victoria is lost in the clouds. We may be tempted to linger and watch the play of light and shade over it all, but after a night in the boat the first need is food, and then a rest. All we shall want, even to the water, is in the food box, and if we cannot buy some bananas for the boys then the rice must be opened. If possible however, that is kept as a reserve. This time there is no need to touch it, for along comes Queen Koloka with a few of her grandchildren carrying bowls of cooked yarns and bananas, while she herself has hanging down her back a netted bag containing a few choice uncooked yams for roasting.

The preparation of the food does not take long, and before we have finished ours the boys are stretched in all positions, heads resting on any article of baggage they could get hold of, or on their folded arms, and sleeping as soundly as on feather beds. After a word or two with Koloka and having given her a present that will keep her occupied for some time, we too seek a rest; but the children are inquisitive, and the dogs are on the prowl for any scraps they can find, so the rest is disturbed, and before long we get up and have a talk with Matareu and hear how matters are going in his village.

At Nara it is always a feast or a fast. A feast when it rains, and a fast soon after the dry season has begun. The people are feeling the pinch now and consequently spend most of their time in the forest hunting for food. Of course they take their children with them, and the teacher is discouraged because of the small attendance at school. Knowing that we were coming most have remained in the village to-day, but they want to get away hunting, so we will have school at once. A little fellow takes a cow-bell and walks round the village ringing it all the time, and when he has made the complete circuit the big bell hanging at the end of the house is rung as the final signal, and we go to the neat little church you can see in the right of the picture, and about which I have told you in chapter vi. Between forty and fifty children are present, and at the back of the church are fathers and mothers and uncles and aunts who have come to see how the youngsters acquit themselves. The strongest points are reading and the catechism, but some can write fairly. After school small presents are given to the children, and then they are free to go and hunt in the bush for all kinds of queer things for supper.

The missionary is wanted to see a sick man at the far end of the village, and as we go we can notice that the houses differ from those at Delena. The village is built in sections. Long sheds with open fronts face the centre, and at the back of these, and at right angles to them, are the houses proper, each consisting of one room. The long shed is used by all the occupants of the houses at the back, who belong to one Iduhu or family. All the buildings look rickety, but as the wood is all very hard they last well.

The front steps at Delena may be poor, but those at Nara are poorer, and certainly of lighter build, but they do what no steps in England can. They serve to close the house and show that the owner is not at home. Really nothing more than a rough ladder, a little wider at the bottom than at the top, the owner, when he goes out detaches them and hangs them across the front of the house. Not much protection, one would think, but quite as much as a piece of vine tied across is at Delena.

Breakfast on the Beach.

See page 84.

The Nara men are great hunters and consequently think much of their dogs. A native dog is quite capable of climbing the ordinary steps into the house, but his master is thoughtful enough to provide a separate set for him, with a back so that his feet cannot slip through. It is interesting to watch a dog going home. He goes away from the house as though he had no connexion with it; then turns round and starts straight for it, and as he gets nearer increases his speed. With a rush he starts up the steep steps, and if fortunate vanishes over the top and into his home. If unfortunate he just falls back to the ground, and goes through the whole performance again, only with a little more energy.

In front of one house a man is doing a bit of tailoring on his own account. His material is neither best broad cloth, nor shoddy, for he gets it from the bark of a tree. It was too thick for his purpose when he peeled it from the tree, so he thinned it out by placing it on a log and beating away with a piece of wood shaped like a plumber’s bossing stick. We are too late to see that part of the performance, but in time for the marking of the pattern upon the suit. Aua has filled his mouth with bark and lime and chewed it till he has a plentiful supply of red saliva. Then folding the bark cloth he passed the folded edge through his lips, leaving a dull red stain; then another and another fold till the other end of the strip is reached and the new suit of clothes is complete. No visit to the tailor necessary, bark and lime supply all he needs, and there is no tailor’s bill to follow.

I do not remember seeing the performance that particular afternoon, but may as well tell you now what goes on when a girl is having a new dress. The materials are three in number, and can all be found near the village. The fibre is obtained from the sago palm, and the dye from a root and some dark mud, boiled together in a cooking-pot. The fibre is teased out till it looks like lengths of untwisted manilla rope. Small bunches of this are knotted on to a string, which is to form the waist-band, and in sufficient numbers to hang like a kilt all round the girl. For the present no uniformity of length is aimed at, but care is taken to have panels of red and yellow alternating, and across some of these panels will be dark stripes. When all is dry the girl has to be fitted, and this is not done in the privacy of the dressmaker’s room. The girl mounts a stump or a stone in front of an old relative, with the new dress hanging in uneven lengths around her. The relative takes a knife, if she has one; if not, a shell; and if even that cannot be found handy, then the teeth can be used as scissors, and going all round trims off the dress till it hangs just right. That means that enough has been taken off the sides, and enough left on the back to enable the girl, as she goes along, to swing her tails behind her. Many a sly glance have I seen directed over the shoulder with a view to finding out whether the effect was all that could be desired.

If two girls are seen with the same markings on their skirts it may be taken for granted that they belong to the same family, or are at least cousins. Each family has its own particular pattern, and woe betide those who try to infringe the copyright.

The sick man having been attended to, on the way back to Matareu’s house we notice that big pigs have begun to gather in the village. They have been away foraging all day, but as it is nearing the time for the evening meal they have not only put in an appearance, but are loudly demanding attention. Some go so far as to put their forefeet on the ladders as though they would mount and help themselves to what they could find. In Nara wooden troughs much like small canoes are provided, and when the food is put in some one has to mount guard to see that a stranger does not get his snout into the wrong trough.

A sure way to gather a crowd at any village is to show the magic lantern, and word is soon passed round that there will be an exhibition in the church that evening. Many a strange experience have I had with the lantern.

At one village where some twenty years ago they had scarcely seen a white man, and where a teacher had only been settled for a few months, the people took some persuading before they would come in to the church after dark. When the circle of light was thrown upon the sheet a deep gasping breath was taken by all, and a mixture of a sigh and a shudder was quite audible. All might have gone well had the operator been content to proceed quietly from this point, but the spirit of mischief prompted the desire to see what would be the result of a chromotrope. It was fatal. No sooner did the coloured rings begin to revolve as though they would overwhelm the audience, than with one yell men, women and children made for the doors and windows. Each one was blocked by a struggling mass and there seemed danger of the building being carried away. For that night the show was over as far as the village people were concerned.

At Ukaukana, years later, the church was cleared in another way. A large head of a former chief of the village was thrown upon the sheet, the operator forgetting for the moment that the man was dead. A great stillness fell upon the gathering, so noticeable that the operator looked the other side of the sheet. There were the people with their heads as low as they could get them without knocking their noses on the floor, all crawling to the doors as fast as they could. Then the mistake was recognized, but too late. Naime had a bad name as a sorcerer while still alive, and the ordinary size for a big well-built man. If he was bad then, what must he be now when he was many sizes larger. Something of his power might hang about the enlarged picture, so that people would not take the risk. Once more the teacher and my own boys formed my audience.

A third experience was of a more exciting kind. At Hula the people were taking but little interest in the pictures, and to stimulate them two boys were placed between the lantern and the sheet, and after their shadows had been recognized by their friends were told to wrestle. All went well at first, but when the youngsters began to put more energy into the business one of them got hurt. His friends came to his rescue. Then the other boy’s friends joined in, and in a moment there was a tangled mass of sheet, rope, and human beings on the floor, and to save a fire I snatched up the lantern and made my way out of the building by the back door.

Nara people are accustomed to the lantern, and there were no accidents that evening. All the pictures interested them, and they listened to the description of a set illustrating the life of Moses. At first the natives do not seem able to see the picture, or fail to connect ideas with it. Then comes in the use of pictures of their own village and their own people. They can connect the idea and the picture, and so pass to ideas conveyed by pictures of things and places they do not know.

It was a relief to find there was to be no dancing on this night, and that we were able to get a good night’s rest and be ready for the start the next morning. Carriers had to be engaged and then there was all the packing up to be done again.

The village we were making for was Ala-ala, and to get there we had to traverse a long switch-back. Down from the village into the valley; then up again as high as the village we had left; down again and up again. In this way some three hours were spent, but as part of the time we were in a tunnel cut through the forest, it was pleasant. Out on the grass land the sun gave trouble and the sea breeze was missed. Ala-ala is but a small village and the teacher an old man who in his younger days had travelled much with Tamate. His wife’s idea of cleanliness and Donisi Hahine’s did not at all agree. The one thought that if a piece of new calico was spread over a pillow or a mat it did not matter what was underneath. Donisi Hahine wanted to see what was underneath, and then there was a lot of changing and cleaning before the camp for the night was arranged.

I think it was the first time a white woman had been in the village, and the people, and in particular the old women, were anxious to show due attention, or maybe satisfy their curiosity to the full. Their attention was overpowering, and would have been more acceptable at a little increased distance. The small house was decidedly overcrowded that night. Even the lantern in the village did not completely clear it, and a number of young babies, probably excited by the unusual gathering, kept up a chorus all night.

Next morning we went down into a valley, and through what in the wet season is a swamp, and then a gradual rise till Diumana was reached.

Here the village is fenced, not with a view to safety but to keep the pigs in and prevent their visiting the gardens, which are on the slopes around the village. The Mission has its own little fence some distance from one end of the village, but what between lack of energy and sickness the teacher has not built much inside that fence. When his house will be finished it is hard to say, and we spent the night in the little temporary hut.

There is no church in the village yet, and the services and school are held in the dubu, or club house. In the old village half a mile away, this was a large building with elaborately-carved posts, but in the present village is only a shed raised some seven feet from the ground. Here preparations were made for school and for the baptism of some children. Native gear, such as hunting-nets and drums, was soon removed, and a small table—a very small one—and two boxes introduced by way of furniture. First the children were examined, and then the service begun, but before it was half through it was suddenly interrupted. A loud crack, and ejaculation from the people, and half of them jumped to the ground. It was evident that the congregation was larger than usual, for the floor had given way, and there would have been a nasty accident, but for the prompt action of those who jumped down and held the breaking pieces of wood in position while the rest of us dismounted as quickly and quietly as possible. Nothing worse happened than our having to finish the service on the ground on the shady side of the building instead of under the roof on the platform.

One great drawback to Diumana is the lack of good water. What there is has to be brought from a water-hole a long way from the village, and the only pots the people have are procured from coast villages. By looking about them they have, however, found a good substitute. Bamboo grows plentifully in the neighbourhood, and from a well-grown length of this the divisions at the joints are knocked out, and at once there is a bucket seven or eight feet long. In the afternoon the girls and women can be seen returning from the water-hole, each with a couple of these long buckets carried as a soldier carries his rifle. They are too awkward for taking into the house so stand outside. To find out how such buckets were handled I asked for a drink, and was told to squat down as low as I could, and take the open end of the bamboo and put it to my lips. I did so, and then the boy who held the other end lifted it. Of course it was said to be an accident, but boys are boys all the world over, and he who had the lifting of that other end could not resist the temptation, or did not try. The result was the same. He lifted just a little too high, and a little too quickly, with the result that the missionary got plenty of water outside, but very little inside, much to the amusement of the crowd.

The Papuan generally can do with little water inside, and the people of Diumana, having far to fetch it, manage with a surprisingly small quantity outside. This makes them unpleasant near neighbours. They take a bath when they happen to be caught in the rain, or when they visit the coast.

That night for the magic lantern we did not trust the Dubu which had refused to carry our weight in the afternoon, but hung the sheet at the side of a house, and feared no fall, for we were as low as we could get to begin with.

Next day as we were going to a village where for the time being there was no teacher we did not move our camp. The food box is known to our boys as “Hari maua kakakaka” from its being painted red, so that we can easily see if it is with us, and not left behind as on one occasion when at the end of a long tramp we found ourselves without water or food. This box provided all we needed for the day, and we were to return to Diumana for the night.

Less than a mile from Diumana to the right of the track is a beautiful group of palms. Sago, areca and cocoanut all tower above the surrounding vegetation. In the order given they might be taken to typify dignity, slender grace, and real utility. Looking at the sago palm one wonders how men can approach it near enough to cut it down, so formidable are the thorns that cover its lower fronds. One by one the workman has to remove those fronds till he can get to the main stem. Even the thorns have a use, for long strips of the frond covered with thorns four and five inches long, are bound to the stem of the areca palm, and present a surface that none can climb. In this way the owner protects his property.

Oa, the chief of Bokama, good old friend that he is, has heard that he may expect a visit, and is on the look-out. Down the hill from the village he comes, dressed, not in his Papuan best, but his real Beritani Sunday best. A gay waist cloth, and an Oxford mat shirt, and his shock of hair tied up in a red printed handkerchief. Just a few of his native adornments give the finishing touches. If you care to try a real Papuan salutation Oa will oblige you as you are a friend of mine. If you do not care to try it you had better let me go first, as Oa always expects me to indulge him. He gives me a good hug and we rub noses, and then taking my hand he leads me to his Dubu, and calls for his daughter to bring cocoanuts. When he thinks the delay has been as long as decency demands, and if he sees no tobacco forthcoming, he will pick up his baubau (bamboo pipe) and look at it. Of course that is enough and he passes it and the tobacco over to one of the younger men, and when it is alight has the first pull himself, and then passes the baubau round as a pipe of peace.

Oa’s Dubu is much like the one that gave way at Diumana, except that on one side the roof comes down and joins the floor, making a wall. Of ornamentation there is little except a collection of bones. These attract attention, and Oa is nothing loth to talk about them. The pigs’ jaws need little explanation. They are a record of the number killed for the feasts.

Bound to one of the wall plates were much longer jaws, and these we found belonged to crocodiles which were caught in a way that causes us not a little surprise. They must belong to a different class from those at the coast or the men would never venture to take them as they do. There is no doubt as to the method, for the same account is given at different villages throughout the district.

The crocodiles are found in the lagoons, and usually sleeping in the mud at the bottom. The hunter wades in and feels about with his feet till he touches one of the creatures. That would be enough for most folks, and they would make for the bank in double quick-time, but not so our hunter. He stoops down and begins to stroke the crocodile. They say the animal likes it and remains perfectly still while the hunter introduces a rope under its legs and round its back, keeping up the stroking all the time with the other hand. When all is ready he suddenly pulls the rope tight and then the struggle begins: at one end the crocodile, at the other the natives; the crocodile lashing with his tail, and the natives pulling for all they are worth. It is a grand tug-of-war, and if the animal is a big one it may be some time before he is landed, but that he will be landed there is little doubt, for the people say that one rarely escapes when once the ropes have been made fast. Clubs finish the struggle, and then comes the feast. The flesh looks all right but I have never been able to bring myself to eat it. When the bones have been picked clean the lower jaw is added to the collection in the Dubu.

In another part of the Dubu is a collection of lengths of the backbone of some creature. These, Oa informs us, belonged to large carpet snakes. They are plentiful in the district and the Nara people consider them a delicacy. They not only hunt them along the ground but follow the great beautifully marked creatures into the trees, and I have seen a man holding on to the tail of one with his teeth while he moved his hands to get a better grip. Some of the men seem to have no fear in handling the carpet snake, and one adept hunter, when I expressed surprise at his allowing a creature at least ten feet long to writhe round him, explained that it could do him no harm as he had hold of its neck and the tip of its tail. The head seemed easy of explanation, but not the tail, till he gave the fuller information that a carpet snake cannot crush a body unless it has its tail round some solid substance.

One of our boys who had not previously eaten snake, came to us that evening and said that he had eaten a whole one (it could not have been a ten-footer), and that it was “Digara bada.” He knew no praise beyond that, which was his way of saying it was not only fat but all that was good. Next day he did not seem so sure about it, and since then has not eaten snake at all.

This might almost be called a Natural History section, for there is still another animal for you to hear about. It is reported from many districts, but in Nara one family has adopted it as the family coat of arms, and carved it on the posts of the Dubu. They call it lolio, and I believe it is a species of Iguana, a curious climbing reptile. I have seen one which some white men captured to send to Europe, so I know the animal exists, but hesitate to accept some of the stories the natives tell about it. That they dread it there is no doubt, as the following story will show.

Report came to Nara that a lolio had been seen on the bank of a creek, and a native who was used to a white man’s gun went to look for it, but when near the creek his courage failed him till he remembered that he had something more than a spear in his hand. Creeping nervously nearer he caught sight of the animal, and much relieved called to his friends, “It is only a crocodile.”

The lolio is reported to steal children and take them up trees, and is said never to run away from a man. The man runs away from him, but can find no safety in climbing a big tree, as the lolio can climb better and quicker than he. The only safety to be got is by climbing a tree just big enough to bear the man’s weight, but too small for the lolio to grasp, as he cannot climb if his claws meet at the back of the stem.

It is strange that an animal cunning enough to cover itself with leaves and lie in wait for its prey, should nearly always make the mistake of leaving a little of its whip-like tail exposed, and so betray itself. In two places nearly a hundred miles apart I heard a story of men finding the lolio so hid, and quietly and securely knotting the tip of the tail to a tree, and so holding the animal in position while it was killed, in the one case by arrows and the other by spears.

Having examined Oa’s museum, now look at the building on the other side of the village. The square one without a verandah, and with steps with treads like those you are accustomed to, not like the bars in a hen-roost—that building has a history. The first teacher placed in the village was a Papuan. He held his services and his little school in the Dubu, but upon a subsequent visit my attention was drawn to the new building by all eyes being turned that way when I entered the village. It was evident the people intended I should see the result of their work. Without consulting me at all they had built themselves a neat little church, under the guidance of the young Papuan who was their teacher, and in that church later on Oa and two of his relatives were baptized, and some of the children of the village learnt to read. Unfortunately the village has been without a teacher for some time, but the man from Diumana visits it for the Sunday services.

Beyond Diumana are two small villages. Lalime and Tubu. These had to be visited, but as it meant a long tramp in the hottest part of the day, Donisi Hahine remained in Oa’s Dubu while I was away. Exactly how the afternoon was spent history does not record, but this much is known. The old men of the village felt their responsibility, and kept guard in the Dubu. When one was tired he just lay down where he was and went to sleep, while others sat up and talked and had a smoke. Owing to the language difficulty they and their guest could hold little communication except by signs.

It was dark before we reached Diumana and that evening we did not indulge in the lantern, though the people would have been quite willing to see the same pictures again.

The next day’s journey was to be a long one, so no time was lost in the morning in packing and starting. Fresh carriers had been engaged over night and a home-made palanquin rigged up to give Donisi Hahine a lift on the way when she required it. We had done a good two hours’ walking when a halt was called for breakfast, and then all hands wanted to huddle up close to our “red box” and cook their food in our fire. A rearrangement had to be made before we could have our meal in peace. The halt was a short one, for we were only at the beginning of the journey. With regret we left the interesting shady forest road and began the weary miles along the open beach. The sea breeze was acceptable, but the soft sand made heavy going, particularly for those carrying the baggage. Rests became frequent as midday drew near, and no one was sorry when shade enough was found for the midday halt. Hour after hour along the sand made us ask, “Is that point the last?” and the sun was getting low before the boys were able to answer “Yes.” Hisiu was so far beyond that point that another halt was called for tea.

At the end of a heavy day the Samoan welcome we received from Fareni and his wife was doubly acceptable. Their one concern was that the old teacher’s house was unsafe. They were living on a platform with a roof over it, but without walls, and this they placed at our disposal, together with their table, and with our boxes for seats and mats for beds the place was soon furnished. Before the evening meal was over curtains of cocoanut fronds were hung round, and our camp was comfortable as well as rather out of the common.

People in England, whether believers in Christianity or not, pay tribute to its founder every time they date a letter. The Papuans now acknowledge Him by making their calculations from His day. The Sabate they call it. The boys all knew that the next day was Sabate, and that we should not travel, but remain at Hisiu. Those who had clothes had managed to keep them fairly clean for that day, and those who had none, borrowed from those who had, with the result that a small singlet fell to the lot of the biggest man of the party. Still he was satisfied, and no one was surprised at his odd appearance.

Soon after six in the morning the people were called to the first service by a bell which they had purchased for themselves. How different the surroundings and the gathering from anything to be seen in England: the walls and the roof of the church supplied by the palm; the floor made from old canoe boards; the reading-desk by the teacher from packing-cases; the seat round the wall also from old canoes. Then the congregation. Our own boys had more clothing than the rest of the congregation all told. In the first few rows sat the children. Behind them the adults, and on the seat round the wall the Church members and those more particularly identified with the Mission. Very few ornaments were to be seen and none in the hair of the men, for the Papuan having no hat to take off as a mark of reverence removes his comb when he enters the church. Of the service little need be said. You could not follow the words, but the bowing of the head by the natives, and the opening of the New Testaments, would mark the times of prayer and of reading the lessons. How often one wishes the Papuans were direct descendants of the Sweet Singer of Israel; but, alas! they are not even distant relatives, and most of the Samoans can claim but little closer kinship, and so cannot help the Papuan much. Tuneful singing cannot be expected from a people with a range of about three notes, especially when they do not always use even these three. They will chant a hymn on one note only. Still they do their best, they are improving; and we always hope for better times in this as in other respects. In one thing the Papuans do not fail. Their behaviour is reverent throughout the service, and they listen to the message given.

During the day there are three services and a Sunday School, all held in the church; but I was most pleased with the evening gathering at the teacher’s house. The few Church members, with thirty or forty children and young people, came to family prayers, and of the young people at least twenty had their own New Testaments, and took their turn in reading a verse, and one of the young men offered prayer. Such a scene makes one realize the change for the better which is taking place. The first time I went to Hisiu there was no teacher living there; no church; no school; not a Church member in the place, and not a soul who could tell which way to hold a book even if he had one.

One advantage of having to stay over the Sunday at a village is the opportunity for good informal chats with the people, during which much can be gathered as to their way of looking at the message the Missionary brings.

Two separate conversations that Sunday revealed the fact that they carry their own ideas of malevolent spirits into their idea of the God whom we regard as the loving Father. To many of them He seems to be a compound of the policeman and the magistrate, seeing that due punishment is inflicted for each given offence.

Rosa came to see us in the afternoon wearing signs of mourning. We had heard that her husband Veata was dead, but did not know the circumstances. It was a long story, for she began at the time when her husband was taken by the teacher to live in his house, and when she, as a young girl, was nurse to the teacher’s children. She recalled what Faasiu had taught them and how after they were married Veata expressed a wish to become a teacher, and how glad she was. Then came the history of the three years during which they lived with us at Delena, which ended in the call of the old village life being too strong, and their giving up the idea of being teachers and returning to their village. At first Veata boasted of what he had done, but afterwards became ashamed, and very sad. He knew he had done wrong, but took no steps to put the matter right.

One day on the way to his garden he saw a snake in the track, and as he could not kill it, got out of its way. It followed him, however, and bit him twice. His friends, knowing the snake was a deadly one, carried Veata back to the village, and began the death wail over him, but he asked them to be quiet and to listen to what he had to say, as he should soon leave them and they would not hear his voice again. The speech was a long one for a man under such circumstances, but Veata was in earnest in his desire that his friends should know that he acknowledged he had done wrong, “in putting out the light he once had within him.” He looked upon the ending of his life by snake bite as a just punishment for his having turned back “after he had put his hand to the plough,” and begged his friends to listen to the teacher “and follow the light.”

On the same day another widow, a much older woman, came to see us. Her husband had been west with Tamate, and later had served for a time as a teacher under Holmes. He too listened to the call of the old life, and at Hisiu took a leading part in reviving the night dancing. He was an elderly man, and probably the sitting about after he was hot from the dancing produced chest troubles. He became ill, and then found that his right hand was affected with what looked like leprosy. Before long he was unable to use it at all, and became so ill that it was only with difficulty that he could get as far as the church. The last time he attended the service he asked the teacher to let him speak to the people. His address followed the lines of Veata’s, but near the end, lifting his maimed hand, he said, “This is the hand that beat the drum to call you to the dance. Look at it now. God has taken from it the power to do anything. He has punished me, and I shall not live much longer. God forgive me, and help you to follow not me but Jesus.”

I heard of these two cases in one day, but often, both before and since, have wondered at the number of those who having turned back from taking part in Mission work have died soon after. When the first wild burst is over, they lose heart and feel there is nothing left to live for, and that the end is near. When a native gets that idea nothing can save him. It is sad to think how little they realize the love that can forgive. Their own idea is vengeance, “An eye for an eye,” and only slowly comes that of an all-loving and forgiving Father.

The next morning saw us again on the tramp. Canoes ferried us across the Aroa River, and then on we went along the sand. Mile after mile with nothing to break the monotony except the great stranded trees that had been washed out of Galley Reach by the last floods, and a solitary pelican that would fly on ahead of us, wait till we were nearly up to him, and then start off again as though to show us the way.

When we got near to Morabi, the village we were making for, the beach was covered with thousands upon thousands of little round crabs who moved with the precision of an army. If one got in front of them, and stamped on the sand, no confusion followed, but the army, as though at the word of command, turned off and went in another direction. For at least a mile we walked through these strange little creatures, they opening up a way by which we might pass and not one of them getting under our feet.

Morabi is on the left as we stand at the mouth of Galley Reach, but away on the right bank is a spot that will always be of interest to those connected with the L.M.S. It was there, where the village of Manumanu stood, that in 1872 the first Christian teachers landed. Sixteen years later most of the houses had been moved to Morabi, and now there is no village at Manumanu. Few of those who witnessed that landing are now alive, but their descendants are the people we are going to see. After Ieru the Samoan teacher, the first to welcome us is Naime, till lately as fine a specimen of a man as could be found in the country. He was too young to have distinct memories of the landing of those first teachers, but has been good friends with their successors.

The usual round of service, school, doctoring, and talking to the people having been accomplished, the next thing was to arrange for an experience which does not often come to the missionary in the more settled districts, that is, a visit to new ground, and an introduction to new people.

To mark the event we will deal with it in a new chapter.