The Isle of Vanishing Men: A Narrative of Adventure in Cannibal-land

by W. F. Alder

Now and then we see shadows flitting noiselessly from tree trunk to thick-growing shrubbery as they follow our course and twice we encounter stalwart warriors standing like sentinels near the pathway as though disdainful of concealment. These, as we smilingly address them, merely grunt a non-committal reply and glower at us through narrowed lids. As we pass them they withdraw into the undergrowth, to travel silently abreast of us but well out of sight.

When we finally step out of the dimness of the jungle into the clearing of the kampong we find an apparently deserted village. News of our coming has preceded us, and all the inhabitants are hiding indoors. One glance down the little street shows us that the kampong is different from the one we visited at Merauke. This one consists of five low shacks each of which is tenanted by several families, and it has no enclosing wall. Each house is similar to its neighbor and measures roughly, one would say, fifty feet in length by twenty in width. The side walls must be seven or eight feet in height and the roof rises to a ridge about fifteen feet above the ground. Centrally located in the street end of the house is the only door of which it boasts, and perched above and around this dark opening are grisly reminders of deceased foemen who have passed beyond via the roasting-pit. Over each of the doorways hang the skulls of several human beings, interspersed with those of crocodiles that the braves of the household have killed in their hunting-excursions.

Before the first of the shacks a short, forked sapling is planted and from each of the lopped-off branches of the fork there grins at us in loose-jawed mockery a sun-bleached reminder that the Kia Kias are a people of perverted taste. As we near the entrance of this dwelling we are greeted by a savage whom we do not remember having seen before. He is clad in the conventional nothingness, but is adorned with the gayest of feathered headgear. He carries two throwing-spears and a dainty stone mace that would cause complete anæsthesia in an elephant. That stone war-club in the hands of a boy of sixteen would spoil a whole day for us, if he could wield it, but in the hands of the six-foot savage who fashioned it for real use it is positively ruinous.

The black man greets us with a grunt. That grunt may mean anything, we tell ourselves, and proceed to translate it as one of friendliness and welcome. By means of the sign language we endeavor to convey the fact that we are come as friends and are paying our duty call in return for the kindly interest shown us only this morning. During our Delsarte exercises others of the clan approach to gaze at us with suspicious eyes, and Moh, who carries the cameras and a box of tin trinkets intended for the women, draws closer to our heels.

We made presents of tin jewelry to the natives, but what they wanted was tobacco

Feathered head-dresses moving through the tall grass told us of the natives watching our progress toward the kampong

Evidently our meaning becomes clear to them, for they unbend a little and a smile flits over some of the paint-besmeared visages that now surround us. We have come to make some presents to the women, for they rule the kampongs, but just now they are nowhere in sight. We ask for them, and loud chatter ensues. At first the men seem a little dubious as to our intentions, but by showing them a package of tobacco and indicating that they have already tasted of our generosity we make them understand that we merely wish to present the women with a token of our good-will.

One of the crowd is despatched by the chief to round up the timorous females and after some delay they appear, huddled in a hand-holding group, at the other end of the village, which end they firmly refuse to leave. It is beneath the dignity of a white man to go to the native, so we simply stand and wait, though with apparent annoyance. The chief—or, as they call him, kapala kampong—senses that we are somewhat miffed at the reluctance of the women and takes things into his own hands. Turning toward the women, he bellows to them to come immediately. The commands of the chief in matters of this kind seem to carry some weight, for the women saunter in our direction, trying to appear coyly indifferent, but probably scared. Finally, when they have entered the circle of men which opens to receive them, we break the silence and turn to Moh with a request for the box of trinkets. In it are gold-washed bracelets and chains that glitter enticingly in the sunlight, and we expect the women to break into cries of extreme delight when we open it. We are not a little surprised, as we display the contents, at the utter lack of enthusiasm; even when we go so far as to place the necklaces upon them, the women merely regard the trinkets with mild curiosity.