But with all their disadvantages these islands have a fascination for the traveller that no others have, and when once the taste of the free and adventurous life of the South Seas has been acquired, there is always a longing to return to them which nothing will suppress. Neither stiff joints nor old age make one iota of difference, the yearning will not be satisfied by anything short of a speedy return.
OFF TO MARKET, BRITISH NEW GUINEA
The deep blue of the sea, the clear bracing air, {15} the screech of the wild sea-birds, and the roar of the surf, as it breaks on the reefs, are sounds that echo in the memory. To awaken and hear all these things is the longing that clings to one. To feel a good ship gliding through the still waters on the way to the islands; to rise from one’s bunk and through the port-hole to catch a glimpse of the rugged shores and the dark, shining skins of the natives as they paddle out in swarms from the villages to the ship’s side; to hear them calling to one another and yelling their greetings to the crew, are things which, when once experienced, can never be forgotten, and will ever haunt the memory.
But come, let us see these islands where the sun pours down on bright yellow sands through the long, waving, rustling leaves of the palm trees, and glistens on the skins of the crocodiles basking in the rivers, and on the strong, brown arms and tanned faces of the traders, who have braved all dangers for a life of adventure. Let us look into the quaint lives of the natives—the last relics of barbarism; let us see their huts and join in their weird ceremonies and listen to their songs and learn their superstitions, for in a few years these things will be gone, and the cyclist and the tripper will be crowding these savage islands, whilst the sturdy {16} head-hunters will be dead, and their sons will be cadging pennies, whilst the dark, shy girls will be bold and talk with nasal accents.
Civilisation is coming, coming quickly. Even here, back in the dense bush on a still night when the insects are too lazy to fly and the silence almost speaks, if you listen you can hear the steady tramp of the ghostly army coming nearer and nearer, crushing through everything, sparing nothing—the army of civilisation.
The capital of New Guinea is Port Moresby, a quaintly picturesque village facing a large bay with a natural harbour. In the vicinity are densely wooded hills, which stretch up and disappear in the distance—a dark-green and black mass. But when the sun is on them they dance with colour, and the tints of marvellous brilliancy turn them into a lovely fairyland, full of romance and adventure. It is wonderful what strange tales flit across the mind when looking at these hills; what scenes have been enacted there in times gone by, and now, how calm they seem!
Granville, the small business part of Port Moresby, consists of a few corrugated iron-roofed houses, the head store of Messrs. Burns Philp, the great Australasian Trading Company, and the {17} homes of a few Government officials, and Government House, which lies back a little and looks solitary and out of place in this weird land of pile-built huts.
There is the Mission House also, a low, white wood house with a big verandah running round it and a garden of palms and beautiful flowers.
Hanuabada and Elevera are the names of the two native settlements near Port Moresby. At certain tides Elevera is an island, at other tides it is a peninsula, but at all tides and all times it teems with interest. Quaint huts built on long poles line the shore and look like nothing one has ever seen before. When the tide is high the water washes right under them, swishing merrily against the stout poles, and if you want to inspect one at these times a canoe is necessary, but even then it is a hazardous job unless you are used to it.
No one knows exactly why the natives went to such trouble in building their huts, unless it was with a view to protecting themselves against the attack of an enemy from the land. There were no wild animals for them to fear.
A regular street divides these rows of huts, all exactly alike, but the inhabitants seem to know where their friends live, though I am sure the most {18} experienced London postman would suffer from continual confusion if his services were required in these parts. In the distance these villages look very much like rows of haystacks built on stakes, but on closer inspection they are particularly interesting and have a very imposing appearance. On reaching the piles one clambers up a rude ladder and arrives on a platform made of ordinary poles with gaps of a foot or two between each. Here it is that the natives squat all day and do what work they have, or, more generally, idle the hours away. Above the platform is a kind of porch built on a slant and projecting from the roof, which acts as a protection against the sun or rain. Under this is an open doorway which leads into the house.
From a sanitary point of view, no habitation could be better than these pile dwellings, but for comfort give me a modern hotel.
MOTU VILLAGE FROM THE SEA
No furniture or mats are to be seen in these dwellings to catch the dust, and you can squat on the floor and see through the planks the waves washing and swelling a few yards below. The floor consists of the same kind of piles, only flatter and broader than those used for supporting the house. The platforms are arranged like big steps, and many of the boards are beautifully carved. {19} Some of them are immense pieces of timber, which must have required a deal more energy to cut than the Papuan of to-day is capable of exerting—much less would he put them into position.
The wood used for the flooring is the hardest obtainable, and seems to be of a material which takes no heed of wear and tear; the planks are sometimes heirlooms, and have been handed down from father to son for many generations. One log tougher than the rest is placed in position by the door, and on this a fire will probably be burning and a woman squatting by it cooking her lord and master’s evening meal.
The rank yellow smoke which curls round her does not inconvenience her in the least. She takes no heed of it, but blows away at the embers, regardless of smarting eyes and choking throat, probably because she feels neither. She never fears that the fire will spread and burn down her home, but just goes on cooking. If you speak to her she may stop blowing for a second and glance up at you, but never a word passes her lips, and soon she will be blowing again as if it was quite an ordinary thing to have a white man staring at her. But though the smoke does not trouble her a bit, it blinds you, and you soon hurry on to the {20} next hut, and there confine your attention to its outside.
The roofs are thatched with palm leaves which, though scant, keep out the rain and sun. The sides and back are also composed of a kind of thatch on a framework of bamboo or thin wood.
Unlike the habitations of many other branches of this race, these huts show very little artistic work inside. They are quite bare. A few cooking-pots may be seen lying about, and these are the only things which lead one to suppose that the huts are inhabited. The resemblance of the interiors of all of them is only equal to the sameness of the exteriors, which makes it impossible to know which one you have been in and which you have not. This, added to the extreme difficulty a new chum experiences in getting from one house to another, does not add to the equability of his temper. It needs a steady head and good balancing powers to keep footing on these planks, many of which are quite loose and wobble when you are treading on them. After half an hour of such walking a giddiness seizes you, and a strong desire comes over you to kneel down and scramble along on hands and knees to the next hut. But with practice, and a certain amount of patience and indifference to the {21} nasty fall one would get by slipping, walking can eventually be accomplished with ease.
THE