A Yankee doctor in paradise

by S. M. Lambert

A baker’s dozen of the brown-skinned young things lolled over my shoulders, touching the keys as they flew, drawing their fingers over the ribbon to see the ink come off. What was this strange box that made such straight tattoo marks across a very white sheet? Finally I gave up all pretense of working and called Buia. His eyes, like all the others’, were fixed on my portable. He said that they all wanted to know what I was doing. I told him that if he would push the girls back a few inches I would try to show him. This machine, I said, made talk. Those things I was tattooing on the white sheet were words; if Buia were to carry the sheet as far as the albatross flies, a man on the other end would just look at it and the words would talk to him. Buia’s bright eyes were standing out of his head as he murmured, “Me no sabe dis fellow talk.” “I’ll show you,” I said, and tick-tacked on a piece of paper, “Hamlin, please give Buia a tin of cigarettes.” I told what the paper would say to Hamlin, and sent Buia below.

Presently he staggered back, a tin of Chesterfields shuddering in his hand. Furtively he whispered the miracle to the huddled islanders. And it was a miracle in a land where there had never been the slightest trace of a written language, not even picture writing. In their excited faces I saw a hungry eagerness to learn. Experimentally I lined them up, and as each one told me his name or hers I would typewrite it and have the bearer take it down to a man in the engineroom, who would read it out to them. This game lasted until my fingers were tired of hitting the keyboard. Some of them tried to help me; mischievous fingers would poke at random, and the ship would be a gale of rough contralto laughter when a key flew up and struck the paper.

That night I wrestled with Buia again over the subject of hookworm. Carefully I told him of the snake that hung to the human intestine and sent its eggs out with the bowel motion. In my jungle campaigns I had informed the most backward and savage Melanesians that they had “senake in bel’” which their witch doctors could not cure because they only removed the ghost of a snake, but we could fetch the real thing. I had worked in safety among tough cannibals and found that they were afraid to attack a man who could do such magic.

I thought that my detailed explanation had at last got under Buia’s skin. He was politely impressed, and I felt sure that he would act as my friend and interpreter tomorrow when I would begin the delicate work of collecting specimens of feces.

Next morning Gordon White and I went to the beach with our microscope and little tin containers; the first thing I did was to give a container to Buia, and ask him if he remembered what I had told him. Now Buia seemed unable to understand. Gordon White came to my rescue and said, “Doctor, I’ll go and demonstrate to these bastards, personally.” With Buia and a retinue of small boys he retired into the bushes. Silence. Then a perfect bedlam of frightened yells. Small boys came scampering out, hands in air, mouths open, screaming. And Buia followed the panicky retreat. They ran as though a mad dog were after them, nipping.

At last Gordon came out, dejectedly holding a tin. “When I put the specimen in and closed the lid,” he said, “they stared as if they were accusing me of an atrocious crime.” The natives of the beach kept away from us for a bad half-hour; we were isolated among a lot of savages who had interpreted our well meant attempt as the grossest insult. These men carried spears and clubs; we knew how they dealt with those who offended them. Whether or not they had eaten Deck’s missioners was only of academic importance. What happens after you’re dead doesn’t matter much. The main thing was to keep alive....

Then Buia came sidling back to our tent. His look was portentous. He said, “Master, dis fellow he something altogether tabu. Him he tabu too much. Suppose Big Master Tahua sabe something belong dis fashion, he altogether too bad along you fellow me fellow”—Meaning that if we went on with our search for hookworm eggs Tahua would kill us all, including Buia. We heard the noise of people scrambling down the precipice. Buia told us that they were from Lake Tenggano. And as we valued our lives, he said, we mustn’t even hint at what happened in the bushes. Otherwise terrible things would befall us for breaking their tabu.

Well, there we were, on the third day, absolutely bunkered on the main object of our trip. When I went back to the France, feeling that my investment had turned out a total loss, I found the people of the Lake swarming over everything, and among them a grandee of the White Sands, an adopted son of Tahua. And there was Tamata, too, adopted son of Taupangi. They seemed to be a reception committee from the Big Masters, inviting us to the harvest festival at the Lake.

Hamlin had warned me of difficulties going overland to the Lake. But our failure of that morning had roused all the mule blood in me. If I went to the Lord of the Lake and prevailed on him to cancel the tabu and let me make the necessary examinations I might accomplish the purpose of my visit. After all, it was only a walk of seven or eight miles, I was in fair condition, and impatient when Hamlin argued that I had better not try it. I didn’t know what I was in for....

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