A Yankee doctor in paradise

by S. M. Lambert

At the other end of the house sat a younger, still handsomer man, enthroned on mats. He had the perfect classic profile and his tattooed torso was magnificent. This was Tekita, who had acted as the Big Master’s substitute during the ceremonies of the week; during the ritual God had passed from Taupangi’s head and into Tekita’s. He was being king for a day, as it were, for the great spirit (Tainatua) owned every stick and stone on Rennell Island, and the man whose head possessed him spoke with the voice of God. Taupangi, for the nonce, was only human. Soon, when Divinity resumed its seat in his brain, he would again be all powerful over the division of labor, crops and everything else in his little realm.

Tekita, the substitute, had been chewing betel-nuts, and seemed excited, as well he might be considering his lofty rise. Superficially he behaved like quite a conceited young fellow. He spoke pidgin English fairly well—he might have been one of those whom Lever Brothers’ yacht had taken away on an unsuccessful attempt at recruiting. With all the gestures of royalty Tekita seated himself next to the Big Master and graciously did some interpreting. As he talked he rolled his eyes and every few moments he would go into a silent semi-trance. He was going on much like any charlatan trying to impress an audience. In a prophetic voice he admitted that he was glad to see Hamlin again. “Hamlin fadder belong me,” he said. And promptly wanted to know what present “fadder belong him” had brought. This honorary fatherhood, although it cemented our friendship with Taupangi’s people, was becoming a bit of a nuisance.

I found more pidgin than I had expected, at first. It was gradually filtering in. (I can’t forget Tekita’s lordly farewell, spoken between trances: “Me too sorry belong you fellow you come along here.” Meaning, of course, that he was glad; but he had somehow mixed his adjectives.)

I wanted to see Tahua, Lord of the White Sands, but when I asked this favor of Taupangi, the Lord of the Lake, he was jealously evasive. Our tribute of an adze and axe changed his mind (which was Tekita, speaking with the voice of God). Guides led us over to a miserable little hut of sticks and vines. Apparently Taupangi wasn’t being too lavish with his rival. But there was enough room inside for the bearded, muscular Tahua to sit in state opposite his divinely inspired substitute. Tahua relaxed to a somewhat cupidinous smile when we presented him with an adze. This meeting wasn’t much, but it was what a bond salesman would call a “contact.” I knew that I would have to gain Tahua’s good will before I could even attempt hookworm examinations on his side of the island.

Tomorrow would end the festival, with the ceremony of putting God back into the heads of the Big Masters. I was too tired to care. I had sloshed through mud until I found fresh water, made a pretense of washing my face and hands and came back dirtier than before. Now I could see why the inland Rennellese went unbathed, except when it happened to rain on them. I crawled into the guest house—not daring to touch the pile of sacred coconuts—and eased my feet with clean socks and tennis shoes. Then I spread out my blanket and got on it.

“Oh, sleep! it is a gentle thing,” said the Ancient Mariner. In Taupangi’s domain it was a mixed blessing. When I started to drowse, our courteous hosts came in with a rough wooden bowl filled with pana, a glorified sweet potato. Although they had peeled the vegetables with their dirty fingers, the smell of food woke me pleasantly. Since leaving the France we had had nothing but a few sardines and one sea-biscuit apiece. I had watched the natives cooking; Rennellese fire-sticks were pieces of rotten wood which they rubbed until the spark came. They lined a hole with coral stones, started a fire on them and kept it going until the stones were white hot. Then they wrapped food in leaves, laid it on the stones, covered it with earth and let nature take its course.

Except for a small clamshell, which they used mostly to scrape the meat from coconuts, the wooden bowl was their only eating utensil. At festival dances they used the bowls as drums. These, and big wooden drums, were the only musical instruments they had. I was sorry that we had forgotten to bring them jew’s harps, which would have charmed them into ecstasies.

To say that I slept that night would be a gross exaggeration. Every man, woman and child who could crowd in became our bedmate. Communism and comfort seem to be strangers. We lay all coiled together, Gordon White and I sharing the common lot. The rest of our crowd had had sense enough to find some sort of shelter outside. Before we slept—if it could be called sleeping—a burly, blustery fellow named Panio came in and showed all the specious heartiness of the typical politician. Instinctively I felt that we might have trouble with Panio. If I had known, as I learned later, that he belonged on the beach, a henchman of Tahua, and was one of the three that had killed Deck’s missionaries, I might have slept even more lightly than I did.

Lying on the floor, cuddled very close to me, was Tamata, son of Taupangi, and on the other side, equally intimate, was Tahua’s adopted son. I could see why the house was so popular, for the night was quite cool; outside in the ridiculous leaf-and-stick shelters only a mat protected the sleeper. I had seen women lying in the open, babes in arms, snoring serenely with cold rain sifting all over them.

The house inside reminded me of Mark Twain’s description of Brigham Young’s bed; if anybody turned they all had to turn. Far into the night, pidgin English questions were pegged at me from this side and that. They all wanted to learn a little more while they had the opportunity. Indoors or out, it was the crudest existence imaginable, not far removed from the animal. Yet they thrived on it, to all appearances....