From a Photograph.
A witch I knew lost her husband, and his death was put down to his wife's machinations. Nevertheless, the polite Papuan women came to blend their voices with the wailing of the newly-made widow. In a few years, spite of her uncanny reputation, the witch-widow became a wife once more. Her second husband must have been a brave man, or possibly he was a sorcerer, and intended to counteract his wife's powers with more potent charms than her own.
NATIVES ASSEMBLED FOR A PIG-FEAST—IT IS ETIQUETTE IN PAPUA TO EAT NOTHING BUT TO CARRY AWAY EVERYTHING.
From a Photograph.
In Wedau, directly anyone died, the house filled with wailing men and women, some of whom were paid mourners. Crying had to continue until after the funeral, and was extremely painful to listen to.
Marriage takes place early in Papua, so it was quite possible to have great-grandparents or children weeping at the grave. Imagine a whole family tree, with its collateral branches, all lifting their voices at once and with much energy, and you have a feeble idea of what a death in Wedau involved. The mourners usually called on the dead man by the relationship they bore to him, and seldom mentioned his name. After burial, in fact, the name was "popola," and must not be spoken. A small boy who was staying with me on a visit told me most emphatically that he must leave at once if I so much as mentioned the name of his dead grandfather.
At one of the villages up the coast a curious custom prevails. The mission girls and I went to witness the funeral of an old man. In the middle of the house, on the floor, the deceased lay in state. The poor old man's face was exposed to view, and was a ghastly sight, for the kinsfolk had rouged its cheeks, possibly to give it a semblance of life!
After some time spent in wailing, the procession proceeded to the grave. As the corpse was about to be placed in it the village policeman glanced at me, and requested to know whether I thought the grave was deep enough! It seems he had been required by the Government to superintend the digging of graves, and wished a foreigner's approval of the way he had fulfilled his task. What would have happened if I had suggested delaying the funeral to dig deeper, however, I shudder to think.
When I first went out to Papua there were only five other white women on the north-east coast, though there were a few at Samarai, the port. Naturally life under these conditions was very different from that in civilized countries. Roads there were none; but as we generally walked along the beach, or went by boat, this did not much matter, and there were a few tracks along which we walked in single file, with tall reeds or grass rising perhaps to six feet on either side of us. Gloves were unnecessary, and even veils were too hot to be worn. The best time of the day was the evening, though the early morning was deliciously cool. The Wedauans rose at an unearthly hour, and I have heard an astonished visitor at about 7 a.m. ask, "Is she ill?" on hearing that I was still in bed. But though we got up as a rule before seven we found a rest at midday almost imperative. My days went quietly and quickly enough. Sellers of edible ants, coco-nuts, and other foodstuffs came when it suited them or when they required tobacco, and patients who were receiving treatment usually arrived about 9 a.m. Then I could settle down to translation work, while the boy and girl boarders busied themselves in the garden or fished in the sea. In the afternoon we had school in the village for two hours, followed by classes or visiting the natives in their homes. They were most cordial, and would often make me a present of a sticky piece of taro or a fibrous sweet potato picked steaming out of the big earthenware pot. We all sat on the shingly floor, though perhaps I was given a mat to spread under me, and we would talk of pigs, crops, babies, and other matters till after service it was time for me to return to the house. It was not very exciting, but certainly a very happy life.