After the heat of midday the men gather in the shade to discuss the latest scandal or politics
As the heat is almost intolerable under our tent, we, too, withdraw to the grateful shade of the fringe of the jungle, and they clear a space for us most genially. There is a little group of them sitting on our left. What they are doing is very interesting. They are eating dried mud. That’s it,—just plain dried mud. We hardly believe it when first it comes to our notice, but upon close examination—and invitation, too, to join them—we find it to be true. The dirt is a sort of heavy yellow clay, of which they have several large chunks. From time to time one or another of them breaks off a portion and crumbles off pieces the size of a thimble which he munches with apparent relish. The dogs, of which there are many, sit within the circle of the group and with hungry eyes watch the proceedings. They refuse the clay if it is offered them, but continue to gaze at their masters just as though they thought the men were fooling them and were in reality eating something palatable to the canine taste.
The clay is washed down with copious drafts of cocoanut water taken a pint at a—well, “irrigation” is the only word that seems to suit the process. In response to our stumbling inquiries as to why they eat dirt, they indicate that it is bagoose, or good for them. We come to the conclusion that it must supply some mineral substance otherwise lacking in then diet.
Some of the men are busy with their toilets. They are all fops when it comes to personal appearance. Several of them are sitting upon their haunches or with outstretched legs, with the inner lid of a Malay tobacco-box held upright for a mirror, busy with a lip-stick of bamboo upon which is smeared a mixture of lime and water. This they spread on in layers of varying thickness; or, if the whim strikes them, they will besoot their already dusky skin with black and outline thereon circles composed of white dots and red lines. One dandy, who has been leisurely fashioning a rattan handle for a stone war-club head, pauses in his labor and from the wicker basket or gauntlet on his arm—which, by the way, is his only pocket—takes a small pouch of kangaroo hide containing his war-paint. This is yellow ochre in its native state. Breaking off a fragment of it, he pulverizes it between his palms, then, with the powder heaped equally in each hand, bends over in the manner of one about to wash the face and briskly rubs the color over his entire face and neck. The surplus he blows off by protuding the lower lip and exhaling forcibly. His exertion over the club handle evidently started the perspiration and this is his method of powdering his nose.
One Beau Brummel whom we dub “Little Playmate” for lack of a better name, because he is really such a hideous sample of humanity, seems to have some difficulty with his breathing and has removed his nose tubes to inspect his nose. The tubes are slightly over an inch in diameter, but the facility with which he reinserts them in the widely distended sides of the nostrils makes evident the fact that he could wear even larger ones without serious discomfort.
The majority of the women are down at the beach, for it is high tide and the surf-fish are close inshore. The women will bring in many of these queer little fellows, which have an odd habit of puffing themselves up like tightly distended rubber balloons the minute they are taken from the water. They are of a bright-blue color when freshly caught, but the delicate hues soon fade, after death, to a somber olive. These fish are considered a delicacy by all of the Malay-speaking peoples, and the Polynesians, too.
As soon as the women return the company in the grove will break up and all will repair to their respective shacks, where they will gather around the fires and roast the fish on spits, eat their sago cake, and at the same time pet the dogs and pigs which wander in and around the family circles, as much at home, and quite as welcome, as any one present. In the waning sunlight of late afternoon these simple groups engaged in homely intercourse at their frugal meals are a pleasing sight. The leaping flames of the firelight cast a ruddy glow over their naked forms, bringing into relief the rugged contours of their torsos and faces. As the evening creeps upon them they drift away, one by one, to the smoke-filled shacks, where the smudge protects them from the mosquitos. By the time darkness has come they are all inside, where they gossip and carry on for an hour or two before finally falling off to sleep.
Eating mud! That’s it, just plain, dried mud