Cool and rapid it hurried down to the sea, but when in flood it mounts that twenty feet of bank in a single night and takes possession of the village and most of the surrounding flat land. To cross then is out of the question, and to do so now is a novel experience, but if you trust yourselves to the natives, and like good girls and boys, do as you are told, you will be landed safely on the other bank without a ducking.
A canoe, made by hollowing out a tree trunk and roughly shaping the outside, is waiting tied to the bank by a length of cane. Both ends are shaped alike, so it is difficult to say which is the stem and which the stern, but for the time being the end pointing up stream is the stem and there stands the ferryman. He finds no difficulty in keeping his balance, nor does the canoe rock while he is alone, but the moment one not to the manner born puts a foot in the canoe, it seems to become alive and possessed with the determination to get rid of the stranger by turning over and throwing him into the water.
There is no outrigger nor any contrivance to keep the craft steady, except willing hands (far from clean) ready to help you to embark. Before they let go it will be well if the canoe happens to be wide enough to sit right down inside, despite the mud and water. If that cannot be managed then put your walking stick across from gunwale to gunwale and sit as low as possible on that. No doubt the boys and girls who are watching from both banks think this a lot of preparation for what they do without a thought, and the chances are that when they notice the start caused by the first wobble of the canoe, they will have a good laugh, but to the novice it is no laughing matter. I can only compare the sensation to that feeling of utter helplessness experienced during the first attempt to ride a bicycle.
The signal is given to let go, and then the boy in the bows begins to punt the canoe up stream as close to the bank as he can keep, till he thinks he has gone far enough to enable him to reach the proper landing on the gravel spit on the other side. He then pushes out into the stream the force of which turns the head of the canoe down towards the sea. His punting pole will not now reach the bottom, and the canoe is at the mercy of the current. As soon as he can touch the bottom again with his pole his action retards the downward rush of the bows and the canoe is brought alongside the bank with her head up stream again.
Willing hands help the passengers ashore, and if you do not want moments of anxiety as to the baggage pass on to the teacher’s house at once, for if you stay to watch you will see some at least of the carriers standing where you found difficulty in sitting, and with the boxes still on the poles between them.
The old Naime, whose picture caused such consternation when shown on the sheet, has been succeeded in the chieftainship by his son, also Naime, but not half the man his father was, either in size or anything else.
Naime the First always went hunting when he heard I was in the neighbourhood, so that he might have some fresh wallaby to offer. Naime the Second has not energy enough for that, so confines his attention to seeing that his wife cooks a bowl of bananas, and then escorts her to the teacher’s verandah, and sits down to wait for the return present. Years ago when talking to old Naime, I asked him why he had not listened to our message, and why he had not joined the Church. He had always been on the best of terms with the teachers and often attended the services. His reply was a bit of good sound advice for a young missionary. He was still proud of his strength and his success as a hunter, and having duly dwelt upon these he said “but natugu (he always called me his child), my inside is old and hard. I cannot receive the new words. Look to my grandchildren. They are young, and you can teach them.” His son has seen to it that the old man’s wish has been carried out, and all his children have been regular attendants at school, and can read and write well.
Memories of Naime crowd one on another. When first I knew him he was a widower, and every time we met, his vigorous Papuan embrace used to transfer some of his lamp-black mourning to my clothes. Once we met at another village, and in great excitement for so dignified a man, he said—
“Natugu, I have a new wife.”
“Yes. That is good.”