The Resident in Ambon has sent a letter by our steamer, telling of our coming, and has ordered things done for us. It is the way these kindly Dutch officials always treat the visitor. The Controlleur informs us—much to his embarrassment, however—that there is a government charge of what equals thirty-four cents a day for our accommodation. Much as he regrets it, he says, there are no exceptions to this rule. We drown his embarrassment with a liberal libation of Reache’s square-face and, escorted by both of our new friends, go to inspect our quarters. We shall be here in Merauke several days before proceeding up the coast, so we must be very comfortable, they say.

As we near the passangrahan we take note of a group of sheet-iron buildings surrounded by a high wire fence. It is the jail and watching us intently are a score of prisoners. As we look in their direction they break into smiles and call to us in Malay. They are asking us to secure them for additional servants during our stay and, noting our surprise at this, the Controlleur assures us that he will loan us all the help we want. Later he makes good his word, for he sends several of the prisoners over to the resthouse where we have taken up our abode. They are accompanied by a native sergeant, who sits in the shade all day, smoking. He never bothers about what the prisoners are doing and they dutifully report to him at meal-times. In the evening, when their house-cleaning and grass-cutting are over, they line up and return to the jail. We even send them on errands, which they do conscientiously but not at all hastily.

The Controlleur and Reache leave us—to get our things straightened out, they say—and promise to call again to-morrow. They also say that we must meet the other Europeans who are connected with the little trading-company. We shall not be able to see the Assistant Resident on business until the steamer sails, we are informed, for he has many reports to forward to his chief in Ambon. These are always made up at the last moment and the rush is terrible. The assistant is even now writing the first of the two. One of them is to tell the chief that Merauke is still in New Guinea, and the other that we have arrived and are being well cared for. He must rest from this labor for a day; then he will receive us with the formality due the distinguished guest. He will inquire with solicitous concern as to our health, and what we most desire to do, and will grant our every wish, after due deliberation. Things of such weighty nature as our coming on a little friendly visit must be treated with painstaking consideration. It is too warm to decide too much in one day, for then judgment might be erroneous, and—oh, well! why talk business when there is so much else to talk about? There hasn’t been a stranger in Merauke for months, and we can’t blame them, can we? No! We shall let the purpose of our coming go hang, and just sit down and be entertained for the best part of a week. They will enjoy it almost as much as we, so why not?

At the passangrahan we find that Moh has dinner ready. He shows us where the bath-house is and we go there and revel in the cool splashing of the water upon our perspiring bodies. The mode of bathing, here, is new to us, but we feel we shall come to like it. The bath-house is exactly like all others found throughout the Dutch East Indies. It is placed right alongside the cook-house, which is detached from the main bungalow, that the heat and smell of cooking may not invade the domain of the Tuan.

Within the palm-thatched room are several great jars of rain-water, a wooden grid to stand upon, and a tin dipper of gallon size. One drenches himself from head to foot, lathers thoroughly, then sluices down with more gallons and the bath is complete. It is quick, easy, and exhilarating. We are told not to try it much after nightfall, however, unless we wish to be eaten alive. There are cannibalistic mosquitos here that will charge en masse, drive in their lances, and bear you away in chunks. They are nocturnal in their habits and we are profoundly thankful that this is so, for at night one sleeps behind a protecting klambu or mosquito curtain which completely enshrouds the bed. There one falls into slumber secure from their attacks and lulled by their incessant droning. Now and then some persistent fellow manages to find entrance and one becomes aware of a more shrill note in the general hum that increases in pitch until it is punctuated with a hesitant quaver followed by a red-hot stab,—upon almost any spot, but generally on the temple, where it accomplishes most. This is the occasion of two things. The first, a hunting-expedition with a lighted wax taper, which ends in the incineration of the intruder, and an angry determination to murder Moh the very next morning for leaving an opening in the folds of the net. Justly or unjustly, Moh always serves as scapegoat. He thrives on it.

Dinner over, we hunt up a tin cigar box to serve as an ash-tray and take it to bed with us. It is too early to go to sleep and too mosquito-y, if I may use the term, to be up and around. In New Guinea one hides from these pests as soon as darkness falls. Moh, though he has a leather skin, builds a great smudge of cocoanut husks. The smoke of it makes him weep and gasp, but he persists in his friendly gossip with a man from Java lately come to Merauke, telling him the latest news and of his latest wife. The other listens with sparkling eyes and rapt attention to Moh’s description.

CHAPTER III
The Kampong

To-day the assistant is resting. The steamer is gone. We shall go hunting adventure on our own. Four miles inland there is a kampong where live about fifty Kia Kias. As the day is warm we will put on the lightest clothing we have and go there. We cannot miss the way, for the only road of which the country boasts passes the place. It leads to a deceased missionary’s little plantation about three miles farther on.

Each of the men has perforated the septum of his nose to permit inserting a pair of boar-tusks