Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

TWO YEARS AMONG NEW

GUINEA CANNIBALS

TWO NEW GUINEA DANDIES.
They are natives of Dinawa. Notice their tight-laced waists and the nose ornaments (chimani) of polished shell.

TWO YEARS AMONG NEW GUINEA CANNIBALS
A Naturalist’s Sojourn among the Aborigines of Unexplored New Guinea

By

A. E. PRATT

Gill Memorialist, Royal Geographical Society, 1891 Author of “To the Snows of Tibet through China,” etc.

With Notes and Observations by his Son

HENRY PRATT

And Appendices on the Scientific Results of the Expedition

With 54 Illustrations and a Map

PHILADELPHIA

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

LONDON: SEELEY & CO. Ltd.

1906

Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.

At the Ballantyne Press

TO

MY WIFE

THE COMPANION, PRESENT OR ABSENT OF MY MANY WANDERINGS

PREFACE

This record of two years’ scientific work in the only country of the globe that has still escaped exploration purposely avoids the dry detail of a Natural History Report, such as might properly be submitted to a learned society, and is intended rather to set forth to the general reader the vicissitudes of the traveller’s daily life in unknown New Guinea, or Papua as I prefer to call it. Every hour brought a new interest, and it was with the intention of trying to communicate some impression of that wonderful land in which we sojourned, that the present account has been undertaken. If the result is disappointing to the reader, the fault must lie with the writer and not with Papua.

During my brief residences in the known parts of New Guinea, I received much kind assistance and furtherance in my marches into the wilds from officials, missionaries, and settlers, and I would here especially acknowledge my indebtedness to his Excellency the Lieutenant-Governor, Mr. G. Ruthven Le Hunte, Mr. A. Musgrave, C.B., Captain Barton, the Hon. D. Ballantine, Mr. Robert Hislop, and Mr. James Wood; His Grace Archbishop Navarre, Coadjutor Bishop de Boismenu, both of the Sacred Heart Mission; Dr. Laws and the Rev. H. Dauncey of the London Missionary Society.

The Dutch officials to whom I am under deep obligations are Mr. Kroesen, the Resident of Merauke, Mr. M. C. Schadee, the Controller, and also the captain of the gunboat Neas.

For permission to reprint the section on the Lakatois and several other passages I am indebted to the Wide World Magazine, and the chapter on “British Trade Prospects in New Guinea” is given by consent of the British Trade Journal.

My particular acknowledgments are due to Messrs. G. H. Kendrick, Mr. G. T. Bethune Baker, F.L.S., and Miss Wilmott, without whose help the expedition could not have been undertaken, and I must also mention Mr. S. H. Soper, F.R.G.S., another friend whose interest and assistance was of the greatest value to me.

A. E. P.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

CHAPTER I
BREAKING THE GROUND

The Author’s many Journeys—New Guinea more interesting than all—The Second Largest Island in the World, and the last to guard its Secrets from Man—Its Vast Possibilities to the Trader and the Man of Science—Great Riches in Birds and Insects—770 known Species of Birds—The People—Their many Dialects—A Geographical Reason for this—Toilsome Travel—Razor-like Ridges in Endless Succession—The Author’s Camps—Journeys Outlined—In Unexplored Country—Gorgeous Scenery—Variations of Temperature—The Chief Bugbear, Transport.

TWO YEARS AMONG NEW GUINEA CANNIBALS

CHAPTER I

BREAKING THE GROUND

In the course of thirty years of almost continuous journeyings in both hemispheres, it has been my fortune to stray far from the beaten tracks and to know something of the spell and mystery of the earth’s solitudes. My work in quest of additions to the great natural history collections, both public and private, of England, and to a less extent of France, has led me to the Rocky Mountains, the Amazons, the Republic of Colombia, the Yangtse gorges, and the snows of Tibet; but it is safe to say that none of these has aroused my interest and curiosity in so great a degree as the scene of my latest and my next expedition, the still almost unexplored Papua, second largest of the world’s islands, and almost the last to guard its secrets from the geographer, the naturalist, and the anthropologist.

Fifty years ago, schoolboys, looking at their map of Africa, blessed the Dark Continent for an easy place to learn. A few names fringed the coast: inland nearly all was comprehended under the cheerful word “unexplored.” Such in great measure is the case with New Guinea to-day. Its 300,000 square miles of territory, held by Great Britain, Germany, and the Netherlands, and now lying fallow, are destined in the course of the next half-century to enrich the worlds of commerce and of science to a degree that may to some extent be forecast by what is already known of very restricted areas. What New Guinea may become to the trader is outlined later in the present volume, merely, be it noted, from the outside observer’s point of view, but this of course has in it a large measure of uncertainty, contingent on conditions of

“Labour and the changing mart and all the framework of the land.”

Be this as it may, one thing remains sure, the extraordinary value of Papua to the man of science, particularly to the entomologist and the ornithologist. In the department of ornithology alone, we already know of 770 different species of birds inhabiting the mainland and the islands, which places it in this respect far above Australia, which, with a superficial area nine times greater, possesses less than 500 species in all.

LAKATOIS PREPARING TO SAIL.

The ethnologist, too, has in Papua a happy hunting ground; for the tribes on the fringe of exploration present wonderful varieties of type, and as the mountain fastnesses of the interior are gradually opened up, there can be no doubt that rich material for the propounding of new problems and perhaps the solution of old ones will come to light. Language is curiously diversified: here you meet a tribe with a distinct speech, and camping near them for a time you learn the common currency of their tongue; a few miles further on appears another people, perhaps not greatly differing in type, but with another language altogether. Thus at Dinawa, where we were encamped for five months on the foot-hills of the Owen Stanley range, the native phrase for “Make up the fire” was “Aloba di”; while at Foula, only eighteen miles away as the crow flies, but far further on foot, the phrase ran “Aukida pute.” It is in the statement “far further on foot,” of course, that the main reason of this linguistic variation is chiefly to be found; for travel in the Papuan highlands is extraordinarily toilsome, owing to the exceeding abruptness of the configuration, and the endless succession of almost razor-like ridges. Thus the tribes are confined to narrow areas. Long rough ascents and descents and devious windings are the portion of the wayfarer who wishes to reach some spot that may even be visible from his last halting-place. This experience, and our entire dependence on native carriers to transport our heavy baggage, with the various contretemps and difficulties besetting the conduct of such a caravan, tempted me at one time to call this book “Ups and Downs in Papua,” as being at once literally and metaphorically true and descriptive.

Despite the difficulty of migration, however, it is certain that had our mission been one of exploration pure and simple we could, during our two years’ sojourn, have traversed a far more extensive region than we did. But our first concern was the examination of the butterflies, moths, and birds of the Owen Stanley range, and that within particular and somewhat restricted areas, so that our work necessitated encamping sometimes for months at a time at one particular spot, in order that the collection and preservation of our specimens might be carried on under the most advantageous conditions possible in such a wilderness. To this end we built two permanent camps, one at Dinawa, and the other at Ekeikei, at altitudes of 3600 and 1500 feet respectively. From these bases we made short expeditions in various directions, and established temporary camps on the St. Joseph River, Mount Kebea, and finally at Mafalu, our highest point of attainment, 6000 feet above the level of the sea among the fastnesses of the Owen Stanley range. But even that altitude is comparatively insignificant in the magnificent highlands of Papua. The higher we rose it was only to catch sight of still loftier ranges that piled peak on peak as far as the eye could reach. The only one of these that has as yet been trodden by the white man is Mount Victoria, which rises to a height of 13,000 feet. This was made the objective of a special expedition by Sir William Macgregor, who recently crossed British New Guinea, a journey which took him fifty-one days to accomplish. Sir William has also explored the Fly River tentatively, and D’Albertis followed its course for 600 or 700 miles; but when these achievements are mentioned, one has exhausted nearly all the serious efforts that have been made in Papuan exploration. Within the last year the Netherlands officials have issued a map that makes many valuable additions to our knowledge of the topography of the coast-line of their territory.

It may make for clearness in following my journeys if the reader will at this point submit for a moment to the drudgery of a brief examination of the map, for my trail exhibits various doublings backwards and forwards, and consequently exposes the narrative to the risk of confusion, unless the main outline of the itinerary be followed. It had been my intention to work first in Dutch New Guinea, but various accidents, and the hostility of a warlike tribe, brought these plans to an untimely end, and I had to spend the greater part of my time within the borders of the British possession. Port Moresby, the British Government station, consequently became my main base of operations, and it was in a north-westerly and south-easterly direction from that settlement that my journeyings lay. On the first of these I went by sea from Port Moresby north-west to Yule Island, separated from the mainland by Hall Sound, and then I struck up the Ethel River as far as Oo-fa-fa, where we began our march into the interior. The chief points of the route as noted on the map were Epa and Ekeikei, Madui, and then on to Dinawa, where we established our first camp, and settled down for five months’ work, which included a short expedition to the St. Joseph River. Returning to Port Moresby, and having some time to spare, I and my son went down the coast 75 miles to the south-east, partly on foot, partly by boat, by way of Tupeselae, Kappa-kappa, Kalo, and Kerapuna, as far as Hood’s Bay, a journey rather of observation than of exploration, for the region is within the sphere of missionary enterprise, and cannot be regarded as altogether unknown, although the geographer has not yet by any means had his last word upon it. Reaching Port Moresby by a reversal of the same route, we returned once more to Yule Island, and struck inland by way of Mekeo and Epa to Ekeikei, where we built our second and most elaborate camp, which served us as the base for our furthest journey to Mount Kebea, and thence inland by way of Googoolee, Cooloo-coolu, Babooni, Amana, Foula, and Avola, to Mafalu, our highest point.

It may be worth while noting that as soon as we had passed Bioto Creek on the Ethel River, existing maps ceased to be of use to us, and with the exception of a few vaguely indicated mountains, presented a complete blank. Such outlines of topography as we have filled in give in every case the native name of the place. The fashion of rechristening localities, although often complimentary to European explorers and their friends, pastors, masters, and disciples, and probably commemorative of a discovery, seems to me always to sever an interesting link with the country under examination. For this reason I prefer the melodious native name Papua to its western supplanter New Guinea.

A FEATHERED ARTIST, THE BOWER-BIRD, WITH HIS HOUSE AND GARDEN.
He distinguishes between colours, lays out his garden in alternate rows of white and mauve flowers.

Our chief movements inland may comprehensively be taken to lie within a region bounded by a radius of 50 miles around Delana on Hall Sound. On entering the unexplored region we found ourselves at first in a flat, swampy country, intersected by a few tiny creeks, some not more than two feet wide, running through grass. We next passed the eucalyptus belt and then came the forest proper, in which the trees were at first set in isolated patches. Undergrowth there was, but it did not attain any density, and at intervals we could trace the trails of the sandalwood cutter. Not long after leaving Oo-fa-fa we found a rocky eminence, from which we enjoyed a lovely view of the entire Bioto Creek winding between a dense border of mangroves, the vivid green of which marked the course of the inlet, even when the shimmer of the water in the sunlight was entirely veiled by the overhanging vegetation. Beyond lay the broader waters of Hall Sound, bounded by the wooded shores of Yule Island, and to the west we could descry Nicora, a small village on a hill of red clay. The vista was closed by the sea, and in the clear atmosphere the picture was one to be remembered. We then entered a flat tract, an apparent plateau, at a height of 1000 feet, and for a time travelling was over comparatively easy ground, but at Epa the forest and our difficulties began in earnest. Henceforward we had to depend on one or two trails very difficult to follow, and hills and valleys became continuous. Fifteen miles inland lay before us a line of rugged peaks, whither we were bound, but many more miles than fifteen would have to be covered before we reached them. Further off still towered Mount Yule, our first glimpse of the Papuan Alps. Passing Ekeikei we entered the region of ridges, often scarcely twelve inches wide, and affording only the most precarious foothold. The path as we rose became still more rugged, and was crossed by numerous creeks. Then the character of the forest changed, and we traversed damp and gloomy tracts, where the thick vegetation excluded the sunlight. The track at this point skirted vast and threatening precipices. At Madui we encountered peaty and spongy ground, thickly interwoven with roots, which impeded our progress and made the advance peculiarly toilsome, and the last stage to Dinawa was a long dip and a longer ascent. Once there, however, we were rewarded by a delightfully bracing climate and a glorious panorama of mountain scenery, a delight we often longed for at Mafalu, our furthest and highest point, where all view, save through an opening we ourselves cut in the trees, was denied us. Even that was generally obscured, so incessant was the rain and wetting mist. At favourable moments, however, we would see through our clearing the sunlight in the valley far below us, although we ourselves, dwelling as we did among the clouds, were denied that boon.

Such then, in brief outline, were the changes of scenery through which we passed. The alternations of climate were not less varied. In Dutch New Guinea it was very hot and humid, often 150° F. in the sun and 110° in the shade. On “cool” nights we had temperatures varying from 75° to 80°. At Port Moresby 160° was no uncommon temperature, and this was rendered worse by the lack of shade and the stony, arid country. The great heat begins to be felt about 11 A.M., and lasts until 3 P.M. during the season of the N.W. monsoon. The atmosphere is, however, fairly dry at times, and the highest temperature is not nearly so unendurable as I have found 90° in the shade at Manaos, at the confluence of the Amazon and the Rio Negro, where the air is saturated, and one sits mopping oneself continually and praying for sunset, although even that brings but slight relief. This never happens at Port Moresby, where there is sometimes a pleasantly cool evening. Towards nightfall the S.E. monsoon dies away, and the same holds good for Yule Island and Hood’s Bay. For some distance inland these conditions prevail, but after Ekeikei (1500 feet) there is a decided change. Considerable humidity prevails in the forest, and although at midday the heat is scarcely less oppressive than on the coast, yet the traveller is sustained by the prospect of relief, for the evenings are deliciously cool. The average day, too, was not unbearably hot at these higher altitudes. In the neighbourhood of the Deeanay precipice, owing to the dense forest and the plentiful streams, it is quite cool all day, and at Dinawa (3600 feet), although we have recorded noon temperatures of 120° in the sun, the average at 4 A.M. was from 63° to 65°. Winds were infrequent, but at night there was a brief land breeze from the higher mountains.

On the Kebea the climatic conditions are very similar, but there is more mist, and in the morning the valleys are filled with great masses of white rolling cloud, which rise and disappear as the sun gains power. These vapours sometimes assume a perfectly level surface, so that they resemble an ocean or a vast plain of snow, through which the higher peaks rise like islands. At Mafalu the average temperature was down to 59° F. at nights, and highest in day 80° under the leafage of the forest, and mist and rain were almost continual from 11 A.M. to 3 P.M. As the sun sank the heavens would clear, and the mist floated past in thin wreaths, or lay still in long, ghostly trails if no wind blew. The nights were often cold, and these altered conditions were not without their visible effect on animated nature, for at Mafalu the insects changed, and we secured a fine selection of Lepidoptera we had not met with before.

This brief sketch of the configuration and conditions of the country through which we travelled may, I trust, serve as a key to the more detailed account of our journey, and with the directions and altitudes thus succinctly placed before him, the reader may possibly find it easier to follow us up hill and down dale. There is one more point I would venture to impress upon him, a point which will recur again and again—he may fancy ad nauseam—the difficulties of transport in Papua. But that was the main crux of our experience, and its importance can hardly be realised by one who has not undergone similar troubles. You are entirely in the hands of the natives, without whom you cannot stir a foot. All your impedimenta, your food, stores, scientific implements, and “trade” (material for barter, the equivalent of ready money) must go on the backs of your cannibal friends, a people without organisation, who are hard to collect and hard to persuade to follow you. It is necessary to rely on yourself to secure followers, though here and there a chief may aid you. One such, the greatest “character” we encountered in Papua, will be introduced to the reader at the proper place. On the march continual apprehension besets the traveller lest his carriers bolt, for if this happened in the interior he would be done for, and he would have a terrible business to get out of the country, if indeed he got out at all. Hence the reason why I have dwelt on our perpetually recurring difficulties with carriers, for the natives were veritably our staff and scrip; and had these failed us at a crucial moment, our expedition would have broken down utterly, to the great loss of those who had risked much on the undertaking.

GUARDING THE WORKERS.
Cultivated ground is generally some distance from the villages. It is tilled by young women, who are guarded by young natives armed with spears.

On the commission of several friends, all scientific enthusiasts, whom I have named elsewhere, I and my son Harry, a lad of sixteen, left England in January 1901, and sailed eastward on board the Duke of Sutherland to Thursday Island, whence we proceeded on board the Netherlands gunboat Neas to Dutch New Guinea. My brief stay there, and the disappointments that led to my seeking a different field of operations, form the subject of the following chapter.

CHAPTER II
DISAPPOINTMENTS IN DUTCH NEW GUINEA

Dutch New Guinea—The Coast—Unsavoury Mud-banks—Merauke—The Dutch Settlement described—Its Wonderful Modernity—A Fierce Tribe, the Tugeri, now described for the First Time—Their Appearance and Habits—Their Continual Murderous Raids—The Fearful Bamboo Knife—Scientific Work here impossible owing to Danger of going beyond Settlement Boundaries—Outbreak of a Mysterious Disease at Merauke—Its Swift Deadliness—The Symptoms—Determine to leave Dutch New Guinea and prepare for a March into the Unexplored Interior.

CHAPTER II

DISAPPOINTMENTS IN DUTCH NEW GUINEA

As we approached the shores of Dutch New Guinea, we first descried low-lying tracts of marshy land. To the water’s edge came tall trees loaded with orchids of the most brilliant hues and of many varieties, notably the Dendrobium. The mangrove swamps, elsewhere so common in New Guinea, were here entirely absent. Under the trees, close even to the water’s brink, could be seen a dense tangled undergrowth. There was no beach, only muddy shores. At low tide the water recedes, probably for a quarter of a mile, leaving hard mud flats capable of sustaining men bare-foot. During the winter monsoon a heavy surf would break on these flats, but we arrived in fine weather, and the water was perfectly calm.

Of course, the Neas could not go inshore, but had to stand off to a distance of at least ten miles, and we had to land by the boat. A prominent feature of the landscape was a great spreading tree, which the Dutch sailors had taken as their chief bearing for finding the mouth of the Merauke River. Had the hostile natives only known how the access to their jealously guarded territory depended upon that one landmark, it would certainly not have been allowed to stand long. These characteristic shores fringe the mouth of the Merauke River, which empties itself through a small estuary about three times as wide as the Thames at Greenwich. It is navigable for about six miles, and at the furthest end it so narrows that the vessel could be put about only by a clever manœuvre, during which her bow and stern all but touched the banks. With a small survey boat, however, such as the Neas, drawing from 10 to 12 feet of water, the river may be navigated for about 160 miles. From larger vessels lying in the river off the new Dutch settlement of Merauke, which was our point of arrival, it was usual to land in a small dinghy.

A row of a few yards brought us to a primitive staging, built on piles, supporting a floating platform of logs, very slippery with the slime left by the river at high tide. These treacherous logs were far enough apart to permit of a man’s slipping easily between them into the unsavoury stream. Unsavoury indeed it was, for the waters of the Merauke are blue with a greasy alluvial deposit, closely resembling the “blue slipper” so well known to geologists in the Isle of Wight. The Dutch Settlement lay close to the landing-stage. It presented a rough collection of houses and barracks for the Netherlands troops. The largest building was the barracks, a fairly well-built structure of wood, capable of accommodating all the Dutch troops, a force of about 150. The house of Mr. Kroesen, who was at that time the Resident, was quite an attractive building, with a glass roof and thin bamboo walls hung with a few curtains. It contained ten apartments, all on the ground floor. Next in importance was the house of the Comptroller, Mr. Schadee, which had only one apartment, with a large projecting roof and a fine verandah, under which the Comptroller entertained his friends. A little distance away were the open sleeping sheds of the Javanese convicts who had been brought there to build the Settlement and to drain the marsh.

CURIOUS DRUMS OF THE TUGERI (DUTCH NEW GUINEA).
The body of the drum is cut and hollowed from a solid trunk, and curiously carved. The drumheads are of lizard skin.

It is curious that the Dutch always choose low-lying spots for their settlements. Some instinct of home seems to draw them to the flat lands, and better sites at a loftier elevation are neglected. Merauke, however, was chosen for another reason. The Dutch had been good enough to make their Settlement here to prevent the Tugeri from making raids on to the British territory. The thoroughness of the Dutch character, however, appears in the equipment of their station. When I arrived at Merauke the Settlement was only two months old, but it was already furnished with every accessory of civilisation, even including iron lamp-posts from Europe. It offered, in this respect, a striking contrast to the old British Settlement of Port Moresby. Merauke was built in a forest clearing, and the Dutch had already laid out gardens after the Netherlands pattern, and were raising vegetables in the coffee-coloured soil—the result of centuries of alluvial deposit—a soil so rich and productive that beans may be gathered three weeks after being sown. The gardening is carried on entirely by the civilians, the officers and men confining themselves exclusively to their military duties. As the Settlement had been established in the centre of a dangerous and turbulent district, it was protected with barbed wire defences and with a ring of block-houses on the landward side. The state of unrest then prevailing prevented me from carrying on my scientific work. I had come to Merauke to explore and collect in new territory, but the long-standing difficulty with the warlike Tugeri tribe was still acute, and the very day after I landed we had abundant proof of how unwise it would be to penetrate into the interior. On that day three or four Javanese convicts who were working on the edge of the clearing were heard to shout as though in distress. In five minutes an armed guard was on the spot, but all the convicts were found decapitated by the head-hunting Tugeri. The heads had been taken off with the bamboo knife so cleverly, that the doctor on board our ship told me that no surgeon with the latest surgical instruments could have removed so many heads in so short a time.

This bamboo knife of the Tugeri is a very remarkable weapon. It is simply a piece of cane stripped off from the parent stem, leaving a natural edge as keen as the finest tempered steel.

Nor was this the only outrage. A Chinese woman had died, and had been buried in the graveyard near the Settlement. The next morning the grave was found to have been violated, the head taken, and all the clothing removed. The Tugeri never showed themselves all this time, but it was known that they were watching Merauke from the dense screen of undergrowth which came down to the edge of the clearing.

British settlers on the western boundary of British New Guinea have for a long time been harassed by Tugeri raiders from the Dutch side, and the Lieutenant-Governor’s report for 1899–1900 contains an exhaustive account of the negotiations between the British and Dutch authorities for the suppression of these outrages and the indemnification of sufferers. In 1896 Sir William Macgregor undertook a punitive expedition against the Tugeri, and at the time believed that he had finally driven them out of British territory; but during a murderous raid on the Sanana tribe, shortly before 1900, many persons were killed and carried away. The chief result of the negotiations, apart from the settlement of indemnity and the undertaking of search for missing persons, was the Dutch decision to appoint a resident official for that part of their territory which adjoins the British possessions. Hence the establishment of the Merauke Settlement, and the appointment of Mr. Kroesen to take charge of it. The Netherlands Government has guaranteed a special sum for the administration of Merauke, and the Dutch officers there have also been authorised to correspond directly with the British officers in the western division on matters requiring their mutual attention, instead of, as the Blue Book says, “by the circumlocutory channels of their respective Governments.”

My opportunities for observing the Tugeri were, therefore, necessarily limited, but I am, I believe, the first person who has made any study of this remarkable tribe, and, as far as I am aware, they have remained hitherto undescribed. They are a very numerous people, inhabiting a tract of country extending as far west as the Marianne Strait, and as far east as the Fly River at longitude 141°. Inland their boundaries are unknown, but it is probable that they extend a considerable distance from the coast. They are known to have co-terminous boundaries with the Kewi people, from whom the British draw their police, and who are first found at the mouth of the Fly River.

The first to visit the Tugeri was a renegade missionary, who had absconded with some of the mission funds. He came upon the tribe by accident. They captured him, took away his boat, his clothes, and all that he possessed. Curiously enough they did not kill him, but gave him a house and food. He stayed with them on very friendly terms for about six months, and was at length taken off by a schooner which chanced to touch on the coast.

The second white man who observed them was Captain Pym, who is said to have been the discoverer of the Merauke River, and who was certainly one of the first traders there.

The Tugeri are a fine race, very fierce, and absolutely unspoiled by European vices. The men stand about 5 feet 8 inches on an average, and are clean-limbed, powerful fellows, capable of any amount of endurance. As a race, they are broad-shouldered, sinewy, and of enormous strength. No European can draw their bow. This weapon is made of a longitudinal section of the bamboo. Near the grip the diameter is about 3½ inches, and the wood tapers at each end to a diameter of ¾–inch. The string is of twisted fibre, and the arrow, which is made of a reed, carries to a distance of at least 300 yards. Like all savages, they are admirable marksmen.

THE NATIVE METHOD OF TREE CLIMBING.

In the typical Merauke Tugeri the head is rather conical, and the forehead high but receding. The hair is sparse, beginning well up on the cranium, and falling in long strands to the middle of the back beyond the shoulder blades. The hair is plaited with grass and string, and from the plait at the back rises a single osprey feather. The eyebrows are straight and meeting, the eyes black, large, and heavy. The nose is broad and flat, but with a prominent bridge, the mouth degraded and fatuous, but the lips neither so thick nor so protruding as the negro’s. The ears lie fairly flat to the head, and are not abnormally large. The men wear an enormous ear ornament of bamboo bent into an open ring. Round the periphery of this ring the flesh of the lobe of the ear, previously perforated, is stretched in infancy, and as the individual grows the natural spring of the bamboo stretches the flesh more and more, until in manhood a loop is formed big enough to hold a ring of at least 4 inches in diameter. It is extraordinary how the tribesmen contrive to move amidst the tangled forest without hindrance from this abnormal expansion of the lobe, the most unusual flesh decoration to be found amongst mankind. When the bamboo is out the loop hangs like a long pendant, a perfect skein of flesh, a peculiarly hideous accessory of savage adornment. Some of the Tugeri wear an apology for a beard, or rather two scraggy tufts of hair depending from each side of the chin. The use of pomatum in any form is unknown. The teeth are strong and fairly regular, but perfectly brown, owing to the habit of chewing the betel-nut.

For personal adornment the Tugeri wear two crossed straps of dogs’ teeth strung together with grass. Each strap is about 3 inches wide, and is formed of nine parallel rows of teeth. The strap that rests on the left shoulder passes under the right armpit; that over the right shoulder passes outside the left arm above the elbow. The straps are lightly fastened at the point where they cross the breast. Round the right arm, just above the elbow, they wear a curious armlet. In the case of the richer tribesmen this is of shell, decorated with grass, or of grass decorated with shell. The breadth is from 5 to 6 inches. On the stomach to the right are two or three horizontal scars made by cutting or burning. These are self-inflicted for superstitious reasons. The lower part of the stomach is tightly drawn in (often extremely tight) with a coil of finely plaited fibre. This seems to be worn for elegance alone, and tight-lacing is a ruling fashion among the Tugeri dandies: the tighter the lacing the greater the dandy. From fifteen to sixteen years of age the young men are hopeless victims to fashion. The Tugeri go bare-foot, but wear grass anklets adorned with shells, which rattle like castanets as they walk. I observed, however, no dances, although these, I understand, are performed in their villages. For decency’s sake they wear a shell after the manner of the statuesque fig-leaf, and their costume is completed by a necklace of dogs’ teeth and small pieces of bone, such treasures as a savage prizes.

Despite the natural ferocity of the Tugeri, the tribe is not without some rudimentary notions of courtesy, and they paid the Dutch on their arrival a similar compliment to that paid to Captain Cook, that is to say, they were good enough to offer to provide wives for the sailors from among their own women. Certain traders in British New Guinea are not above accepting this civility, for the possession of a native woman is often a valuable business asset. Some sandalwood cutters, for example, frequently make these left-handed marriages, for the mistress is influential in obtaining workers for her husband from among her own people. One sandalwood cutter, a Malay, who has made a large fortune at his trade, could always obtain double the number of labourers procurable by any other trader on account of his liaison with a native woman, by whom he has a large family. His numerous Papuan blood-relations stand him in good stead in his business.

The houses of the Tugeri are built of grass and bamboo. The walls rise to a height of about ten feet and are covered with a span roof. I observed their villages only from a distance, however, and never accompanied the Dutch soldiers on any of their expeditions. Some of the villages are very large, consisting of two or three hundred houses. Near the townships immense cocoanut plantations invariably occur, and these seem to form the chief wealth of the Tugeri.

A strange part of the Tugeri’s paraphernalia was their extraordinary drums. The body of these, shaped like a dice-box, was hewn out of a solid log, hollowed, and curiously carved. Midway at the narrowest point was a clumsy handle, also hewn from the log. The drum heads are of lizard skin. The performer carries the instrument by the handle in the left hand, and beats with his right. The noise is prodigious.

The tribe domesticates the gaura. This bird has frequently been described by naturalists, but a short account of it may not be inopportune here, as I was fortunate in obtaining many good specimens of it. The gaura is half as large again as the guinea-fowl, and weighs from five to ten pounds. The beak is longer than that of the ordinary pigeon, but is not large in proportion to the bird. It has the ordinary characteristics of the pigeon beak. The head is small, the neck short, the body full and fleshy, and remarkably fine eating. The back is broad and rounded, the legs brightish red and characteristically those of the pigeon breed. The plumage of the head is a bluish silver grey with a fine crest of a lighter shade. The crest feathers are very open in their branching. When erected, the crest spreads out like a fan and makes a noble display. The breast feathers are a rich maroon, the wings and back a bluish slate colour. There are white patches on the wings, which are tipped with maroon. The tail feathers continue the shade of the back until within two inches of the extremity, when they are graduated into a lovely grey, almost matching that of the crest. For all its fine looks it is a silly bird, short and heavy of flight, and easily killed when once found. The sportsman locates the gaura by its booming sound.

My ten days’ stay at Merauke was a time of strange misfortune, and while there I had the unenviable opportunity of observing a very serious outbreak of a mysterious disease, which was said to be that deadly beri-beri, which has lately been occupying the minds of men of science. For some time there had been isolated cases among the Javanese convicts, but about the second week in April the Dutch authorities became greatly alarmed by the spread of the disease. Cases were reported daily, and all proved fatal. At last the deaths reached the terrible figure of 160 in ten days. The victims were all Javanese, the officials and natives went unscathed. The doctors of the Dutch Colony were very able men, but no relief could be given to the patient beyond administering anæsthetics. I question whether it was rightly styled beri-beri, for in South America, at Manaos on the Rio Negro, I have seen cases of the disease among the Portuguese rubber gatherers, but these bore no resemblance to the sickness at Merauke. The sufferers in South America were generally men who led isolated lives in the vast forests of the Amazons, gathering the sap of the hevea braziliensis, and living for long periods on bad food. Victims of this type of beri-beri generally live for nine months, and those of strong constitution and in whom the swelling had not risen above the knees recovered. If the patient lives the old life and continues the old diet in the forest, the disease gradually ascends until it gets above the knees, and then its course becomes very rapid until it reaches the heart.

I myself caught beri-beri on the Rio Branco, and first noted its presence by the discovery of a numb spot about the size of a halfpenny on each ankle. The Brazilian medical men assured me that nowhere in South America could I hope to get better, and I was ordered to quit the country at once. Before I reached Havre the numbness was greatly reduced, the affected patch being then the size of a farthing, and two months after I reached home, it vanished. In Columbia I have observed exactly the same form of the disease as on the Amazons.

In Merauke, however, sufferers from the so-called beri-beri had no seizure of paralysis in the lower extremities. It was always in the abdomen, and was accompanied by the most excruciating agony. Death usually came in four hours. There was no relief from pain; the intestines seemed to be knotted, the patients face was pale and agonised. He continually moaned, strained forward and doubled his body. He held his stomach with both hands, and occasionally lay down and rolled, and as the end approached, the intestines seemed to be forced upwards towards the thorax, and there was great swelling. The doctors tried poultices and fomentations in vain. They also administered castor oil without affording any alleviation of the suffering. Perfect consciousness remained until the very end, and the last thing the patient always asked for was fruit. Five minutes after making this request, he was dead.

One evening we spent with Mr. Schadee on his verandah, there was with us his Javanese clerk (not a convict), who was enjoying his cigarette and apparently in the best of health. The next morning he was dead. Our carpenter on board the Van Doorn was carried off with equal suddenness, and he, curiously enough, had never been on shore all the time of the epidemic. The victims were always buried within five hours. As to the communication of infection, it is doubtful whether the disease was due in each case to external causes, or whether once having broken out it spread from man to man. The bad rice,[^[1]] on which the Javanese live, may have been the cause. At the same time it may be noted, that the convicts were working in the abominable blue mud of the river. Another article of diet supplied to the Javanese was dried fish, very ill cured, or rather not cured at all, and most offensive to European nostrils.

[1]. Since these lines were written an eminent medical man, a specialist on beri-beri, has publicly advanced this view.—E. A. P.

A LAKATOI (SAILING RAFT OF CANOES) AT ANCHOR AND A DWELLING-HOUSE BUILT OVER THE WATER.

The epidemic was very costly to the Netherlands Government. The Van Swoll, a Dutch merchantman, laden with the necessary plant for establishing a settlement, was at that time lying at Merauke. After the beri-beri broke out, there was no labour available to unload the vessel. Mr. Kroesen accordingly decided to ship the surviving convicts on board the Van Swoll, and send her back to Amboina. There she placed the convicts in a sanatorium, and went on to Timor to procure a fresh batch of convicts, who were to return with her to Merauke and unload her. The delay to the Van Swoll alone cost the Dutch Government 800 guilders a day.

No doubt a settlement in a low miasmatic country is in itself unfavourable, but I am inclined to attribute the disease to bad diet. This so-called beri-beri occurs also in the native princes’ prisons in India, where the food is very bad. I am disposed to believe that the Javanese were rendered liable to attack, because their blood had been impoverished by several years of poor feeding before they came to Merauke, and that the climate and worse food than they had had in Java made them ready to receive the germs of the disease.

Such was my visit to Dutch New Guinea. The hostility of the Tugeri and the prevalence of disease rendered scientific work out of the question, and accordingly after ten days I returned to Port Moresby, there to secure means of transport for an expedition into the interior of British New Guinea, where I proposed to continue my studies of the Lepidoptera peculiar to that region.

CHAPTER III
CHANGES AND STRANGE SCENES

We sail to Thursday Island—A Rough Voyage in a Cattle-boat—A Glimpse of Thursday Island—The Wonderful Colour of its Waters—We reach Port Moresby—Contrast to the Scenery of Dutch New Guinea—Magnificent Mountains—Evidences of Drought—Vegetation burnt up—The British Government Post of Port Moresby described—A Good Second to Hades or Aden—The Great Sight of Port Moresby—A Community of Hereditary Potters—The Pottery Trading Fleet—The Strange Vessels called Lakatois—Their Structure—Native Orgies before the Expedition starts—A New Guinea Ballet on Deck—Seclusion of Women after the Young Braves depart with the Fleet—My Inland Expedition fitted out—Official Courtesy—Details of Baggage—Transport procured after Immense Trouble.

CHAPTER III

CHANGES AND STRANGE SCENES

While I lay at Merauke on board the Van Doorn, the steamship Moresby was signalled. On this I obtained a passage to Port Moresby, the seat of government in British New Guinea, so I accordingly bade farewell to Captain De Jong of the Van Doorn, and in due course we weighed anchor for Thursday Island, at which the steamer was to touch on her voyage. The Moresby could not approach Merauke nearer than twelve miles, so we went out to her on a small petrol launch. There happened to be a tremendous swell on at the time, and when we came alongside the Moresby we found that the deck of the launch was often ten feet from the companion, and we had to watch our opportunity to get on board. It was quite half-an-hour before we succeeded.

We found our steamer by no means attractive. She was most unsavoury on account of the cattle carried for the ship’s use. The cabins were below and very hot, for the vessel had been built for a cool climate, and was not at all suited for tropical trade. She was an ordinary cargo boat, and could not usually steam faster than eight knots an hour.

A run of twenty-four hours’ duration brought us to Thursday Island, one of the great centres of the pearl fishery, where many nationalities congregate for the purposes of trade. The stores are kept for the most part by Chinese, and Japanese and Chinese boats call there on their way south to Sydney. The coasters also make it a point of call as they pass from Brisbane and Sydney on their way to the Gulf of Carpentaria and Normanton, the great centre of the Eastern cattle trade.

Thursday Island, so small a dot in the Eastern Archipelago that the tiniest mark a geographer can make on his map is widely out of proportion to its size, rewards the traveller well for a visit. Although one can walk round the island in an hour and a half, the locality is full of interest, and the pearl fishery is very engrossing for the observer. The boats of the fishing fleet afford a most picturesque accessory to the scene, and the harbour is full of life. Small boats dart about everywhere, and there is a continual coming and going. The large Chinese and Japanese steamers, of from 6000 to 7000 tons burden, are continually arriving at and leaving the Government wharf. The Europeans are most agreeable and hospitable. The sea round Thursday Island is a most wonderful colour—in parts emerald green and silver, deep blue varied with light yellow and brown, and everywhere perfectly clear. The tides, which at times flow with the rapidity of a mill-race, have been studied, but are not yet understood. They are tremendously erratic and very dangerous. Sometimes they run at the rate of seven miles an hour, and against this steamers can make no headway. The Torres Straits indeed, as far as Cairns, are the most dangerous seas in the world. It is, of course, very warm in Thursday Island, but the heat is tempered by the most delightful sea breezes. I could have enjoyed a longer stay than twenty-four hours, but that was the limit of our vessel’s call, and we left next day for Port Moresby, which we reached after a two days’ run.

MY CINGALESE LIEUTENANT, SAM, AND HIS WIFE AT THEIR HOME IN PORT MORESBY.

As we approached the coast we found that it presented a very striking contrast to that of Dutch New Guinea. Here the mountains came close down to the coast, which was rock-bound, but not cut to sheer cliffs. Inland the mountain ranges ran parallel with the shore line, range towering above range, as far as the eye could see, the whole prospect dominated by the magnificent peak of Mount Victoria, which sprang aloft into the azure to a height of 13,121 feet. Viewed from the sea Mount Victoria appears to culminate in a plateau, but Sir William MacGregor declares that it is really a mass of peaks.

As we drew nearer to the shore we noted unmistakable evidence of the drought, which had just set in, and which lasted for nine whole months. The vegetation was entirely brown, and everything seemed barren and burned up. The drought, it was said, extended as far west as the Fly River, at the 141st degree of longitude. Even at an altitude of 6000 feet, as I found afterwards, lycopodiums, orchids, and parasites were falling off the trees, and this, too, within the zone of humidity for New Guinea.

The approach to Port Moresby is dangerous owing to the reefs that encircle the coast, and accordingly great caution had to be used in navigating the ship into the harbour. The course lies east, then west along a certain known channel, and finally the navigator follows the coast for a few hours, when, rounding a promontory on his right, he catches his first glimpse of this anchorage. The Government post of Port Moresby, although picturesquely situated among rolling hills which slope down to the water’s edge, is in itself unpretentious enough—merely a collection of houses and offices of bare, galvanised iron, architecturally as insignificant as rabbit hutches. During the day the temperature resembles Hades or Aden, whichever may have the priority. Here the British official chooses to abide, although comfortable houses of sago, with thick grass thatch, cool on the hottest day, offering a delightful dwelling-place, might be had only a few miles distant. A paternal administration, however, prescribes galvanised iron, and there its servants swelter, patient and uncomplaining, after the manner of Britons.

Clustered about the Government buildings are various other buildings—the jail, which more resembles a pleasure-ground, shipping offices, stores, and the hotel. On an elevation at the farther end of the bay stands Government House, a pleasantly situated bungalow raised off the ground on five-foot posts. The best building in the place, as one might expect, is the station of the London Missionary Society.

Life at Port Moresby is not without its events, and one of the most noteworthy of its public spectacles, and one which I was fortunate enough to see on a subsequent visit, is the annual starting of the lakatois or huge sailing rafts, laden with pottery for trade in the western part of the possession.

Those who are familiar with the postage-stamp of British New Guinea must, no doubt, have often wondered what manner of strange craft is depicted thereon. The stamp, as will be seen from the accompanying illustration, bears the representation of a boat, or rather a raft, carrying two gigantic sails resembling the wings of some weird bird, and the whole appearance of the vessel is one that arouses curiosity. This is the lakatoi, the remarkable trading vessel of the hereditary potters of Hanuabada, a little village not far from Port Moresby. The hamlet, with its neighbour, Elevada, is built partly on land and partly on piles in the water; but while the land part of Hanuabada stands on the mainland, that part of Elevada which is not aquatic is founded on an island.

The inhabitants belong to the Motu tribe, and their numbers do not exceed 800. Their long grass-thatched huts rise from sixteen to twenty feet above land or water, and each has its little landing-stage on a lower tier. The main poles supporting these structures are of rough-hewn tree trunks driven down into the soft sand. At a height of from five to six feet above the water the natural forks of the main poles are retained, and across these logs are laid, forming a rude platform. Ladders of very irregular construction give access almost at haphazard from stage to stage. Looking through the village below the houses, the eye encounters a perfect forest of poles, and between the dwellings in this queer Venice of the East run little waterways just wide enough to let a canoe pass along without grazing its outriggers. The houses themselves each contain only one living apartment.

In and out among the houses ply the dug-out canoes, and a very charming feature of the village is its crowd of children, playing with toy lakatois. The smallest of these toy craft are made of a section of bamboo ballasted with stones, with a sail of the same shape as that of the great rafts used by the grown-up people. The bigger children, scorning the bamboo vessels, have a larger kind, in which the canoes are real little dug-outs. These youngsters are wonderful swimmers, and as they conduct their little regattas they jump about in the water, swimming and diving fearlessly, and enjoying the merriest possible time. The people of Hanuabada are an agreeable and rather comely race. They are typical south-east coast natives, with shock heads of black wiry hair. The women, who carry on the characteristic industry of the place, the work in earthenware, are lithe picturesque figures in their long ramis or kilts of grass.

It is a curious fact that, although the Hanuabada and Elevada people live actually on waters that teem with fish, they are poor fishermen, being, in fact, too lazy to follow that craft. They are accordingly helped in this industry by the Hula people, whose fishing fleet presents at night one of the most weirdly picturesque sights in Papua. Of this I have more to say in a later chapter.

For weeks before the annual trading expedition Hanuabada is full of life. At every turn one comes upon women crouching on the ground, fashioning lumps of clay into the wonderfully perfect pottery for which the village is famous. The men-folk, although they do not condescend to take part in the actual fashioning of the pots, are good enough to dig the clay, which they take out of the ground with a stone adze—a flat stone blade lashed to the shorter extremity of a forked stick, the longer extremity forming the handle.

HANUABADA GIRLS DANCING AND SINGING.
Before the young braves sail on their annual pottery trading voyage, which they make on board Lakatois (sailing rafts of canoes), they have great rejoicing, and the young women dance on the decks of their strange-looking vessels.

There is a distinct organisation of labour among the potters, the women being divided into “makers” and “bakers.” Several “makers” work together in a group. They use no wheel, but seize a lump of clay with both hands, and make a hole large enough to get the right hand in, whereupon they gradually give the vessel its contour. After being roughly shaped, it is smoothed off with flat sticks or the palm of the hand. The finished article of Hanuabada ware is in the form of a flattened sphere with a very wide mouth, and a neatly finished rim six or eight inches across. Farther to the east, along the coast, the pottery is highly decorated, but it is much more crude in form, and has no fine rim. The pots are dried in the sun for several days, and then they are turned over to the “bakers,” whose fires are blazing in every street. There are two methods of baking. One is to lay the pot on a heap of hot ashes; the other to build the fire right round it. The vessel is watched through the whole process, and is continually turned on the fire with a little stick thrust into the mouth.

When many hundreds of pots have been completed, the Hanuabada people begin to think about the disposal of their wares. Their great market is at Paruru, a long way up the coast. They barter their pottery for sago with the nations of that district, and it is very curious to note that this extensive trading organisation on the part of an utterly savage people has been in existence from time immemorial, and is no imitation of European methods. To reach Paruru the potters must undertake a perilous voyage, for which they are dependent on the tail of the south-east monsoon.

Then comes the preparation of the craft, the lakatois. Several hundred large dug-out canoes are brought together, and are moored side by side at the landing stages in groups of six or ten. While this is being done many people are out in the forest cutting rattans and bamboos for lashing the dug-outs together, and for the upper framework of the rafts. Across the canoes, after they have been ranged at the proper distance (amidships, about six inches apart, although their taper ends cause a wider gap at bow and stern), are placed long bamboos, extending a considerable distance beyond the port and starboard sides of the outermost pair. Along the gunwales of each canoe, at regular intervals, stout bamboo uprights are erected, and to these the horizontal cross bamboos are strongly lashed with fibre and cane, until the whole framework is perfectly rigid. To the cross framework the potters fix down a floor of split bamboo, and all round the outer edges they wreathe dried grass to prevent slipping as one steps on board. This platform overlaps all round the raft fore and aft, and the cross-pieces are very strong and firmly lashed. Openings are left in the floor above each dug-out to enable the pottery to be stored in the holds of the canoes. A clear space is left on the platform, extending about six feet from bow and stern, and on the whole of the intervening space houses are erected in skeleton bamboo framework. These can be entirely covered in with mats to afford a shelter in stormy weather or in rain. The roofs as well as the sides are formed of mats. Wooden masts are now stepped amidships and held in place with stout stays of fibre, and then the lakatoi is ready to receive its sails. These resemble vast kites, and were formerly made of native matting stretched upon an outer frame of bamboo, but are now made of calico. It is difficult to describe their form, and they can best be understood by a study of the accompanying illustration.

Why the strange segment should be cut out of the upper part, leaving two great wings, I have never been able to discover. The sails of the lakatoi are of themselves—things apart. Being stretched on a frame they cannot bulge, but swing like boards. Their points rest on the deck and work freely in a socket. The sails are hung lightly to the masts by braces, and there is no clewing up. In spite of their comparative rigidity they are quite manageable, and in case of sudden squalls can easily be let go. The lakatoi is now ready for use—perhaps the most remarkable-looking craft that ever went to sea—and has only to be tested. From the rigging and the sails float long streamers of Papuan grass decorations, and the fleet of eight or ten lakatois now lying off Hanuabada affords, as the sun strikes the brown sails, a really charming spectacle.

Before they proceed to sea the careful people institute a trial trip, and celebrate a regatta with several days of extraordinary festivity. The fleet is sometimes augmented by some lakatois from other villages. These sail up to Port Moresby from the east to join the main expedition. About eleven o’clock in the morning, if the wind be strong enough, the people of Hanuabada and Elevada begin to test each vessel in the harbour, trying how the ropes run, how the sails work, and how the lashings hold together. Everything is thoroughly overhauled, for the lives of the men-folk of the village depend upon the fitness of their queer craft. The crew go on board and take up their positions. At the bow stands the professional pilot, a man thoroughly acquainted with the coast, and behind him, stretching in Indian file down the gunwale on port and starboard, stand his crew, each man handling a long pole. The steering is done from behind with two poles slightly flattened at the ends, and forward, for certain emergencies, they use a small Chinese sweep. The crew pole gently out from land until the breeze strikes the sails, and then far away they go merrily down the harbour, tacking about in every direction with wonderful dexterity, for the lakatois, clumsy although they appear, are quick “in stays.”

GIRLS DANCING ON A LAKATOI (A RAFT OF CANOES).

At last comes the day when the Hanuabada people say, “If the wind is favourable, we will start tomorrow.” Vast quantities of farinaceous food are brought on board, and the small dug-outs are busy darting out from the village to the fleet, bearing the stores that are to last the voyagers for their two months’ trip. Then the festivities begin. The damsels of the village deck themselves most artistically with finely woven garlands that lie in close cinctures round their brows. In most ravishing ramis they go on board and celebrate the departure of the young braves by the wildest dances on the platforms fore and aft—dances that would put a première danseuse to shame. They spin round with such dizzying rapidity that, when I photographed them, although I used a shutter snapping at a hundredth of a second, the image of the dancers was somewhat blurred, as will be seen from the annexed picture. As an accompaniment to the dances, they sing the appalling and discordant songs of the coast native, and the merriment and motion cease only for the intervals of feasting on yams, taro, and fish. The dancing is for the most part independent, but occasionally there is some attempt at rudimentary figures, and the little girls, with arms interlaced after the manner of a “lady’s chain” in the Lancers, form a ring in the centre, while the bigger girls circle around.

Some of the young braves sleep on board the last night, and the next day at dawn, if the wind should be favourable, a start is made. The last good-byes are said, the small canoes dart to and from the shore with final messages, and as the great lakatois slowly get under way, the girls crowd upon the beach, shouting and waving to their young heroes, until the last odd-shaped sail has disappeared round the farthest promontory. The men of the village will not be seen again for two months, and some perhaps not at all, for the voyage is long and beset with divers perils, and not every lakatoi weathers the sudden treacherous squalls and storms of the Papuan coast.

Their captains, of course, have no knowledge whatever of the science of navigation, and sail their vessels by cross bearings, or—when out of sight of land—by sheer instinct.

During the whole time that the traders are absent, gloom reigns in Hanuabada. At nightfall the desolate women bar themselves into their houses, and remain in the most jealous seclusion until the daylight reappears. It is a most unflattering reflection that this custom has only arisen since Europeans first came to Papua.

From Port Moresby I intended to go sixty miles westward to Yule Island, and thence push into the interior of British New Guinea, where I proposed to pursue the special scientific work for which my expedition had been undertaken. The point which I intended to use as my centre of operations would require a journey up country of at least three weeks’ duration, through an almost unknown region, where only native paths existed, or, at the best, a missionary road extending for a short distance. Wheeled traffic was, of course, impossible, and everything would have to be transported by carriers. The first necessity was, therefore, to procure transport, a work of infinite difficulty; but at last, chiefly through the great assistance and courtesy of Mr. Hislop, then resident magistrate of the district of Mekeo, sixty miles west of Port Moresby, I obtained a sufficient number of carriers. Mr. Hislop then took the trouble to go as far inland with me as our first halting-place, Epa, in order to help me and to use his influence to persuade the natives to give me their services. The gross weight of the baggage to be carried must have been, at least, 2000 lbs., and it consisted first and foremost of what is technically known as “trade,” that is, beads, axes, 18–inch knives, 9–inch knives, 6–inch knives, tobacco, looking-glasses, red calico, bright-coloured cotton prints, plane-irons for axe-heads, Jew’s-harps—for which a Papuan will do almost anything—and, most valued of all, dogs’ teeth. In addition to this, I had to carry the whole of my apparatus for collecting—100 nets, 60 to 70 cyanide bottles and enough cyanide of potassium to poison the whole population of New Guinea, store boxes, pins, cork bungs, and lamps. I had also a complete photographic equipment.

For our own sustenance we carried a great quantity of tinned provisions, and enough rice to feed our carriers for the journey both ways. I ought not to omit to mention our tents, another heavy item of transport. For arms we had our 12–bores, our revolvers, one Winchester repeating rifle, and one Winchester repeating shot-gun, with sufficient ammunition. We also carried a store of empty cartridge cases, recappers, loose powder, shot, and caps, extractors and refillers. Before setting out it was necessary to make bags of stout canvas, sewn with twine and fortified with two coats of paint. Into these all our baggage was packed, and each bundle was duly numbered.

CHAPTER IV
WE STRIKE INLAND

We start Inland—Friendly Natives but Hostile Mosquitoes—Bioto Creek—Bioto—Guest Houses—A Splendid Game Region—Daily Migration of Flocks of Pigeons—Greedy Coast Natives—Carriers Inadequate—A Double Journey in Relays—We meet the Chief Mavai, a great Papuan Character—Mavai’s Way of Life—His Harem—His Western Notions—His Trousers—His Red Coat—His Severe Discipline—As we proceed, Construction of Native Houses more elaborate—On to Ekeikei and Dinawa—March through Wet Vegetation—Tortured by Leeches and an Abominable Parasite, the Scrub-Itch—A Gloomy Forest—Magnificent Orchids—Carriers stimulate Laggard Comrades with Nettles—The Aculama River—I discover a New Fish.

CHAPTER IV

WE STRIKE INLAND

We left Yule Island at 10 A.M. in a small boat, accompanied by two Mission Fathers. Our baggage came on with us at the same time in a rough boat. We reached the mouth of the river at noon, and found some natives there fishing. They were very friendly and gave us some fish. At that point the entrance to the river was about half a mile broad, but across it there was a big bar. At 2 P.M. we had entered the Bioto Creek, where we suffered tremendously from mosquitoes. Here, in fact, they are quite a terror, and this is believed to be the very worst place for mosquitoes in all New Guinea. During the first night that we halted there I had not fixed my net properly, so I slept very little owing to the annoyance of these insects. It is an unhealthy spot, and fever rages. The village is very small, containing only nineteen houses for the regular inhabitants, and two houses, one at each end, for visitors. This provision for the stranger within their gates is a general custom in every Papuan village. Despite this form of hospitality, however, the Bioto people are not very amiable, and I found them extremely greedy. The region is a perfect one for game, especially for duck and pigeon. Every evening one sees clouds of pigeons flying over the sea from the mainland to Pigeon Island. In the morning they return. This migration is to secure safety, as Pigeon Island is uninhabited, and in its mangrove swamps the birds know that they can sleep unmolested. After a night’s rest, such as it was, we prepared to start again, but found the natives somewhat unwilling to go on. At length they agreed to take us by canoe as far as the path to Epa, about ten miles from the Bioto Creek, and from that place they would take us five miles by road to Jack’s camp, which was six miles distant from Epa. For this journey they demanded an absurd price—each carrier wanted a 16–inch knife, a tomahawk, or a pearl-shell—and in this extravagant rating of their services they showed themselves typical coast natives. The mountain people would have done the same work for one stick of tobacco. Before we had come to terms the day had worn away, and it was necessary to remain another night at Bioto. Next morning we were up early, and by the time we had breakfasted, the carriers, fifteen in all, who had come from their gardens the night before, were ready to take up their burdens. The number available was still inadequate, but as no more were to be had we had to make up our minds to a double journey. We stayed the night at Jack’s camp, sending on a messenger to Epa to ask the chief Mavai to bring his people down the next day. By ten o’clock the next morning Mavai had not arrived, so we decided to walk to Epa and see him, at the same time hoping that we might meet him by the way. We took Sam (my Cingalese servant) with us, and as there were two tracks, he took one and I the other, each arranging to fire a gun if either should meet Mavai. As it happened we met Mavai most opportunely just where the two tracks met, and Sam, who had only gone a few yards, was with us in a minute. Mavai explained that, as it was already late in the day, he would not call his people together, but would make arrangements for them to carry for us on the following day.

EPA VILLAGE, MAVAI’S CAPITAL.

Mavai, the chief of Epa, is a magnificent autocrat, and is proud to be the white man’s friend. He was credited with powers of sorcery—hence his extraordinary influence. He overshadowed me with his favour, and commanded his entire village to “carry for Parki”—the Epan attempt to pronounce my name. Thus I obtained the force I required to take me onwards, and I went, one might almost say, on the shoulders of Epa—men, women, and children. The chief himself shouldered a load, without loss of dignity, and with great advantage to his royal pocket.

My princely benefactor was no ordinary man. He stood about six feet high. His features were of Roman type, his bearing active and alert, his frame strong and wiry. Keen eyes looked out of a dark copper-coloured visage, which gained by contrast with a scarlet coat—a discarded British uniform, his only ceremonial garment, donned on occasions of great gravity. Such an occasion was the issuing of his command to carry for me. With due ceremony he mounted a platform erected near his house, and assuming the red coat he addressed his assembled people with magnificent oratory, emphasising his speech by actions. Mavai is a strict disciplinarian, and I have seen him administer personal chastisement to recalcitrant villagers. He is a mighty hunter, a fact attested by his crushed right hand, which was maimed by a bite from a wild pig. Our friend is a great polygamist, and formerly had fifteen wives. When we were there at Epa he possessed only five, to whom he was extremely kind, although he made them work pretty hard. One of them was specially appointed to wait upon her lord at his meals. On the death of another he was deeply affected, and cut off his mop of hair. He kept up considerable state, and at meal times sat in his house in a different apartment from that in which he slept. He was not above taking food with us, and used to ask for tobacco in a very lordly way. He smoked a European pipe, of which he was particularly proud, and when it was between his lips he used to touch the bowl consequentially and say, “Parki,” thus signifying to me that he was no small beer. He would pay the deepest attention throughout a long story, looking steadily at you, and when you had finished he would tell you what he thought, giving elaborate reasons. In the centre of his house hung a hurricane lamp, which he had got from Jack Exton, the sandalwood trader. He understood the working of the lamp quite well, and kept a supply of kerosene in the house in a tin. He was also indebted to Mr. Exton for a further adjunct of civilisation, viz. a pair of trousers very unfashionably big at the knee. His Highness used European spoons, forks, and knives.

Mavai had adopted a coloured orphan, whom he kept under very strict discipline. This youth refused to go with Sam to Oo-fa-fa, and when the chief found out that his express orders had been disobeyed, he cut off a stick and thrashed the boy indoors for all he was worth. The boy received ten cuts, but neither moved nor howled, although the women of the village set up a dolorous wailing while the punishment was going on. As soon as the castigation was finished, Mavai seemed to be seized with sudden shamefacedness, for he ran at top speed to his sago plantation, and remained in retirement for a considerable time.

At Epa the native houses begin to be beautifully constructed. They are on a raised platform, and look like inverted boats, the roof being formed by bending over long sticks, so as to form an arch that is thatched with sago leaf. The floor is particularly good, and at Epa there is an admirable guest-house, with a fine level floor of split sago, the pieces being 1¼ inches wide, neatly laid and bound together.

Mavai’s guest-house, which adjoined his dwelling-house, was open at both ends. The house poles are very substantial, for they are driven into the iron ground, which is very stony, and radiated great heat, so that one could not go comfortably without boots, although in this respect the natives seem to be pachydermatous.

We saw Mavai’s son build a house, neither asking nor requiring assistance. Single-handed he brought up his poles, peeled off the bark, and drove them in.

One evening during our stay there was a terrific wind storm, a heavy north-wester, which tried the architecture of Epa severely. One slender house began to heel over, and it was accordingly tied to a tree with strands of cane, and a large gang of men held these stays until the worst of the storm was passed. Even Mavai’s substantial house gave way a little under the tempest.

It was about 9.50 when we started on our journey from Epa to Ekeikei. We sent twenty-five carriers on with their loads, and we ourselves followed with the remainder of the baggage. Of course we could not carry everything on this trip, and it was my intention, when we finally reached our destination at Dinawa, to send back mountain men to bring the rest of the material up the forty miles’ tramp from Epa.

At first the path led downwards, and very soon we came to a small river, over which—as the existing bamboo bridge was unsafe owing to a freshet—we had to be carried by the natives. We always took great care to avoid, as far as possible, getting our clothes wet, as this accident renders the European traveller particularly liable to fever. In this case, however, this precaution proved futile, owing to the oncoming of a downpour of rain—the last we were to see for nine months.

EKEIKEI NATIVES.

At times the brushwood was very dense, and we had to cut our way, but where the forest was closely matted above, forming a thick canopy which excluded the light, nothing, of course, could grow beneath. At points where the light penetrated, the undergrowth was immediately thick again. The path, such as it was, was stony and hard. As we trudged along in the wet, we made the acquaintance of a new discomfort. This manifested itself in the presence of a leech, a little creature about ¾–inch long, with a slender body, very much smaller than the European variety, but inflicting the same sort of three-cornered bite. The native carriers offer the easiest victims, for the leeches fasten upon their bare heels in great numbers, and they had constantly to stop and brush them off with little switches which they carried in their hands. Sometimes, when the leeches had bitten very deep, the carriers had to lay down their loads and pull them off with their fingers. They would endure them until they became too bad, say, when a dozen or so had adhered to each foot. At this time we did not suffer much, but later on, in the journey from Faula to Mafulu, they got over the tops of our boots and socks and attacked our ankles. The bite was not actually painful, and the presence of our enemy was not revealed until we realised that our feet were wet with blood. The chief haunts of the leech are wet stones and moss and low herbage.

Another discomfort which we experienced at this point of our journey was the abominable attack of the scrub-itch, a nasty little parasite that the wayfarer brushes from the low herbage as he moves along. This hateful microscopic creature, which is of a bright red colour, gets under the skin and causes terrible irritation. The affection spreads, and if one is so unwise as to scratch the place, there is no hope of relief for at least three weeks. The only satisfactory remedy is to bathe the part in warm salt and water. Scrub-itch, leeches, and mosquitoes at times render life in the forest anything but blissful, yet Nature, according to her law, offers her compensations, even in the primeval forest.

About the elevation that we were traversing there grows a particular kind of palm, peculiarly grateful to the native when he is hungry—a not infrequent occurrence—and at such moments of stress they discard their loads, search out this palm and cut it down. At the top, just below the crown of the palm, the last shoot, about six feet long, remains green. It is opened lengthways, and is peeled until the inside layers are reached. These layers are straw-coloured, like asparagus, and to the taste are sweet, slightly dashed with acid. Europeans, as well as natives, can eat great quantities of this wholesome and enjoyable food with impunity. It is excellent also for quenching thirst, for which it is often most convenient, as it grows in waterless regions.

The gloom of the forest was diversified by the colours of its extraordinary orchids. One of these (grammatophyllum speciosum), which had made its home on a lofty tree, was of almost incredible luxuriance, and could the whole plant have been secured, it would not have weighed less than half a ton. I despatched one of my native boys to climb the tree to see if he could secure a specimen. He went about his task in the native fashion. The climber stands with his face to the trunk, which, as well as his body, is encircled with a hoop of rattan cane. This hoop he holds in each hand, and his ankles are tied together. First, he leans back until his body has purchase on the hoop, and then at that moment, by the leverage of his ankles, he makes an upward movement of about a foot. Then, falling backwards against the hoop, and pressing his feet against the trunk, he is supported for the next spring. This operation is repeated with marvellous dexterity and rapidity, and with this contrivance the youth makes his way to the top. There is no tree in New Guinea that a native cannot climb thus.

In the present instance, my man was not destined to have any luck, for the network of roots round the tree formed such a wide-spreading dome that he could not make his way over to the crown to secure a specimen of the orchid, and the attempt had accordingly to be abandoned.

We pressed on along the rough track, which was everywhere beset with precipices and ravines that compelled us to take the greatest care. The road was fairly practicable, however, for transit, and there were no very serious obstructions at this stage of the journey. My people were in good spirits, and we plodded on as gaily as might be, occasionally stopping and giving the men a smoke. Despite the toils of the road, these halts in the forest were perfectly delightful, for we had in the improvement of the air a foretaste of the pleasant freshness that was to make life in the mountains of New Guinea so tolerable and even attractive.

After five hours’ march we arrived at Ekeikei, rather tired and ready for slumber, but here, alas! there was no rest for us. The native carriers had to lodge, some in our hut, some under it, and their method of spending the night was not favourable to repose. Their idea is to sleep for half-an-hour, and then light their pipes and spin yarns, which, to judge by their uproarious laughter, must have been extremely diverting. After the story-telling, they obliged us with songs, and the music wooed them again to a brief period of slumber. It did not woo us, for the coast natives have no ear, and their music is very unlike the soft and flowing song of the mountaineers. This performance went on until daybreak, when we rose. In order to make a satisfactory day’s journey it was necessary to start at 5 A.M. We had to prepare our own breakfast and give the natives theirs, and then we set out for Madui.

Again, the path wound past high precipices and deep ravines until we came to our first resting-place, Bamboo Camp, so called from a clump of bamboo that formed a natural shelter. Here the forest trees were so high and thick that scarcely any sun or light could penetrate. It was gloomy in the extreme, and very depressing, the silence broken only by the drip, drip of the rain, and the only sound of life was the “wauk,” “wauk” of the bird of paradise.

For two hours the track skirted the Deeanay precipice, and our way led under enormous overhanging boulders which would reach out some distance overhead. These were the more impressive in that they seemed to have no hold, and the imagination made teasing suggestions as to what would happen if one of them were to topple over. From the crevices little springs issued, and in these damp nooks there was a luxuriant growth of lichens and begonias in flower. While accomplishing the long circumvention of the crags, it was impossible to obtain a view of the Deeanay, but as we broke out into more open forest, close to Madui, one could form some idea of its rocky magnificence.

THE CAMP AT EKEIKEI.

Close to the Deeanay precipice we noted an extraordinary sight. Under a large tree that rose to a height of some 150 feet, were huge mounds, quite five feet high, of veritable sawdust, that seemed to proclaim the presence of man. On a nearer approach the wonder became greater, for the heaps were being continually augmented by a constant rain of sawdust of different grains, some finer than others. No human sawyer, of course, was there, but the tree, to a height of at least 100 feet, was riddled by coleopterous larvæ. Several families of these were represented. The tree, which was about five feet in diameter, and had a thin bark, was, as might be expected, dying. It must have possessed some strange attraction, for it was most unusual in New Guinea to find beetles thus congregated. The distribution is usually very scattered. The holes were probably made at first by small beetles of various families, but chiefly anobiadæ, followed as a rule by brenthidæ, later probably by longicorniæ. One species follows the other into the same hole, each succeeding species bigger than its predecessor. Sometimes the lepidoptera make borings, but this sawdust was much finer. Only a few living branches remained on the tree, which was a mere shell. It was, however, so well protected from winds that it still stood. Close by we saw a native hut, uninhabited, of very rude construction. This point of our journeyings is otherwise memorable, for it was here, near a creek, that we found some of our finest butterflies—lycenidæ, papiliosidæ, satyridæ, and ornithoptera primus.

We were glad to continue the ascent to Madui, where once more we emerged into the welcome light of the sun. When we were two hours’ distance from Madui, one of our carriers struck work and refused to go any farther. There was only one way of persuasion, to which I was greatly averse, but his comrades considered it necessary, and their method, which was, after all, not very harsh, had the desired effect. The other carriers picked the leaves of a gigantic nettle, and with these they gently whipped the reluctant one until he was fain to “jog on the footpath way, and merrily hent the stile a’.” A little later, he tried to desert, but his comrades brought him back, and when we halted he was kept in the centre of the camp under strict surveillance. When he had had a good rest and a hearty meal, however, he went on as cheerfully as the others.

We reached the foot of Madui Hill at 3.30 P.M., and a climb of half-an-hour brought us to the summit, which commands a fine view. On a clear day Hall Sound is visible on the coast side, and inland there is a grand prospect of mountain scenery. All the way up it had rained incessantly, and we were drenched to the skin. Our journey over rocks and precipices, watercourses and ravines, had completely tired us out, and, fortunately, the natives were too fatigued to sing. Accordingly, we contrived to get a good night’s rest, and did not leave Madui until 9.25 A.M. next day.

THE RETURN OF MY COLLECTORS WITH BIRDS OF PARADISE AFTER A FEW HOURS’ SHOOTING AT EKEIKEI.

Getting under weigh again, we descended from Madui into a ravine, where we passed a delightful waterfall, far away up on the precipices of the river Aculama, which we were to know better during our stay in New Guinea. The waterfall was on one of the tributaries of a little river, which we could see far below us rushing over its rocky bed in small cataracts that alternated with still blue pools. The trees in the ravine were loaded with lycopodiums and ferns, and, in their season, a few rhododendrons. The cluster of flowers was like a golden ball the size of a man’s head. On a later journey I secured the root, but it died before I could get it down to the coast for shipment. These rhododendrons did not grow alone, but attached themselves to tree trunks.

Another curiosity of the Aculama was a large fresh-water prawn, of which I got wind from the natives’ talk. As soon as I heard it mentioned, I told my boys that if they could bring me a specimen I would pay well for it, and also for examples of the fish of the Aculama. They accordingly went in quest of the crustacean, and before long they brought me a specimen. The prawn haunts the eddies under the large boulders, around which the natives draw their net so as to lie close to the shape of the stone. They then pull it out of the water gradually, and occasionally find that they have caught one or two specimens. The variety is about 5 inches long, of a transparent brown when caught, very much like our British prawns, and when cooked of a rich red. The pincers and legs are longer than those of the marine species. They make delightful morsels, and are a welcome addition to the explorer’s larder, which provides changes none too many.

In the waters of the Aculama I had also the good fortune to discover an entirely new fish, the rhiacichthys Novæ Guineæ, which has been described by Mr. Boulenger, and I am permitted to print his account in the Appendix.

CHAPTER V
THE FIRST CAMP

Journey continued—A Glorious Scarlet Creeper—Dinawa—Site for Camp selected—Building Camp—Native Assistance—Organisation for Scientific Work—Daily Routine—Teaching the Natives how to Catch and Handle Entomological Specimens—Sudden Affluence leads one of my Native Boys to Desert—He is Caught and Reformed—My best Native Assistant and his Wife—Female Influence a great Asset with other Women—The Day’s Work—Collecting at Night—Photography—A Dark Room in the Wilds—Native Interest in Developing.

CHAPTER V

THE FIRST CAMP

To return, however, to our journey. We crossed the Aculama by a missionary bridge, a rough structure made of two trees placed about a couple of feet apart, and laid with cross strips of wood. At once we began our climb to Dinawa up a winding forest path—the last stage of the march which was to bring us to our permanent camp. I was always on the look-out for natural treasures, and when we got to the top of the ridge just beyond the Aculama, I was fortunate enough to see in a ravine just below a magnificent example of D’Alberti’s creeper. D’Alberti had discovered it on the Fly River. The one I found here in the mountains was of the variety named Macuna Bennetti. It ran up its supporting trunk on a stem which was about 6 inches thick at the base. At the height of 200 feet it found light, threw out slender arms, and then dropped down bunches of festoons 20 feet long, a magnificent blaze of scarlet blossom. The flowers of the Macuna Bennetti are distinguished by a calyx covered with short hairs, some short and pliable, a few stiff. When we reached the top of Dinawa Hill we found patches of grass growing, which did not occur anywhere on the lower slopes.

We at once set about selecting a piece of ground for our camp, and found a level, grassy space, which required only the cutting of a few trees to make it clear enough for our purpose. There was, however, very little brushwood to cut. Pending the building of a more permanent home, we pitched our tent and settled down for the first night at our base of operations. Dinawa village was fifty yards away, and the native men came timidly out to look at us. They were very suspicious, and their womenkind so shy that it was a considerable time before they would venture to approach our camp.

The day after our arrival the carriers went back, and it was to the Papuans of the vicinity that we had to look for the labour that was to build our house. My Cingalese servant, Sam, spoke the language, and he made the overtures to our dusky neighbours. We were careful to let them get some inkling of the “trade” we carried, and this seemed to encourage them to greater boldness. Occasionally we would open a box in front of our visitors and show them an axe or a knife, whereat they would say “lo-pi-ang,” that is, “good,” the first word, probably, that a European would hear from the lips of a Papuan. A little present of tobacco would help matters greatly, and in return for this the beneficiary would say with the ingratiating guilelessness of a child, “Parki lo-pi-ang” (good Pratt). In time the neighbouring villages, hearing of the vast wealth that had arrived at Dinawa, came in too, and I was able to engage a force of workers, whose numbers varied from ten to fifteen, and who commenced immediately to build my house. These were to be paid when the house was finished; but during the ten days that the building was going on they were given occasional supplies of tobacco as a gratuity. The average wage per day was three sticks of tobacco, or one rami, which would mean about 1¼ yards of scarlet calico. At the end of the time each man was to receive a large 18–inch knife, or an axe, and a certain number of sticks of tobacco.

HILL NATIVES AT DINAWA.

For our house, we first drove into the ground two stout poles 18 feet apart. These carried the main beam of the roof. At a distance of 6 feet on each side of these poles we placed the corner supports of the house, each 12 feet high. The framework was then joined up with poles of unsplit bamboo tied with split cane, and the framework of the walls consisted of upright pieces of split bamboo set in the ground 1 foot apart. We then wattled these uprights with smaller pieces of split bamboo, the sides and gables of the house forming a complete basket-work. From the ridge-pole we dropped bamboo rafters extending far beyond the walls, so as to give very wide eaves, and throw the drip of the rain as far out as possible. We were now ready to thatch the roof, and for this we required large quantities of grass. The natives by this time had gained sufficient confidence in us to allow their women to work for us, and accordingly I employed ten women as grass-cutters, and kept them for several days at work cutting with 6–inch knives, which we supplied. They had no distance to go to find sufficient grass for our purpose, but the procuring of heavier poles and bamboo was a different matter. The wood had to be cut at a point some distance down the hill, and it took quite three hours to bring up each of the heavier logs. When the roof was on we nailed down our floor, which was made of bamboo fixed to cross-pieces 6 inches off the ground. The material was not ideal, for the joints were never closed, and small articles used to fall down into the cracks. We made our door frame of axed wood and covered it with thick canvas.

We had also to build our collecting verandah, which we placed on the edge of a precipice not far from the house. It had a 20–foot frontage, and was 12 feet wide, with a division down the centre at the ridge-pole of the roof, which made it, properly speaking, two verandahs placed back to back, so that when the wind was unfavourable on one side, we could find shelter on the other. The whole of the structure was raised off the ground on poles, and the boys had their quarters beneath.

Such was our establishment at Dinawa. When we had finished it we began to settle down, and were able to organise the camp for work. A native boy called Doboi, from near Dinawa village, was engaged as cook, and we had also a water-boy, Matu, whose duty was to go down the hill, a tramp of three-quarters of an hour, to a beautiful spring whence we derived our supply. It was lovely water, for the declivity gave no opportunity for decomposing vegetable matter to collect. The well always ran clear, and, even at the worst part of the drought, did not fail us altogether, although its trickle had sunk to the size of an ordinary lead-pencil, and the boy had to wait quite a long time before he could fill the billies.

We built our fire outside the house in the open space, gipsy fashion, and hung the billy, in which we did all our cooking, on a stick resting on two forked upright sticks. Gradually our working day fell into a regular routine. We awoke with the dawn, but had always to trust to ourselves to make the first start, as your Papuan will not wake a sleeping man. He has indeed a superstitious awe of the slumberer. If one must be awakened, it must not be by a shake, and when Doboi had advanced far enough to bring us a cup of tea in the morning, he would tread very warily.

When we were fairly astir, we found Doboi already about and the fire going. Then he would make tea while Harry or I baked cakes. The bread rises easily in New Guinea owing to the temperature, and we were never at a loss for yeast; for I had brought with me a small quantity of hops, and we kept our supply going by keeping back a piece of dough from every batch. This fragment, no bigger than a pocket matchbox, we placed in an ordinary pound tin, and by noon it had swelled right over the edges. We breakfasted on bread and dripping of pig, when we had been able to buy one from the natives, and sometimes we substituted coffee for tea. By seven o’clock breakfast was finished, the boys having had theirs under the verandah. It was then time for them to be off to their collecting, but they were difficult to move. They wanted to sit and smoke. Once off, they might do a day’s work, but on the other hand there was just the chance that they would waste their employer’s time in the forest, smoking and telling stories; or, if they had killed and caught anything, they would immediately sit down and cook it. If this happened they would come home empty-handed, quite shamelessly, saying “awpapoo achi” (no butterflies).

Each boy was supplied with a large butterfly net and collecting box. In every box we stuck a certain number of pins, and told the boy that if he filled his box with good specimens he would receive a stick of tobacco. Bad specimens I always discarded in the culprit’s presence, so that his iniquity might come home to him. I had, of course, to undertake the training of the collectors myself, although Sam helped to explain the method.

First, I got a butterfly and showed how to handle it and pin it sideways into the box. The crucial matter was the seizing of it once it was in the net. It must be carefully taken between finger and thumb and the thorax pinched on the under side. If it be pinched from above—as every butterfly collector knows—the operator’s finger-marks would show on the wings and betray slovenly handling. Some of the boys became very neat-fingered after a time, but others would not learn at all, and were so shameless that they would bring in part of a wing carefully stuck on the pin—in fact, it was “anything to fill your box.” Occasionally the less scrupulous would appropriate the pins to their own use. Of course there was nothing for it but to pay off and send away such useless fellows.

DOBOI, OUR NATIVE COOK AT DINAWA.

Making due allowance, however, for the fact that they were savages, the general character of my collectors said a great deal for human nature. Doboi was a really good fellow, and had only one reprehensible escapade to his discredit. It was a case of the deceitfulness of wealth! He had worked extremely well and had amassed a small fortune, a blanket, many ramis, and a quantity of tobacco. With these possessions, he became a small king in his village. One day he vanished with all his goods. Now Doboi was under contract to remain with me while I was in the interior, and although he had received much, he had not really worked off his part of the bargain. Accordingly I had him pursued and brought back, and thereafter for the rest of his time he was a good boy. He was fourteen, but had attained to full manhood, and was a very capable fellow.

My best mountain boy, however, was Ow-bow. He was my right hand, my native first officer. I could send him anywhere, for he was quick and alert, but he always stipulated that he must go armed, and believing him to be justified, I invariably provided him with a weapon. He loved firearms passionately, and to see Ow-bow enter a village with his gun over his shoulder was to realise on a small scale what a Roman triumph must have been! He understood the weapon—his fellow-tribesmen did not. Therein lay Ow-bow’s power. He would fire a shot in the air and then lay down the law to his comrades. If there were any possibility of getting what you wanted, Ow-bow would get it. He would, indeed, have done well on an American newspaper. He understood how to make the most of what knowledge he had, and was fully conscious that it gave him superior power, which he was not slow to wield. When he went to a village to recruit carriers, he arrayed himself in his best, donned his finest beads and feathers, and painted his cheeks in scarlet stripes. Thus resplendent, with his gun over his shoulder, he entered the village, strutting consequentially, and immediately made his presence felt. He was a man who would not and could not be refused. He showed his wages and told the tribesmen that they, if they carried for Parki, would become rich in like manner.

More subtle still was his dealing when he had been sent to engage women for grass-cutting or similar employment. Ow-bow was a married man who had permission for his wife to stay in camp with him, and this lady proved his great advocate with her own sex. While Ow-bow waxed eloquent and persuasive with the men, Mrs. Ow-bow would display to the womenkind what wealth had also come to her, and as she reasoned, her sisters were persuaded, and took service with the white man. But Ow-bow’s flourishes with the gun were no mere vainglorious show. In two months’ time he had become a really good shot, and after a morning’s sport would often return to camp with five or six birds. He invariably accounted for his empty cartridges, while other boys would return with spent cases and never a feather to show for them. He grasped the method of aiming at once and never showed any amateurish disposition to squint along the barrel, but got his sights on the bird neatly and quickly and fired without hesitation. He seldom missed.

During the morning, while the boys were out at work, Harry and I would also be engaged with our nets; or, as our collections increased, we would be busy putting specimens together, tending them and seeing that they were not suffering from damp. Sometimes, taking a couple of the laziest boys with me, I descended to the Aculama and followed the stream up its course, collecting as we went. As the boys’ skill increased, it became possible to send them two by two so that several localities could be worked simultaneously. Work, still further afield, fell to Sam, who often went away with five or six carriers on collecting expeditions that lasted a week or a fortnight.

The best time of day for butterflies is from 8 A.M. till noon. The boys returned to camp at times varying according to their luck or their laziness, and in any case, we had all returned by three o’clock. Then Doboi or Weiyah cooked a meal which varied in excellence according to the state of the stores or our luck with the gun, and afterwards we took our siesta. The late afternoon or early evening found us at work again on the collections or putting the camp straight. Darkness descended quickly, and when there was no moon we went to the verandah and began collecting moths. On favourable nights we often continued at work till daybreak.

The boys did not care about night work and usually sat round the camp fire smoking, spinning yarns, or crooning their charmingly plaintive mountain melodies until about 1 A.M., when they curled up under the verandah and went to sleep. Occasionally one or two very hard-up young gentlemen, whose need of tobacco was urgent, would volunteer to assist in the moth-catching, but for the most part they preferred free evenings like the young working people of more advanced nations. Visitors from Dinawa dropped in until the camp became a thronged resort. Then unfortunately things began to disappear, and it was necessary to keep the natives at a greater distance and restrict liberty of entrance. “No admission except on business” became the rule for outsiders. On my own boys, I found it was best to impose no cast-iron regulations.

Nor were these all our occupations. Besides the lepidoptera, there were ornithological and botanical specimens to collect and preserve. Of the last, the more succulent required constant care and changing, and some took three weeks to dry. Photography proved a pleasant change, and on nights unfavourable for moths, we darkened the house with blankets and had a spell of developing. At such times one realised poignantly the limitations of a savage country, and the value of things that at home are too commonplace to be remarked. Our chief lack was a good flat shelf. Amateur photographers with luxurious equipment should figure to themselves the discomforts of a ridgy shelf of split bamboo on which no bottle will stand upright. Groping in the dim red light among one’s materials on that crazy ledge was as productive of maledictions as the royal and ancient game itself.

THE NATIVE VILLAGE OF DINAWA.

The natives were, at first, very much frightened at the camera, the women especially, and some of them were never reconciled to it. I showed them stereoscopic slides of Papuan views on Negretti and Zambra’s veroscope. One fellow, on seeing his own portrait stand out in bold relief, dropped the stereoscope and ran up a tree. I occasionally allowed a few privileged natives to come into the dark room to watch the developing. At first they were rather alarmed at the red light, but gradually they became interested in the process, and as the image appeared we heard the inevitable “lo-pi-ang.”

Such was our daily life at Dinawa—very enjoyable in the crisp and bracing mountain air that reminded one of an English October. But for the unavoidable cares of camp management and fears for the endurance of our food supply and the safety of our specimens, it would have been altogether ideal.

CHAPTER VI
VICISSITUDES AND A DIGRESSION

The Drought affects our Work—Butterflies begin to Fail—Forest Fires—We descend to the St. Joseph River—A Temporary Camp—A Wonderful Native Suspension Bridge—River Scenery—Native Methods of Fishing—Dull Weather and Little Success in Collecting—A Comic Incident—A Native besieged by a Wild Pig—War—Native Hostility—A Chief threatens to Cook and Eat our Heads—Strict Guard kept on Camp—The Bird of Paradise—Papuan Game Laws—Natives’ Interest in Writing—Further Stay at the St. Joseph Impracticable—A Flood destroys our Bridge—A Visit to a Native Village—Curious Means of Ingress—Return to Dinawa—My Cingalese Headman’s Experiences—He evades Native Treachery—Sudden Growth of a New Township.

CHAPTER VI

VICISSITUDES AND A DIGRESSION

As the days went on at Dinawa, there was no sign of any breaking up of the great drought, which began seriously to affect the success of our work. Butterflies grew scarce, and daily the catch fell off, for the vegetation was getting very dry. Lycopodiums were dropping off the trees, and often we could see, in the lower grounds, great forest fires, which consumed the undergrowth throughout large tracts of country, miles and miles being left blackened and burnt up. In these conflagrations, millions of low-feeding and high-feeding larvæ must have been destroyed, and there was a corresponding decrease in the insect life of the district. Seeing that, for a time, there was not much more to be done, we decided to quit our camp at Dinawa and descend to the St. Joseph River; so, on July 22, we set out with thirty carriers, and went down into a deep valley, whence we climbed a ridge which brought us to a native village so strongly stockaded that we knew that the tribes must be at war—village against village—and this unsettled state of affairs made it very difficult to persuade the natives to pass with us through the open country that lay between the hamlets.

At this place we changed carriers, and, accompanied by the chief of the village, we descended by an extremely rough native path to the St. Joseph River, which we reached at 4 P.M., after a march of about six hours. We found the river very low but beautifully limpid and very rapid. For our camp we immediately chose a small patch of sand close to the stream, the only clear space we could find; for the river bed and the gorge itself were filled with enormous boulders piled one upon the other in the wildest confusion.

Our temporary dwellings were of the simplest. Harry and I occupied an ordinary fly-tent, and another was pitched for our native followers. On the day after our arrival we set about constructing a rough bridge for our own convenience. This we did by felling a tree on one side of the stream and letting it fall across the river bed as far as it would go. We repeated the operation with a thinner tree, which we let fall from the opposite bank, and the branches of the two intertwining in the middle, gave the structure some sort of continuity. Along the two trunks we could scramble without any very great difficulty. Our feat of engineering, however, was as nothing compared to the one achieved by our savage neighbours, for at a little distance up the stream the Papuans had spanned the gorge with a most wonderful suspension bridge. Across the ravine they had swung four main chains of bamboo. These were fastened at each end to a rigid horizontal cross-piece, and this again was braced on one side of the river to two trees, of no very great thickness, but of tremendous sustaining power, while on the other the chains were laid over the top of an enormous crag, then across a little depression in the ground behind it, and so were made fast to trees at the height of a few feet from the ground. The four main chains were under-girt with loops of bamboo, forming a cradle, along the bottom of which single bamboos were laid on end, affording a precarious footway. The total length of the span was at least 150 feet, and it swung clear of the tree-tops on the wooded sides of the gorge. At its greatest dip the bridge must have been 70 feet above the river. The elasticity and swing were tremendous, and I confess that the passage of the bridge was no joke to one unaccustomed to its giddy eccentricities. On this veritable tight-rope custom is everything, for I have seen fifteen native carriers at one time dancing carelessly across it, regardless of their heavy loads and of the tremendous increase in the oscillation that their numbers caused.

I crossed with some natives of the district, and having descended the right bank of the St. Joseph for about a mile, we came to the mouth of a small tributary, the bed of which we ascended for a distance of half a mile. It was a toilsome ascent owing to the enormous boulders, to which I have already alluded, and I found that the safest way was to take off my shoes and stockings and clamber along bare-foot. At intervals among these boulders occurred calm pools of exquisite deep blue water, and these the natives choose as their fishing grounds. They favour the pools with the narrowest outlets, and dam with leaves the little waterfalls, or natural weirs over which the water rushes from one clear expanse to another.

My native companions, being very agreeable and obliging fellows, were kind enough to send to their villages for the great fishing-nets, 30 yards long and 6 or 7 feet wide. When the nets arrived, the natives collected stones about the size of an orange, wrapped palm leaves round them, and then tied them to the edge of the net, until it was evenly weighted all along, at intervals of about 6 inches. They then lowered their net into the water, so arranging it as to form a half-moon, and, scrambling along the sides of the watercourse, they gradually drew the mesh towards them, until they reached the upper end of the pool, where natives, standing breast-high in the water, landed the fish, as they were pressed towards the bank, in large dip nets. Some of the fish jumped over the net, and some escaped down stream, and even managed to plunge over the weir, for they were strong enough to take a leap of 6 feet. We caught eight beauties, none under 2 lbs. in weight, and some up to 4 lbs. They were, as far as I could make out, a species of fresh-water mullet, and in the main stream of the St. Joseph similar fish, weighing as much as 15 lbs., are no uncommon catch.

These fish are wonderfully provided by Nature with an appliance which helps them to combat the extraordinary current. At one moment you will see them being swept down resistlessly, but suddenly they shoot off into the quieter water and attach themselves to the rocks by a strong sucker near the mouth. There they hang just outside the current, their tails moving gently with the eddy; and when they have recovered their strength, they make another dash through the swifter waters, coming to anchor again when baffled—otherwise it would be impossible for them to stem the stream. The fish we caught that day made a most welcome addition to our larder, as they are delicious eating.

FISHING WITH HAND-NET ON THE UPPER WATERS OF THE ST. JOSEPH RIVER.

From a scientific point of view we did not gain much by our expedition to the St. Joseph River. Every day the skies were leaden, and during the whole time of our stay we saw no sun. Butterflies were scarcely more plentiful than they had been at Dinawa, and once, after a whole morning’s work, Harry had only secured two—fine specimens, no doubt, but even at that an insufficient reward for the time spent. Every night we kept the lamp going, but the moths were very scarce, although our camp was in the heart of the forest.

Our life at St. Joseph River, however, was not to be all tranquillity. Once we had an alarm which fortunately degenerated into an incident of pure comedy, although it might have been very serious. At nightfall, one evening, a native boy, who had gone out shooting, had not returned, and we began to grow very anxious about him. At eight o’clock, however, he came into camp in a state of considerable agitation and bringing a strange tale of a pig. He had shot a tusker with No. 9 shot, but had only wounded it, and the animal charged him, whereupon he had thrown away his gun and run up a tree. Then the pig sat down over against him and laid siege to him, and our poor friend abode in the tree for several hours. Finally, however, the pig’s wound, which was over his eye, so blinded him with blood that he raised the siege in disgust and made off to his fastnesses.

As time went on the rumours of war increased, and one day three natives came in from the village of Mi-Mi, six hours’ journey higher up the mountains, on the top of a ridge. They came from the chief of Baw-boi, a fierce warrior, who kept all the small villages round him in abject terror. His emissaries conveyed to me a most agreeable message, that if we and our followers should honour him with a visit at Mi-Mi, he would kill my men, and have the pleasure of cooking and eating our heads—a compliment, presumably, to the superiority of European brains. I had fully intended to visit him, but after this token of cordiality I refrained, so that the menu of the chief of Baw-boi’s regal banquet has not yet included the tempting item, “braised brains of Pratt.” After the chief’s intimation I kept fires going all night at both ends of the camp, but it was not necessary to post a stricter watch than usual, for three or four of my men always kept awake in their hammocks during the dark hours. This precaution is, in fact, so natural to savages that they never need to be reminded of its necessity. We heard that the chief of Baw-boi had placed his village in a complete state of defence, had excavated a trench 18 feet wide all round, and had erected a stockade. The effect of these hostile preparations on the weaker villages round we were to learn later from Sam, who was, at this time, a day’s journey higher up the river carrying on collecting work for me.

The days seemed very long from lack of occupation, and the nights also, for we could not sleep for the roar of the St. Joseph River. Occasionally there were amusing incidents. One of my men, Gaberio, had a brilliant inspiration. He thought he would shoot fish with a rifle, and was allowed to go and try; but not only were they too quick for him, but, of course, the water deflected the ball, and the refraction of light through water makes a true aim impossible. Gaberio, who had no knowledge of natural science, covered his defeat by another excuse—“Water too deep,” said Gaberio.

We found here some indication of rudimentary game laws existing among the Papuans. Round this region dwelt certain chiefs, in whose territory grew the play-trees of the raggiana or red bird of paradise. These gentlemen intimated to us that any one who came to shoot the raggiana must pay them a fee, as the birds, by virtue of their coming to play in their trees, were their property.

As the natives had little to do in camp, they used to sit round Harry, watching him with the greatest interest while he posted his diary, and exclaiming at intervals, “mallelee lo-pi-ang” (good writing). It is most singular that they should have had a word for writing, for I found no trace among them even of picture writing, if we except the markings on the “bau-bau” or pipe; but it is probable that they had some means of communication by scratching on bark, otherwise the existence of the term seems to be inexplicable.

At length I saw that a further stay at the St. Joseph was impracticable. A flood came down and washed away our bridge, and it was with no great reluctance that we struck our camp and returned to Dinawa. On the way we repassed the village of Fa-lo-foida, which stands on the top of a conical hill surrounded by precipices. It was strongly stockaded, and we had a stiff clamber to get to the top. To enter the stockade we had to pass through the outer native house before gaining access to the centre of the village, a sort of compound. The stockade was closely built, only a few bars being left loose for ingress and egress, and the entrance could easily be shut in case of attack.

A march lasting from 6 A.M. till 12.30 P.M. brought us back to Dinawa, where we found all well and in good order, except our plants and one of the birds. A “magnificent,” a really beautiful specimen of that species of paradise bird, which one of my boys had brought in, and which we had hoped to keep in a cage, had died, probably because when its captor brought it into camp he slung it head downwards from a pole, and kept it in that position several hours. We were heartily sorry to lose so fine an example of the kellelo, as the Papuans call that variety.

Two days after our return to Dinawa camp, Sam rejoined us. He had much to tell, for the times had been rather stirring with him. My head-man as well as I had received the polite attentions of the Baw-boi chieftain, who had sent in to say that he was not afraid of Sam and his gun, and that he would cut off his head and eat him. After this overture Sam was careful to camp at the bottom of the hill, but our adversary did not give up hopes of a Cingalese dinner. A message came from another village that if Sam would go there he would be presented with a pig; but he knew the Papuan too well. He replied to the messengers that if they had a pig they should bring it into camp. Of course no pig came.

A ROUGH BRIDGE WE MADE AT THE ST. JOSEPH RIVER.

From Sam we learned further that the Fa-lo-foida people, through fear of the Baw-boi people, had cut the suspension bridge, and that the natives farther up the St. Joseph River, on hearing of the tyrant’s warlike preparations, had left their villages and had settled on the site of the camp I had just quitted. Their object was, of course, to be near friendly Fa-lo-foida, which would in time of stress be to them as a fenced city. This incident led to the formation of quite a new township, and before I left Dinawa for good my old camp on the St. Joseph had become a considerable village. It was a curious example of the way in which political necessity affected the locale of village communities.

CHAPTER VII
GOOD-BYE TO DINAWA

A Beautiful New Orchid discovered and described—Drought continues—Sufferings of the Natives—I practise as a Physician—Queer Native Diagnosis—Gaberio, an Intelligent Native, goes collecting on his own Account—How we kept touch—The Wireless Telegraph of the Wilds—We determine to take our Specimens to the Coast—Methods of Preservation and Packing—Gaberio returns—He tells of the Murder of one of his Boys—Hardships of Camp Life—Food and Ammunition fail—We try Cockatoo Soup—A Visit from a Fine Hill Tribe, the Ibala—They brighten the Last Days of our Stay—Gorgeous Sunsets at Dinawa—The Ibala People return according to Contract to act as Carriers—We depart—Trials of the March to the Coast—A Mishap at Sea—Our Fine Herbarium ruined with Salt Water—Port Moresby once more.

CHAPTER VII

GOOD-BYE TO DINAWA

Among the scientific specimens I brought back to Dinawa was a new phallonopsis which I had discovered near Fa-lo-foida as we returned from our camp on the St. Joseph. This orchid is one of the superb treasures that occasionally reward the seeker as he passes through the wilds of New Guinea. It was found growing in the fork of a tree, where it had plenty of shade and a rich damp bed of moss and leaves. The leaves were a very brilliant dark green, and on the spray, which was quite 3 feet long, grew thirty magnificent white flowers of exquisite fragrance. Each specimen must have measured 2½ inches in diameter when the sepals and petals were extended. Its whiteness fulfilled the most rigid canons of the orchid fancier, for in judging orchids there are whites and whites. The value is determined by substance. You may get a white that is very satisfactory, but there is a thick waxiness of blossom that gives to a plant the very highest value, and this delightful specimen was as near the ideal as anything I have ever seen. It had, of course, pseudo-bulbs, and did not live on the tree, which is merely used as a means of support, and the plant draws its nourishment from the humidity of the atmosphere.

Once more we settled down to the routine life of the camp, but it became plainer every day that, as there was no sign of the drought breaking up, there was very little hope of satisfactory work until another year. The skies were still brazen, and vegetation was failing more and more. The sweet potato crop had utterly failed. Those in store had long been consumed, and the natives were absolutely starving round us. It was no use for them to plant another crop of sweet potatoes until the rain should come, and they were wandering sadly all over the forest seeking what sustenance they could. Their strength was failing, and their privations were beginning to tell in terrible emaciation. It was pitiful to see the starving creatures come into camp, most of them mere skin and bone. Their children, of course, felt the pinch hardest, and there were many deaths. To see their condition one could hardly believe that they would ever recover, but they bore it all with a wonderful stoicism. Occasionally they would try to catch a pig in their corrals.

NATIVE WOMEN AT DINAWA.
The background is the roof and side of the author’s house.

The Dinawa people would also come to me for medicine, and would constitute me their physician for small complaints, such as headache, but I had to be very careful in this respect, for I found out that often they wanted medicine when nothing was the matter. This recalls to me an amusing incident of this period connected with my minor Æsculapian dealings. One morning Doboi, Martu, and Ow-bow came in, saying that Doboi’s mother was ill. On being questioned as to her symptoms, they told me that she was aching all over her body, and her head was particularly painful. Beyond these details we could not find out anything, and as the woman was some distance off, and it was not convenient to go that day, we gave them a headache compound and sent them off with it. Later in the afternoon the boys returned and told us that Ow-bow’s mother was dead, but the tidings were not so alarming as at first appeared; for they added that “her head was dead but her stomach was alive,” from which I understood that she was unconscious. The neighbouring Roman Catholic missionary, on hearing this, said that he would go over the following day. These cases were not new to him; in fact, he told us that fainting was quite common. Obviously, the dead head and the live stomach was a simple instance of swooning.

During this time we had permitted our man Gaberio—whom I have already mentioned as being with us at the St. Joseph River—to go off on his own account collecting butterflies and birds. Gaberio was a Papuan whom I had engaged at Port Moresby. He was very intelligent, capable, and quick, and to his other qualities he added a knowledge of pigeon English. I mention him chiefly because the fact of his absence brought home to us with considerable force the value of that extraordinary system of intercommunication prevailing among the Papuans, which may well be called the wireless telegraphy of the wilds. For some time Gaberio was, as one might expect in such a region, entirely beyond our ken, and although we knew he could take care of himself very well, as the days went on, and our departure was approaching, we felt that we should like to have tidings of him.

One morning, while we were writing home, we heard the natives calling from hill to hill. In that pure air their voices carry magnificently for a great distance, and village answers village with perfect ease from ridge to ridge. A little later the natives came in and told us that Gaberio was at a village called Kea-ka-mana, on the northern slope of the hill beyond us. It appeared that he was coming back by the same route as he had gone, and they told us that he expected to reach camp the next day. We thought at the time that he might go from Kea-ka-mana to the Kebea, but the natives said no, so we surmised that he must have a good collection of butterflies and birds, for he had had fine weather—finer, indeed, than Sam, who after all had got together quite a fine number of specimens. This news set us quite briskly to the work of preparation for our departure, for as soon as Gaberio should have returned we determined to make all speed down to Epa. The next day we were on the look-out for Gaberio, but he did not arrive, so we concluded that he had either gone to the Kebea or was remaining at Kea-ka-mana collecting. We filled up the day with active preparations for breaking up the camp, and, of course, our chief care was our collections.

THE WIRELESS TELEGRAPHY OF NEW GUINEA.
The natives shout their news from hill-top to hill-top, thus conveying it with amazing rapidity.

The first precaution was to take measures for the preservation of our moths and birds, so we made deep trays from the logs we had already sawn and held over from our house-building, each tray being strong enough to resist concussion, for as it would be carelessly carried, swung on a long bamboo, and allowed to dash against trees and other obstacles, the antennæ and legs of our specimens would be easily jarred, and very probably shaken off. The butterflies did not require such care, for each specimen was wrapped in paper and laid in sago boxes. Inside the wooden cases we placed the moth boxes proper, and in other two cases we laid our birds. Outside everything we pasted paper, treated with arsenic, to keep out insects when we should come to the lower ground, for the tiny ants at Port Moresby are legion and can penetrate the smallest aperture; once the ants enter a naturalist’s collection, woe betide it! Our only trouble during these packing operations was that we had not any nails small enough, for the huge ones we had brought from the coast very often split the wood.

During our last fourteen days at Dinawa we had one small gleam of good fortune in our collecting, for, curiously enough, we had quite a run of good nights with the moths. The nights were dark and misty, and we very often had sufficient success to encourage us to remain on the verandah and work until the small hours.

The second morning after the day we had our first news of Gaberio there was more calling, and shortly we heard that our follower was still at Kea-ka-mana, and that he had after all decided to go to the Kebea, and would return that way. The next day, while we were hard at work on our packing, we heard that Gaberio was on the Kebea—very pleasant news—for he was right in the heart of the best locality for the blue bird of paradise and for heterocera. There was another reason why this news was encouraging, and that was that a native feast was pending at Kea-ka-mana, and we had feared that Gaberio might be tempted to waste his time there in savage orgies. According to the latest intelligence, Gaberio would still be absent four or five days, and as he was in such a fine collecting country we hoped he would stay out to the end of his tether. Gaberio, however, did not fulfil our expectations in this respect, for the next day, shortly after noon, we heard that he was not at the Kebea at all, but that he was approaching the village on the ridge opposite, about 500 or 600 feet above Dinawa. Three hours later the intelligence department lied. It announced that Gaberio was at hand, the fiction being invented, no doubt, out of the savage’s fondness for creating a little pleasurable expectation. Unconsciously, however, Gaberio himself disproved the story, for we heard his gun far away on the heights, and we were able to locate him. Before nightfall we knew that he was really at the village first mentioned, for we could clearly distinguish his tent.

The next morning, September 21, both Harry and I slept late, for we had had an extremely heavy day. While we were still in bed we heard a shot from Gaberio, whom we welcomed back about eleven o’clock. He brought a really good collection, which included three blue birds of paradise and four longtails. Gaberio’s news, however, was not all good, for he had to report that one of his boys had been murdered. Whether the chief of Baw-boi had a hand in it, or whether there was a private reason for the crime, I cannot say. It was not on the Baw-boi side of the river, so perhaps if it was not fortune of war it may have been misfortune of love, for the eternal feminine is as potent in Papua for evil as she has been in other lands since Eden or Troy was lost. Be that as it may, the lad, a carrier from the village of Kowaka, about a day’s journey from Dinawa, went out from camp at Ta-poo-a one night into the forest, and there the adversary overtook him. It is probable that he was laid wait for, or he may merely have fallen to the spear of some wandering marauders. The natives in camp heard his cry and were speedily on the spot, but it was too late. He had been speared through the cheek, and his jugular vein had been severed. In a very few minutes he died. The victim’s own kindred came in to take charge of the body, arriving even before Gaberio’s messenger could reach their village, so swift and mysterious is the communication of news in New Guinea.

Now that Gaberio was back we were more than ever anxious to leave, for our provisions were running very low, and we were living principally on cockatoo soup. To make matters worse we had almost run out of ammunition, and for some time not even a pigeon broke the monotony of our poor fare. Occasionally we procured one or two sweet potatoes, but the natives were naturally very unwilling to sell them. A further difficulty stared us in the face, for the exhaustion of the natives through famine was now so great that I did not know how we were to get our baggage down to the coast, but relief dropped, if not from the clouds, at least from the hills.

One day we heard that the people of Ibala, who had heard of the white men’s coming, had been sufficiently overcome with curiosity to make the journey from their distant home to visit us. At that home of theirs, far away on one of the greater mountain sides of the Owen Stanley range, I had often gazed with wonder and all the explorer’s longing. Some five or six days’ journey to the north towered a great and mysterious peak, higher than Mount Yule, the northern slopes of which I imagine were in German territory. Close to this mountain was a range of low foot-hills, bare of trees, but clothed, as far as we could make out through our glasses, with rich pasturage, and it seemed an ideal spot for some future stock-breeder in New Guinea, for such open spaces for grazing-grounds are uncommon in the island. From these foot-hills there rose continually into the clear air countless columns of pale blue smoke, telling of a numerous population. On the mountain the forests hung dense to the summit, but the strangest thing of all was that through these masses of trees there ran what seemed like a drive, rising straight to the highest ridge, its sides as sharply and clearly marked as though it had been cleared by the hand of man. There were no straggling trees dotted here and there at irregular intervals from the sides. The forest left off sharply in an ascending line, but the space seemed to extend for at least 300 yards, and then the forest began again, being as clearly defined as the side of a well-built street. On the very summit we could make out through our glasses the presence of giant araucarias, of which I obtained some specimens from Sam, who, while absent on one of his short expeditions, sent a native up the mountain for seedlings. I hoped that one of these might find a home in some British collection, but, unfortunately, it died of the drought.

NATIVES OF ENUMAKA IN THE OWEN STANLEY RANGE.

It was from that region that the Ibala people hailed, and certainly, had the difficulties of transport not been so great, I should long ere this have visited them in their fastnesses. These fine northern men entered camp very shyly, and sat down with great diffidence. In appearance they were really handsome. Each man stood 5 feet 8 inches on an average; all were of fine physique and of a rich copper colour. Their women, of whom they brought a few, were not quite so tall. They were all in full finery, the men decorated with feathers, their faces painted in regular stripes with the juice of a scarlet berry. Between each red stripe ran a line of charcoal to set off the colour. A few of them wore the transverse pencil of tapering shell thrust through the septum of the nose, a form of decoration much affected by Papuan dandies. The women’s chief article of apparel was the customary dogs’ teeth necklace.

At first our visitors did not ask for anything, but talked in a desultory way through Ow-bow, who knew their language. Later in the afternoon, however, they proffered a request for some tobacco. Here was my opportunity. These admirable fellows, who had come from a region where there was no famine and were in the pink of condition, were just the very material I wanted for my journey. Accordingly, I said that they should receive tobacco on condition that, on their being called by wireless telegraphy, they would return and carry me to Ekeikei. They gave me their word, and I took the risk of their keeping it. They received their tobacco, but were in no apparent hurry to depart. In fact, they stayed two whole days, got over their first shyness, and cheered us up wonderfully—indeed, it was “roaring camp!” Growing bolder, they pried into everything, and the house was always full. There was great coming and going with the Dinawa people, with whom the Ibala people were related by marriage, and the nights were musical with unceasing mountain choruses.

Nothing would content them but they must see everything that the white men possessed, and it was very amusing to watch the men calling the women’s attention to anything that particularly attracted them. They felt our clothes and looked with curiosity at our photographs. In their power of appreciating and understanding a picture, one could realise how much higher in the social scale they were than their neighbours, the Australian aborigines, to whom drawing was unintelligible. They would pick out the portraits of Dinawa characters, and exclaim with great delight, “Ow-bow—Doboi—Martu,” as the case might be. I gave some additional tobacco to each man who would consent to stand for his photograph, but they never quite got over their shyness of the camera. Sometimes, when I had got everything fixed and ready, my sitter would get up and walk slowly away; some of the women faced the lens, but even when doing so, they would often cover their faces. Our visitors did not understand guns, so we took care not to frighten them with firearms.

On the third day, about ten in the morning, they announced that they were going. They got together the bags in which a Papuan carries his effects, packed up their new acquisitions, and did a little business with the Dinawa people in small articles I had traded with the villagers, such as matches, tobacco, or an axe, the greatest of treasures—for “trade,” in the Papuan sense, had not reached Ibala. I myself made a few purchases from them, chiefly of clubs, for which I gave in exchange some small knives. To the Dinawa people they gave some sugar-cane, which was greedily snapped up by our destitute neighbours. Then they formed up, shook hands most cordially with us all, took the route, and disappeared into the forest, a party of men in front, the women in the centre carrying the loads, and another party of braves bringing up the rear. For a long time their shouts came echoing back to us through the trees. It was a most pleasant interlude, and when these cheerful fellows were gone we felt the camp almost painfully quiet.

One or two incidents occurred to break the monotony of the remaining days. While I was collecting, close to the Aculama, I heard the missionary dog barking in great excitement, and discovered that he had seen a tremendous snake. This I shot in the head and brought into camp, where, on measuring it, I found it to be 18 feet long and 4 inches in diameter. It was of a non-poisonous variety—one of those snakes that live on the small arboreal mammals. I still retain the skin and skeleton as trophies. Even minor incidents of these dull days seemed worthy of setting down, and I note in my diary that one day one of my native carriers, who was going off to the river, demanded a gun. When I explained to him that he could not have one, he remarked with great nonchalance, “Maw-mo-na yow valeo dorka”—“Enough, I understand very well,” and he went off contentedly without firearms.

I must not conclude my account of Dinawa without mentioning what was perhaps the greatest of its natural attractions—the almost overpowering magnificence of its sunsets. From the ridge I have watched every variety of colour, ranging from amber, gold, and orange, through purple and violet, to delicate shades of mauve, green, and pink—in fact, every hue of the prismatic spectrum was flung in magnificent profusion across the sky from horizon to zenith. On certain nights the whole landscape would be bathed in a glow of reflected crimson. It seemed as if the world were on fire. Even the vegetation was dyed a vivid red, and as the rim of the sun gradually disappeared, the tints melted to paler shades before they vanished. A brief period of starless twilight succeeded, and then the firmament was gemmed with a million sparkling points, and the tropic night reigned serene in its marvel and mystery. Many and many a time I have sat in rapt enjoyment of that gorgeous spectacle, watching the constellations wheel westward until the dawn overtook and hid them.

VEGETATION AT DINAWA.
Some of the tree ferns grow to a height of 40 feet.

The day for our departure now began to draw very near. All the specimens were safely packed, but the question of transport pressed more and more heavily. From the Dinawa people, as I have noted, little help was to be expected. The fittest of the men were abroad in the forest on foraging expeditions, and when we asked the women to carry for us, they replied that they could not come while their husbands were away. We sent out our boys to see what they could do in the surrounding country, but they invariably came back to report that they could recruit very few men. We ourselves, after a great deal of wearisome tramping from village to village, managed to enlist a meagre band of five fairly able-bodied assistants, but our party was still very inadequate. This was on September 22. A few days earlier, in pursuance of the compact the Ibala people had made with me, I had set the telegraph in motion, and told Fa-lo-foida to call up Kea-ka-mana, Kea-ka-mana to call up Tapua, and so on stage by stage to the distant home of my picturesque mountaineers, to tell them that the time had come to redeem their promise and earn the tobacco advanced on personal security alone. The calling accordingly began, and in less than ten minutes Ibala of the five days’ journey had received my summons. During the afternoon the answer arrived. Ibala was willing and would come. Accordingly, close to the time fixed for our departure—September 23—we were cheered by the return of our merry friends, who came like the honourable gentlemen they were to discharge their obligation.

Even with this reinforcement we were still undermanned, and decided to start with only half the baggage, leaving Gaberio behind to see to the despatch of the other half when the bearers should be sent back. On September 23, at 9 A.M., we started for Ekeikei. At twelve we halted at Madui, where the natives wished to sleep; but this, of course, was out of the question, so we pushed on. As far as Madui the drought still prevailed. After that point it was damp, but not wet. In one way the drought had served us well, for all the leeches had died and we were saved from that pest; but the scrub-itch was worse than ever, especially after we passed Ekeikei. We reached the Bamboo Camp after a hard march at 7 P.M., and both we and our followers were thoroughly tired out. Next day we went by way of Ekeikei to Epa, when our friends from Ibala went back, having performed their undertaking. We found Epa terribly parched, and it presented a very different aspect to that which we had seen three months earlier. Thence we proceeded to Oo-fa-fa, where our old acquaintance Mavai saw us through with our impedimenta. We travelled by boat to Pokama, where we got on board a small cutter and set sail for Port Moresby. Unfortunately, we encountered very heavy weather, and had to beat up to our destination under a lashing south-east monsoon. We shipped many seas, and thus lost our fine herbarium, all the plants in which were blackened by salt water. This was an irreparable misfortune, and most disheartening after the tremendous trouble we had taken in collecting and drying our specimens of Papuan flora.

CHAPTER VIII
INACTION AND AN EXCURSION

Period of Inaction at Port Moresby—Christmas in New Guinea—A Scratch Dinner—A Christmas Privilege for Cingalese to obtain Spirits—Curious Effect on One Individual—A Noteworthy Character—An Excursion to Hula—A Fisher Community—A Piebald People—Picturesque Night Fishing by Flare Light—Fishermen often Killed by Gare-fish—Hula Houses—Various Traits of Native Life—A Walk round Hood’s Bay—Traces of Initiatory Rites at Kalo—The Kalo Houses described—On to Kerapuna—A Shooting Expedition—We lose the Trail—Class Distinctions at Kerapuna—Return to Port Moresby by Sea—A Perilous Voyage in a Little Canoe—Tragic Death of Flood, the Naturalist.

CHAPTER VIII

INACTION AND AN EXCURSION

As there was really nothing to be done until the beginning of the year, we settled down at Port Moresby in some spare rooms which Sam, my Cingalese head-man, let me have in his house.

We occupied our time with the despatch of our collections. The herbarium, of course, had perished, but the moths, butterflies, and birds had come safely down from Dinawa. We did not disturb the boxes already packed, but merely stowed them in large cases, packing them with cocoanut fibre and straw to resist concussion. Each box was tin-lined, and on receiving its full complement was soldered up.

For the procuring of empty cases I was greatly obliged to the courtesy of Mr. Ballantine, the Curator of the Intestate Office at Port Moresby. This work occupied us in all over a fortnight, and finally we despatched our collections to England by way of Australia.

Thereafter the days were very dull and uneventful. Christmas was fast approaching, but there was very little hope of its being a merry one—for us, at any rate. The stores of provisions were running very short, and our Christmas dinner was probably one of the queerest that was ever set before an exiled Britisher. I left the task of preparing the meal entirely to Sam, who managed somehow to procure some wallaby, a piece of bacon, and biscuits. Instead of pudding we had a Cingalese plum-cake, made by Sam’s daughter, and a glass of claret rounded off the banquet. Harry and I dined together on the verandah, and remembered absent friends, but we were not very festive.

There is one curious observance of the Port Moresby Christmas which may be worthy of mention here. At that season any Cingalese resident in the place may, on obtaining a Government permit, be served with spirits at the Stores.

The effect of this privilege on one Port Moresby worthy was truly deplorable. I saw him in the road, and I have little doubt that he saw more than one of me, but then, of course, it was a year since he had permission before. He was quite a character, and his residence was as peculiar as himself. It was built entirely of flattened paraffin tins and other oddments, a style of architecture which I have also noticed in the West Indies.

A PIEBALD TRIBE: THE MOTU-MOTU PEOPLE OF HOOD’S BAY, AND A TYPICAL KALO HOUSE.
The piebald people are one of the mysteries of New Guinea, and their origin is unexplained. The spear in the warrior’s hand is made of hard redwood, sharpened, and has no metal. The house is built on an open wooden framework, and the flooring of the dwelling-room begins at the bottom of the closed-in gable. On this inflammable floor, within the thatch of flag-grass, they actually have a fire on a mud hearth. The slanting pole is a ladder for the inhabitants. In some cases they have little ladders for the dogs.

Another Port Moresby character was Weaver, the greengrocer; he has a history, but no man knows it, and it is popularly reported that he has a family in Australia. He has been in New Guinea for some years, and lives quite alone in an isolated district where he built a house and took up some land. He stands 6 feet 2 inches, and is a curious eccentric fellow whom nobody understands. He does not care for visitors, and has even been known to threaten distinguished personages with his gun when they dared to knock at his door! Twice a week Weaver brings in his vegetables, packed on two ponies, and sells them to Europeans at Port Moresby. It is said that he is accumulating money. He is perfectly independent, and quite a character; utterly illiterate, he has the dogged opinions which usually accompany lack of education. He believes in himself, has no one to help him in his work, and tells you quite frankly that he thinks he could run New Guinea better than any one. On all subjects under the sun the opinion of Weaver is absolutely right and that of the world absolutely wrong.

As the days dragged on Harry and I thought we would vary the monotony of our life, and obtain a change of diet, by taking a small excursion down to Hula, the great fishing-place. By the courtesy of a trader, who was going down in a whaleboat, we obtained a passage. A voyage of a few hours took us down, and we found the village fairly large, built like Hanuabada, only most of the houses stood in the water on piles. The shore is thickly fringed with cocoanut plantations. The people, who belong to the Motuan tribe, as those of Hanuabada do, live by supplying the inland natives with fish. They go down to the fishing-ground, about two miles from shore, in small dug-out canoes, and this industry affords a very delightful touch of colour to the scenery of this part of the Papuan coast. The fishing is done at night, and just as the sun sinks the canoes come up past Hula in great crowds. In each boat are four or five fishermen, who pole up the shallows and paddle when they come to deeper water. As the darkness deepens the flotilla suddenly bursts into flame, for their method of attracting gare-fish, which is their chief quarry, is by burning huge flares of dried palm leaves. Each of these flares is made up of a considerable bundle of leaves, and the men brandish them about in their hands. The light lasts for a considerable time. The effect of these many fires, reflected in long tracks on the water, is extremely picturesque. The fishing lasts all night, and at dawn the fleet returns with its catch.

The work is not unattended with danger, for sometimes the gare-fish, which are armed with a sharp sword-like projection of bone from the front part of the head, will, as they leap in blind terror of the light, strike the fishermen and kill them. The natives set up a stick in the water where any one has been killed by gare-fish.

Another interesting feature of Hula was the presence there of a piebald people. For the most part their bodies were brown, but they were marked with pinkish patches unevenly distributed. It is not improbable that this marking might be due to a disease, contracted from a too constant fish diet, but if it were a disease I could not discover that it gave any discomfort. Against this theory must be set this fact, that I observed one man in whom the light markings predominated. In fact, he was quite fresh-coloured, like a European, and had light hair. These piebald people were not a class apart from the rest of the Hula villagers, but shared their life in every respect.

The piles on which the Hula houses are built look quite insufficient to support the superstructure. The pitch of the gables is not always uniform in the same house, and in these cases the ridge-pole is not horizontal.

Before we came to Hula, however, we had paid a visit to Kappa-Kappa, one of the very few localities in New Guinea that show any immediate result of missionary effort and of a direct attempt to introduce the methods of civilisation. There resides the agent of the London Missionary Society, Dr. Laws, who has been perhaps longer in British New Guinea than any other white man, for his stay now extends over thirty years. The missionary has a fine house standing on a slight elevation and commanding a magnificent view to the north and south. A remarkably fine road leads up to Dr. Laws’ residence, and 300 yards away is the Christian village, built in detached houses along the rise and forming a regular street. We were very much amused to notice that the houses were all numbered, and that many of them had Scotch names inscribed on a little piece of wood fastened over the door.

There were about sixty houses in all, and a really fine church and school. This last we visited and heard the children sing. They gave not at all a bad performance for coast natives, to whose discordant tones I have already alluded, and if my good friends, the mountain people, with their beautiful voices and their fine idea of music, had had the same training, the effect would have been little short of charming. We saw the place at a slight disadvantage, for the drought had greatly withered the vegetation, and Dr. Laws’ fine orange trees were all dead. The natives, I was glad to see, wore their ordinary dress, and no ridiculous attempt had been made to thrust them into European clothes. Dr. Laws did everything in his power to render our visit pleasant, and to him and his wife we are indebted for much kind hospitality. There is much that is enviable in his pleasant dwelling-place, and he seems to be on excellent terms with the natives. As I have elsewhere had occasion to remark, it is doubtful whether this generation of Papuans is capable of much spiritual enlightenment at the missionary’s hands, but the seeds of industrial progress at any rate are being sown, and the order and apparent prosperity of Kappa-Kappa say much for the work of the pioneer. There is no Paradise, however, without its serpent, and the scourge of Kappa-Kappa is the black snake, which attacks the natives.

The poison is most virulent, and Dr. Laws told me that if he could see the sufferer immediately he could save him, but if only a few minutes elapse before help is available death must inevitably ensue within an hour. This snake also kills the missionary’s horses, which it invariably bites on the instep. He keeps the horses for his little trap, in which, at the close of our visit, he drove us down to the coast, a distance of about four miles.

Besides the things I have mentioned, we found little else to interest us in Hula, and after a short stay we set off to walk round Hood’s Bay to Kalo, the next village of any importance, situated a little way from the coast. On the way we passed the little village of Babacca, the headquarters of a copra trader called Joher.

Formerly Kalo was the centre of strange ceremonial dances, connected with the worship of the reproductive powers of Nature.

Initiatory rites were celebrated, and the orgies taken part in by the young men and women were often of the most indecorous character. By the decree of a paternal Government these celebrations have now ceased to exist. It is possible that they were accompanied by cannibalism, but I am not aware that there is any proof of this. Descriptions are extant, but it is doubtful whether these have been given at first hand, for the natives would certainly not have admitted visitors to their mysteries.

The houses at Kalo are the most substantial I saw in New Guinea. They were built upon 9–inch posts and were raised 10 or 11 feet off the ground. It was extraordinary to me how these posts were secured, the soil seemed so loose and sandy; about one-third distance up occurred a cross-piece, above which there were two others. The lower parallelogram thus formed was crossed by two diagonal pieces of bamboo, the third and upper parallelogram by one diagonal piece; these were the steps giving access to the house, and their arrangements will be easily understood by reference to the photograph. The third cross-piece, above which the gable is enclosed, marks the level of the floor. There was an open verandah at one end, and the house had only one room. The house was eaved, and was thatched with flag-grass, and the whole structure measured 30 feet by 15 feet. On the inflammable floor, within the thatch, they actually have a fire on a mud hearth. The strangest sight of all was the elaborate carvings hung up outside, and it was a singular thing that no two houses at Kalo bore carvings of the same pattern.

We stayed only a few hours at Kalo, and then went on to Kerapuna, where we arrived about dusk after a long day’s march. At one point our advance was barred by a small river, very still and muddy and fringed with rank vegetation, the whole aspect of the place proclaiming it the haunt of the crocodile. It would have saved time had we swum across, but the mere look of the place obviously made it unwise to do so, so we fetched a slight détour until we came to a little village where we were able to hire a canoe.

Kerapuna is a fairly large fishing village on the east side of Hood’s Lagoon, just within the entrance. It possesses its missionary, Mr. Pearce, who lives there with his wife in great isolation. It is many years since he has been home, and it is not often that a European knocks at his door. With him we found hospitality. He is pleasantly housed and seems very comfortable and is on good terms with the natives, to whose spiritual needs he ministers in a little hall. It is doubtful how far the Papuan can be reached through theological channels at this stage of his development. A great deal, however, can be done towards training him in the simpler industries.

From Kerapuna we went out for a short shooting expedition in the flat, trackless forest that lies inland. The region is very gloomy; tall Pandanus trees with aërial roots and thickly matted branches obscure the daylight, but there is no dense undergrowth. There the gaura pigeon abounds, and we were fortunate enough to shoot some.

A HOUSE IN THE VILLAGE OF KALO.
The floor of the house is on a level with the eaves.

The little expedition, however, was rather uneventful, except at one point, where we discovered somewhat to our anxiety that we had lost the trail. The two natives we had brought with us went, one to the right and the other to the left, searching for it, and we kept shouting to each other all the time. At last, after a couple of hours’ search, we found the track, which would have been visible only to a Papuan, as there was no well-worn path. We required native guidance also to get us back to the creek where we had left our canoe.

If there were no division between the piebald people and the ordinary inhabitants of Hula, at Kerapuna we noticed a curious class distinction, founded not on any physical peculiarity, but upon the mere question of occupation. One part of the village was occupied by the fisher tribe, the other part by a purely agricultural people. The latter were extremely lazy, and, as I have noted elsewhere, the lazier Papuan tribes are never fishermen, and always employ some more active people to do this work for them. The tillers of the soil and the spoilers of the sea hold rigidly aloof from one another at Kerapuna, and only meet on the common ground of an exchange of commodities—the fish being purchased for bananas and cocoanuts. Yet, strangely enough, the more active tribe was evidently there on sufferance, and was allowed to remain only because of the fish they supplied. Another remarkable point was, that the fishing populations dwelt on land and not on pile-built houses, as at Hula and Hanuabada. In this district we could get on without any other “trade” than tobacco.

As there was nothing to tempt us to remain, and as Kerapuna, even at the best, was a dull place, we did not stay longer than four or five days. I was very anxious, too, to get back to Port Moresby to make my preparations for a second journey into the interior to resume my work. We determined to make the return journey by water, and accordingly hired a little canoe from a native, who, with a companion, came with us to act as our navigator.

The little craft was hardly more than 18 inches wide, and just held the four of us in a rather cramped position. We set our course, which lay twenty miles across Hood’s Bay to Hula, and started about 10 A.M. in fine weather. When we had got about half-way, however, the wind rose, and a tremendous swell began to come in from the point where the reef opens seawards, and very soon the dug-out was dancing like a cork and was continually shipping seas, so that Harry and I had to bale constantly.

I must say, however, that our natives knew how to handle their craft, and were very expert watermen. They kept the little square sail of matting under excellent control, and steered with the flat of a paddle from the side at the stern. Although they were very frightened, they did their best, and kept the canoe’s head up to the seas very neatly. For a time, I must confess, I myself was doubtful whether we should get through safely. We were dripping wet and in rather a sorry plight, but after rounding the point close to Hula we got into calmer water, and we landed safely, but very stiff and cold.

Two or three days later we bade good-bye to Hula, and the same whaler’s trading boat that had got us down took us back to Port Moresby, where I at once set about active preparations for my second journey inland.

On my return to Port Moresby I heard, to my great regret, the news of the death of Mr. Flood, the American naturalist. When I went up to Dinawa, while on my first journey, I left Flood in Port Moresby. Some time after he went up the Venapa River, seeking land shells. He was foolish enough to go alone, and his folly was the greater because he was very deaf. At length the authorities got alarmed about him, and Mr. Ballantine headed a search party, but the only trace of the naturalist was one of his camp fires. It is thought almost certain that he may either have strayed away and died of hunger, or he may have been devoured by a crocodile. It was not the first time that a party had gone out to seek Flood after his prolonged absence had given cause for alarm, and it was doubly absurd of him to go alone, because, even with Papuan attendants, it is difficult—as I myself have found—to pick up the trail when once it has been lost. I was much distressed about Flood, for he was a most unselfish enthusiast in the pursuit of science.

CHAPTER IX
TOWARDS THE UNEXPLORED

Beginning of Furthest Journey into Unexplored Interior—The Everlasting Question of Carriers—Difficulties and Delays—Epa again—Curious Method of Water Supply—Mavai welcomes us back—He provides a Dubious Treat—Ekeikei—The Building of a Permanent Camp—An Elaborate Undertaking—House-building on a Large Scale—Ingenious Papuan Methods of Thatching—The Chief Kafulu proves Unneighbourly—He does not fulfil his Engagements—Ow-bow’s Embassy—My Deputy is robbed—Precautions in Camp against Attack—I go down to Kafulu and deal faithfully with him—He relents, and restores Ow-bow’s Goods—An Earthquake and Hurricane at Ekeikei.

CHAPTER IX

TOWARDS THE UNEXPLORED

On January 1, 1903, Harry and I left Port Moresby on board Captain Pym’s vessel, the Whaup. This took us to Yule Island, and from that point we proceeded to Pokama, on the mainland. There we were met and entertained by Cavé, a hospitable Papuan woman, widow of Captain Williams, a trader. She has a very comfortable bungalow at Pokama, and keeps a small store, where she does business with passing traders, who are always welcome at her house. She also owns a small light-draught cutter, which brings sandalwood down from Bioto Creek, and this boat she is willing to let out to travellers. She also keeps up the beautiful gardens and fine mango trees planted by her husband, and she cultivates custard apples and a delightful fruit known as Soursop. It is the shape of a kidney and about the size of a pumpkin; within it is a mass of creamy pulp, surrounding black seeds. This pulp is most cooling, and it is accompanied by a pleasantly astringent acid juice, the whole fruit forming an ideal refreshment for the tropics.

From Pokama we went by canoe to Yule Island, where we halted at the Sacred Heart Mission, and then went on to Aruopaka, where we stayed for several days in the house of Mr. Russell. Mr. Russell himself was absent, but we joined him later at Moa, one and a half hours’ row from Aruopaka, a voyage which we made in our host’s whaleboat. From Moa we passed by way of Inawee, Inawa, and Inawabia to Aipiana, the Government station, where Mr. Russell entertained us for five days. In the curiously-named villages just mentioned we tried to collect carriers, and at this juncture I sent Harry back to Pokama to bring on the goods we had left behind us, appointing to meet him at Bioto. During his absence Mr. Russell and I went to the southward through other villages Rarai and Nara, and picked up twenty more men. On our way through these southern villages we met Captain Barton, then the head of the native armed constabulary, and now the Administrator. With him I spent one night, and then pushed on to Bioto with my thirty bearers, who, as yet, had nothing to carry. To perform the journey adequately I really should have had a force of seventy. At Bioto we enlisted a few, but our numbers were still very insufficient. At 4 A.M. in the morning after my arrival at Bioto, Harry rejoined me, and during that day we began sending the baggage by relays to Epa. Harry had been enabled to bring all our remaining goods with him through the kindness of the Rev. Mr. Dauncey, who had lent him his whaleboat. With the help of the Chief Constable, who gave us the use of his canoe, we got the baggage along to Oo-fa-fa, from which point I was assisted by my old friend Mavai, who sent down carriers from Epa to take the stuff up to Ekeikei. At Bioto the mosquitoes were at this time a terror, and were so thick that one could hardly put food in one’s mouth or take an aim with a gun.

THE VILLAGES OF ELEVADA AND HANUABADA.
The latter is built on piles in the water. Its inhabitants are the potters of New Guinea.

While we passed through Epa on this occasion, I noticed specially the extraordinary method of water supply there in vogue. A spring which supplies the community was distant some twenty minutes’ walk down-hill, and twice every day, in the morning and just before dusk, the women went down to draw water. This they carried in long bamboos, measuring at least 12 feet. The partitions dividing the sections of bamboo had been knocked out with a long, hard stick, the bottom one was allowed to remain, and these light but unwieldy receptacles, capable of holding about thirty-six pints each, were taken to the spring and filled. The open end was plugged with a green leaf, and the women carried the vessels up-hill held slantwise over their shoulder. The bamboo was set up against a shady wall, beside the house door, and the method of procuring a small supply of water was comical in the extreme. Whenever you wanted a drink two people had to officiate; a native took hold of the bamboo by the lower end and you proceeded to the other. It was then gingerly lowered towards you, for the greatest care had to be taken not to tilt it too far, otherwise more water than you wanted would have come out with a rush and drenched you.

On my reappearance at that village I was very heartily welcomed by the chief. I found him busily engaged in hunting the cassowary and the pig, and generally keeping up his reputation of a great sportsman.

During this visit to Mavai, the excellent chief, who kept fowls, presented me with two eggs; these we boiled with lively anticipations of a treat, but we broke the shells only to discover that the eggs were of a remote antiquity. We passed them on, however, to Ow-bow, who received them with gratitude, for he regarded chicken in this form as a very great delicacy indeed.

I purchased some sago from the chief, and when we got bearers together I started for Ekeikei. One day’s journey brought us to our destination, which was situated 1500 feet above sea level, on the foot-hills of the Owen Stanley range. This point I had already selected in my mind as the scene of my future labours, and I at once set about building a permanent camp. I chose the site in a part of the forest overlooking a fine valley, and we set to work speedily, felling the forest trees to make the necessary clearing. It was a big business, much bigger than founding our establishment at Dinawa, but I intended to erect much more permanent structures, which were to be built large enough not only to serve for scientific work, but as a depôt for expeditions to other districts. The house and two collecting verandahs were all in one building, one verandah facing the forest and the other the valley, so as to permit of work being carried on whatever the direction of the wind. The whole structure was built on poles 6 feet 6 inches off the ground, so that my natives could shelter, sling their hammocks, and take their meals below. This work occupied us three weeks, and in it we were assisted by Mavai’s people, who were helped by the villagers of the neighbouring chief, Kafulu. These came in to lend a hand for the sake of tobacco and other trade articles they needed.

The best thatch to be obtained in Papua is the sago leaf, and of this the natives make roofs that are water-tight and very durable. At Ekeikei we adopted this method. Along the rafters of our house we ran horizontal bamboos, and instead of a ridge-pole roof we had two of these bamboos running from end to end a few inches apart. The frond of the sago leaf which we used for this purpose is at least 4 feet long; it measures 6 inches at the base, and tapers to a point. To begin the thatch, one takes the leaf and bends it two-thirds away from the apex. One starts from the bamboo horizontal that lies nearest the eaves, and hooks the leaf over, laying the pointed end out. On the next higher bamboo one hooks over another leaf, similarly folded, so that its long pointed end far overlaps the other, and so on until the ridge of the roof is reached. The operation is thus repeated until the whole roof is thatched. The space between the two parallels which form the ridge-pole is finally covered with grass laid thickly across and across. The sago leaf is grooved laterally, and forms, as it were, a natural water-spout for carrying off the rain.

So durable is this roof that after an absence of five months we found that our Ekeikei house was still water-tight. This thatch is, however, a great harbourage for cockroaches, and there must have been millions of them in our house. At night we could hear them rustling among the dry leaves. I could not ascertain that they had done any actual damage, and they had the grace not to fall down upon us.

As soon as the camp was finished we settled down to our old routine of work, very similar to that observed during our stay at Dinawa, and for a time all went smoothly. But suddenly a cloud loomed upon our horizon in the shape of our neighbour Kafulu. This worthy, whose village was an hour’s journey off, had often visited the camp while the building was in progress. He was a very low type of Papuan, with a receding forehead and a face altogether ape-like. After his people, who helped me in my building operations, had been paid off, I did a little business with the chief himself, and ordered sago stalks for wattling the sides of the house. For these I paid in advance, but the sago was not forthcoming. I made no complaint at first, and this probably deceived him into thinking I might be treated with further contumely, for he suddenly began to threaten my boys, until at last they would no longer venture out into the forest to collect. Accordingly, I sent my trusty advocate Ow-bow and his wife down to Kafulu’s village to know the reason why he did not deliver the sago, which was several weeks overdue. Ow-bow was allowed to take a gun with him, but no cartridges, and his empty weapon evidently was not impressive. My emissary’s experience was painful; Kafulu did not take his life, but he took his effects. Now, every Papuan carries with him as his most cherished possession a little net-bag, containing a charming collection of oddments dear to the savage mind—his knife, tobacco, bamboo pipe, matches, which he had earned, betel-nut and gourd, and little trophies of the chase. All these Kafulu took from the unfortunate Ow-bow, as well as his blanket, his dogs’ teeth necklace, and other adornments. Thus bereft, Ow-bow executed a strategic movement to the rear, and returned to camp with his tale of wrong. Kafulu then sent in a polite message informing me that he had no intention of sending the sago, and further, that I was not to shoot bird, kangaroo, wallaby, or any game around my camp, for they were his animals; otherwise he would burn the camp and kill us all.