The Rennellese wore their one garment until it was threadbare; by day it was trousers, by night pajamas. Since the water in the Lake was hard to get at and the water below the cliffs came in driblets, only expert swimmers knew the pleasures of bathing. They rather disliked the touch of salt water, but this prejudice was not responsible for a certain skin condition.
Scabies was present, but not serious. The prevalent disease on Rennell, I think, was something they called onga-onga, a sort of itch. The inhabitants claimed that it had been brought there by Dr. Deck’s unpopular missionaries. Apparently it only appeared as a dermatitis, the result of scratching. Constant scratching was a native gesture. When the disease first came, they told me, everyone went mad, ran to the bush, threw away their clothes and dug their nails into every part of their bodies.
Within a month after we left the island all of us came down with it. To me it was a most unpleasant visitor. It began at my thighs and covered me from knees to waist, like a pair of shorts. I could see no discoloration, save where my nails had torn my skin. Hot baths irritated it. Successive days of treating myself with saturated solution of salicylic acid in strong tincture of iodine, then with Deek’s ointment, brought relief. My skin peeled completely away from the infected area, and I haven’t heard from onga-onga since....
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Shortly after we had re-established headquarters on the France natives from the interior came flocking to trade mats and baskets for beads and knives and fishhooks. Obviously the situation was growing touchy, with jealousy between inland-dweller and beach-dweller. There were one or two wrestling matches, not too good-natured—strange combats, in which two strong men pulled each other’s hair until the weaker fell. These were dogfights, and we were the bone of contention.
The situation tightened when Panio, Tahua’s strong-arm who had helped do away with Deck’s missioners, came aboard and proceeded to make himself obnoxious. Panio was unlike the other islanders. He dramatized himself as a murderer. With much diplomacy we had reached a point where we could keep the people out of our cabins for short intervals—but not Panio. In blustering ward-heeler style he would walk in, throw out his chest and take possession. He was angry with Buia for getting more than his share of good things; also he had a social bee in his bonnet; his daughter wasn’t being recognized by the local haut monde.
Yes, it was getting ticklish. Like all bullies, Panio was putting up a dangerous front because, probably, his gang was behind him. For all I knew we were a dozen against fifteen hundred. All the rights were on their side; we had come unasked, and they had entertained us with the best they had; on the France they were merely returning our visit, and it was impossible for them to understand why we shouldn’t give them the run of the ship and whatever they fancied in the way of food. When we asked for privacy they no doubt thought of us as stingy, grasping strangers. Remember, these people were all born communists.
Our nerves were wearing thin. Something must be done about Panio. One night when we cleared the cabin he refused to budge. This time I made my voice firmer than Rennell diplomacy required; he stood his ground, looking not at all pretty. I told Hamlin and White what I was going to do, and when they nodded I used my clearest pidgin on Panio. Would he get out or be thrown out? Rather a ridiculous question, for he was years younger than I, immensely powerful and in the pink. Facing him, I thought, “I’m in for it now. I’ll have to put him out....”
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(Here I paused to drip cold coffee into my cup. Templeton Crocker asked, “And did you?”)