Papuan Pictures

by H. M. Dauncey

The change from the dark stillness, broken only by the cry of a bird and the rattle of the oars in the rowlocks, to the full blaze of the light was much more rapid than the coming of the daylight at home, and reminded one that it was not necessary to wait till near midday to feel the sting of the tropical sun.

Several large rivers flow into Galley Reach as well as a perfect network of smaller streams and creeks. Into one of these we turned. Then into a smaller one, and again into a smaller one still. It was wonderful how the boy in charge knew which of the many openings—all alike—he was to take. At last the creek so narrowed that the whale boat could go no further, and the first stage of the journey was over. It was ten o’clock when we landed under some giant trees, and no time was lost in getting breakfast for all hands, and taking his with him, one of the teachers went ahead to try and find carriers to help with the baggage. Our own boys could manage it well enough on the flat, but when climbing the hills they would need help.

Strange things were all around us, but strangest of all were some of the giant trees. Very high, very big round, they had roots which came out like giant buttresses. By putting roofs on, five or six stables could have been made at the foot of each tree.

So far there was no sign of any track having been cleared, and a boy had to go ahead armed with a big knife to cut away the vines. Some of them were the “wait-a-bit” thorns, and well did they deserve their name, for if once the thorn was hooked in the clothing then the person wearing that clothing had to wait till released from the unwelcome grip, or leave a memento behind him.

Progress was very slow, and it was well after midday before we reached a clearing on the bank of a rippling stream as clear as crystal, and the coldest water I have tasted in Papua. Here the Korona people were making a garden, and Naiti had been fortunate enough to meet some of them and secure their services to help us to reach their village.

One was tempted to linger at this spot. It would have made an ideal camp for a summer holiday. We had to pass on, and made use of the native bridge. One of the large trees that grew on the bank of the stream had been felled so that it lay from bank to bank, and to save themselves trouble when doing the work the woodmen had built a staging round the tree some ten feet from the ground and so got above the greatest girth.

On the other side of the stream the ground began to rise, and in places gave some stiff climbing. After a time the question arose, “How much further is the village?” Not far was the answer, and another start was made. Then the way seemed blocked by fallen trees, but the guide clambered over them, and following his lead we found ourselves in a sweet-potato plantation. What the water-lily is to the swimmer that the sweet-potato is to the walker. How many times one and another of the party was thrown down, or brought to a standstill, it would be a puzzle to say. To add to the trouble piles of felled trees continually blocked the way, and had to be surmounted. Again the question was asked, “Is the village far?” and again the guide, through an interpreter, answered, “Just a little.” His idea of “a little further” was like that of an Irishman who was once my guide in Ireland. The little further was just an indefinite distance in front. Then again the guide was accustomed to that kind of travelling. Our party was not, and there was plenty of grumbling amongst the boys as the sun got low, and there were still no signs of the village. At last the guide gave a coo-e and from the side of the next hill came an answer. One more scramble down, and one more scramble up, and there was the village in sight.

Few of our party had ever seen a stockaded village. It was my first. The site was well chosen on the crown of a small hill, so that the ground fell away on all sides. The houses which were on high stumps, almost like stilts, faced inwards, and the stockading was really a continuation of the outer walls of the houses right down to the ground, with the spaces between the houses filled in the same way. The defence would have been poor against an enemy armed with Sheffield steel, but would hold at bay one attacking with bows and arrows and clubs, and the only entrance was a puzzle-like stile at one corner. No need for the defender to say with brave Horatius, “Now who will stand on either hand and keep the bridge with me?” One could easily defend it.

Over and through this stile, one at a time, we clambered, and at once looked for quarters for the night. Any house in the village, or the club house, would have been placed at our disposal, but—— The people never wash; never clean their houses; and by both look and smell one would judge that they never cleaned the centre of the village.

The camp was made on the hill, and to the windward side of the village. Five poles were soon cut and the home-made calico tent fixed. Supper was soon over, and no one wanted rocking to sleep that night. All had been on the move for seventeen hours, to say nothing of the time spent in packing and getting into the boat at Morabi. God’s own peace seemed to brood over the hillside, the camp, and the village, and it seemed strange almost beyond belief, that amidst such surroundings the women and children had withdrawn into the forest for fear there might be a night attack.