How many parts of the world are there where Christmas is not known and celebrated in one way or another? If there are any, Papua is not one of them, for Kisimasi is talked about and looked forward to before it arrives, and long remembered and talked about after it has passed. In the Mission it is the time for the big gathering of the teachers and their followers and friends. At other times they have to come to the head station of their district, but at Kisimasi they come as the guests of the Missionary, and expect that the gathering shall be something out of the common.

From beginning to end differences between Christmas in Britain and Christmas in Papua are very marked. Instead of cold which makes blankets and good fires necessary, there is heat so great that the host need not worry if more guests arrive than he has provided accommodation for. They can all sleep out of doors and be none the worse for the experience.

At home there may be two gatherings—the one for the young folks and the other for the old folks, but with us the one gathering lasts at least a week, and includes all ages, from the children in arms to the old men and women.

A day has been fixed for the arrival of our guests, but some come a day before the time and some a day after, for half are from the east and half from the west, and the wind that will help the one lot will hinder the other. Never mind about when they arrive, so long as we stick to the day when the festivities are to begin. There will be but few missing then, and each party as it arrives will make some contribution to the feast: one a pig; another a goat; another some bananas; yet another some yams or sweet-potatoes, or cocoanuts.

One canoe-load of our visitors announces its arrival by gun-firing, and another by beating a tattoo on a hollow log. Others may come quietly to the beach, but when they begin to unload the pig he lets us know that he has arrived. Neither the Cook Islanders, nor the Samoans, nor the Papuans believe in silently adding their contribution to the general stock. Processions are formed, and everything, even to the poor, long-suffering pig, is brought and put in front of the Mission house, while the teacher indulges in a little speech. The year may have been a good one or a bad one in the matter of food, but the speech always follows one line. It is an apology for the very little the teacher is able to add to the general stock.

All food is hung on a framework erected for the purpose, and there it remains till the day of the feast.

Preparations are meanwhile going on inside as well as outside the house. In the kitchen Donisi Hahine is making piles of cakes, and outside the boys and girls are gathering stones and firewood for the native cooking.

Christmas morning dawns, and before the sun is over the hill we all assemble in the church for the Christmas Service. To make all the teachers feel as homely as possible, part of the service is conducted in their own language, and three languages at least have to be used. Emptying the church is slower work than filling it, for there is much handshaking to be got through and many attempts to express good wishes in English, to be heard.

Breakfast for all hands comes next, and then the separate little committees which have been told off to attend to various matters, all get to work. One lot sees that the boats and canoes are ready for the races; another attends to the greasing down of the old mast of the Niue, which for many years has been used as our greasy pole; a third see that the rope is ready for the tug-of-war, and that nothing is left on the course that would cut the feet of those taking part in the races; others get ready for the distribution of the food; but the group which is the centre of attraction is busy killing and cutting up the pigs and goats. This is simply irresistible to men, women and children. They turn to it as naturally as water runs down hill.

Gradually the interest moves to another part of the compound where a teacher with a sheet of paper in his hand is superintending the apportioning of the food. A delicate matter this, for none must be overlooked, and the quantity in each heap of food must be in direct proportion to the number of people who have come in with the teacher who is to receive it. The foundation of each pile is laid with bananas and cocoanuts, and on this yams are built up; then some rice and a few ship’s biscuits, and a joint of raw pork. To finish all off well to the taste of the Papuan a few sticks of tobacco are added to each pile.

The pork would soon suffer in the heat of the sun, so all hands are promptly called together, and the Missionary makes the Christmas speech of welcome, and after that is over a peculiar custom is observed.

A man with a strong voice is chosen, and if he has a dash of the clown in him so much the better. The teacher walks ahead with his list and announces the name of the man for whom the pile is intended. The assistant, cutting capers behind him, smacks the pile with his switch and calls aloud for So-and-So to come and take possession of the provision made for him and his boys. Then with another cut at the pile of food he passes on to the next, while So-and-So’s boys close in behind and see that nothing is lost of what has fallen to their share.

After this fires are lighted in all parts of the compound and separate cookings occupy the attention of many of our guests; we, however, will go and see what all the smoke near the big bread-fruit tree means. There in the open air the Christmas dinner is being cooked, and the need for the stones and firewood gathered by the boys and girls is explained. A hole has been dug in the ground and well lined with stones. On this a bonfire has been lighted, and now, when nearly burnt out, the ashes are being raked off, to the accompaniment of much hopping about on the part of the bare-footed cooks, who are too excited to look for stray cinders and only find them when they tread upon them.

Vegetables have been scraped and washed and are handy in tubs. First on top of the hot stones is spread a layer of bread-fruit leaves. Next go the vegetables to be served like the potatoes baked under the meat at home, for the joints of pork and goat are piled on top. Already the mass is beginning to steam, and causing some of those standing by to look pleasant in anticipation, but none of this steam must be lost, so the food is covered up with a thick layer of leaves. The earth is shovelled on to all this and well beaten down, and the Christmas oven looks like a gigantic mole hill, with little puffs of steam escaping here and there to suggest what is going on inside. It might be called a self-cooker, for it requires no attention, and though it may appear a strange way of cooking, from long experience I can vouch for its being most satisfactory. If properly heated such an oven turns out well cooked meat, and nicely browned vegetables.

Leaving the oven to do its work we turn to the sports. The entries for the various events are all made, and the handicapping all done on the spot, and whether from shyness, or disinclination to exertion, there is always a difficulty in getting a start. The prizes are all there for inspection, and the start is usually obtained by holding up some particularly tempting article, and announcing that it is the first prize for the opening event. When once the ball has been set rolling there is no difficulty. In quick succession follow races for men and for women; big boys and little boys; for big girls and little tots; for teachers’ wives; three-legged races and jockey races (which cause undersized boys to be in great demand as jockeys) and wheelbarrow races; sack races, and hopping races; but the excitement is fast and furious when the tug-of-war takes place between two well matched teams.

The greasy pole attracts little attention till the small boys have worked hard for half a day, and have rubbed most of the grease off. Then there are plenty of competitors for the last few feet, and great excitement when one gets his hand within a few inches of the flag, just fails, and comes down with a rush without it; but that is nothing to the cheer which greets the one who at last gets the flag. He enjoys his triumph to the full, holding on to the top of the pole, and smiling down upon those who have probably done much to clear away the grease and enable him to win the prize.

When tired of the exertion of racing the men turn their attention to archery and a little spear-throwing. A man looks very warlike with his long bow and his arrow nearly as long as himself, but judging from the number of shots they send in before making even an outer, the success of this method of fighting must depend more upon the cloud of arrows fired, than upon the aim of any individual man. Perhaps the fact that the arrows are not feathered may have something to do with this.

Of the Christmas dinner itself I need not write, as it was much like the one described in the “Chapter of Accidents.” The main difference was that we had seen to it that there were extra supports under the verandah and so avoided another accident.

The first part of the day had been well filled, and you must remember that the thermometer had stood at over 90 in the shade; so there was a lull in the afternoon, and then the final preparations for the evening party.

Though the verandah of the Mission house is a big one, it could not accommodate all who wished to be present, so we had to restrict the gathering to the teachers and their families, and the Delena Mission family.

There was no Christmas tree, but its place was taken by a fishpond. Every fish was named, and a little manoeuvring let the man who managed the inside of the pond know the name of the fisher, and so hook on the fish he was intended to have. Big parcels sometimes contained only very small fish, but that only added to the fun.

There were not many Christmas party games we could indulge in, but the gramophone and the magnetic battery more than met the case. The mystery of the gramophone was at first awe-inspiring, and the whistling bird caused many a youngster to look round and close his hands as though he had a stone to throw. Soon the awe passed and all were laughing over the “Lancashire Lads’ Trip to London” as though they knew all about it and could follow the fun; but the “Laughing Song” was the climax, and would have gone far towards making the reputation of a man who wanted to be a master of facial expression. At the first laugh they simply looked at each other, but what looks they were. At the second they began to lose control of themselves, while at the third all control had vanished, and the gramophone could not be heard.

An entirely new set of facial contortions was the result of the introduction of the battery. Some of the children simply set their teeth tight together and took all that the machine could give them, but some of the big men writhed and rolled about; bit their lips; opened their mouths as though to shout; twisted their hands this way and that; stood first on one leg and then on the other; and finally lay down to it, and groaned “Vadaeni” (enough). They did not seem to enjoy the experience and yet were ready later on for a second, but there was no doubt about the onlookers enjoying it to the full.

Very few could be tempted to put their hands into a bucket of water connected to one of the handles of the battery, even when a prize was offered for the man who would get the nail from the bottom of the bucket.

It was ten o’clock before the party broke up. Every hour had been filled since six in the morning, and no room had been found for the boat and canoe races. We were all very tired, but very happy, and looked forward to finishing the programme on the morrow.

A Well-oiled Amazon.

See page 167.