From a Photograph.
The magistrate would find the village suspiciously neat and clean, and after trying a few cases of petty theft would sail away satisfied, leaving the policeman to distribute small portions of the tobacco he had received and to enjoy his hard-earned rest.
Another of the officer’s duties was to make journeys into the interior and capture murderers, when such were heard of, and convey them down the coast to Samarai to be tried. I saw one insignificant-looking little man on his way to jail, whom I knew to have committed a cruel murder. A white man named Sexton, a “fossicker,” whom we had entertained at the mission station, had gone a few miles inland in quest of gold. One day, while seated at his midday meal, he was seized from behind and his throat cut. It seemed that a native of the village had died while working for a white man; therefore, in accordance with Papuan ideas of justice, the next man of that race who came along had to be slain in revenge for the native’s life.
The first photograph shows a house at Wamira where I lived for seven months soon after my arrival in Papua. The missionary for whom it was built was going on furlough, and during her absence I was in charge there. It was situated on the edge of a coral cliff which rose straight up out of the sea, so that the Pacific Ocean was, so to speak, at the door. Close by was another house, used as a dormitory for the village girls who came as boarders to the mission. There was also a boys’ dormitory and a kitchen. This kitchen one day caught fire and was burnt to the ground in a very little while. I rushed in and saved the pudding from the oven, while the pupil-teacher, a Papuan boy, brought out our tin of kerosene before it ignited. The kitchen was the only building that suffered, and the villagers promptly built me a new one for five shillings, labour and materials included! From this it will be obvious that there is not much scope for a fire-insurance agent in Papua.
My house was divided into two apartments, a bed and a sitting room, and was built of native timber, the walls being composed of plaited coco-leaf and the roof of grass. The floor was made of slender strips of wood laid side by side, and, though airy, was anything but durable. It was slightly discomposing to see a small boy enter at the doorway and then suddenly disappear through a gap in the floor, though, having sufficient presence of mind to spread out his arms, he was able to hold himself in that position until someone could rescue him. For windows I had openings in the leaf walls, closed when necessary by means of wooden shutters.
Soon after I took charge the girls became much alarmed on account of some midnight visitor who, they said, had tried to get into their house. The natives were inclined to think the intruder was a prowling “bariawa,” or spirit, and there were frightened faces and hushed voices among them as night fell. Unfortunately, I was a heavy sleeper, and was usually only roused by the girls’ shrieks after their mysterious visitor had left. A few of the elder boys sat up one night, but saw nothing. Some barbed wire was sent me, and complicated and formidable entanglements were constructed between the girls’ house and mine. Soon after they had been placed there, however, when we were congratulating ourselves that we were safe at last, a little village child who was playing near fell over the wire and severely injured himself, so I had to order the entanglement to be taken away. One of the missionaries then lent me a revolver, but I am sure I should never have been able to use it, even on a spirit. However, I showed it to the old chief, and published the news of my acquisition, and soon afterwards we were relieved to find that our mysterious visitor came no longer.
Another source of excitement at Wamira was a kind of madness which attacked a man now and again, a state of exaltation somewhat resembling the Malay “amok.” At first the victim only sat in the house suffering from “heat in the heart.” Then, after muttering unintelligibly, he would seize a handful of spears, rush out of the house, and career wildly through the villages, flinging the spears to right and left and shouting as he ran. Women would come shrieking to my house and take refuge inside the fence, hoping to be safe with the “foreigner.” Once one of these half-crazed men, exhausted after an attack, came up the path and demanded water. I gave him some particularly nauseous medicine, which he drank greedily, afterwards asking for more. On another occasion one of them, who had already aimed a spear at a villager, came on to the school, where the pupil teacher and I had our flock of fifty or sixty children. Seeing him approaching, however, we hastily closed and barricaded the doors, standing the siege until the old chief influenced our would-be assailant to withdraw.
When my predecessor returned to her work a somewhat similar house to the one I have described was built for me at Wedau, where I remained for nearly two years. Ordinary village houses are built in very much the same style: they possess only one room, and the supporting piles are higher. The means of access to the interior is a sloping pole. These odd “staircases” have slight notches cut in them, which afford very slight purchase for a shod foot, though the nimble natives run up and down them easily enough.
While I was living at Wamira news was brought of a murder in the hills. The girl who came to tell me said that her uncle had taken a journey there to obtain betel-nut. On the way he heard voices and promptly hid himself. From his place of concealment he saw two men attacking a third. One held the victim’s arms while the other cut his throat with a “gatigati” (long knife). As he did so the dying man cried, “Au dobu, au dobu!” (“Oh, my home!” or, literally, village). The hidden onlooker, being a Papuan, did not dream of interfering. His “skin trembled,” he said, and he hastily made his way back to safety.
