Part 3
The next day was Sunday - a busy one for the doctor - both morning and afternoon services were
well attended. The church, though a commodious structure not without its good points as a
building, cannot compare with the one at Nogugu, which is one of the finest in the New
Hebrides.
Seven years ago, the west coast of Santo was peopled by a very savage race of natives and was a
very safe place for a white man to show his face in but, thanks to the courage and perseverance of
missionaries, traders and native teachers, the whole of the coast land from Cape Cumberland in
the north to Tasariki in the south is under Christian influence.
That night, having secured the services of a native guide, for a portion of the way at least, I
resolved to strike across the mountains back to the East Coast. This plan would entail leaving the
Doctor to pursue his circumnavigation of the island alone (except for his trusty crew) for which I
was sorry, as I had spent a pleasant week in his genial company; but still I had often wished to do
that overland trip and this opportunity was too good to miss.
In the quiet grey dawn of the next morning our little party filed out of the village. Our bundles,
like our hearts, were light and we swung along at a good pace. I thought once of Gordon's lines in
"Ala longa":
The hill of life with eager feet We climb in the merry morning but on the downward path we
meet the shades of twilight morning
but dismissed them as irrelevant. The "merry morning" was sufficient for us. By 6.30 am, we had
begun our ascent of the mountain proper; by 10.30 we had reached the summit, 3000 feet above
sea level. After the salt laden heavy atmosphere of the coast, this mountain air was sweet and
refreshing and I breathed in great chestfuls just for the mere pleasure of breathing pure fresh air
once again.
Far down below, the villages of Tasmate and Veralia lay swooning in the pulsing heat, their
black-sand beaches sparkling in the morning sun. Beyond, to the distant horizon, stretched the
great expanse of steaming oily sea - a sea of molten lava gliding silently westwards.
For half an hour I sat, drinking in the grandeur of the scene - the more practical minded natives
"drinking in" the luscious juice of the thirst quenching orange the while.
But we still had far to go ere night and with a last long look at the glorious panorama of
mountains and valley, village and sea, I reluctantly shouldered my haversack and the march was
begun again. Up and down, up and down, for hours it seemed, our guide led us swiftly over the
mountain billows, along razor-backed ridges, where to slip meant a fall of 500 feet and more,
now swinging down hillsides, steadying ourselves with root and branch, fern and grass, now
pushing our way through a scrub so thick that knives had to be resorted to, until at last we halted
for lunch by the side of a splendid river that roared and rushed through the mountain - gorges,
tumbling in sparking cascades over granite boulders, whirling silently in deep shady pools, clear
and cool.
While the billies boiled, I amused myself watching some youths of our party lassoing fish with a
noose on the end of a bamboo pole. I had not thought it possible to "rope" fish until I saw it done
there - not once, but many times. A delightfull lunch, an hour's rest afterwards and then on again.
By 3 pm, we had reached the highest point and could see the waters of St Phillip's - or Big Bay
-away to the eastwards.
Then began the descent. If our progress had been good hitherto, it was better now. Still, as we
swung along in single file, I could see our guide casting anxious glances at the declining sun,
making, I had no doubt, abstruse calculations as to the possibility or otherwise of reaching the
bay ere night overtook us.
Shooting round a curve we came suddenly onto a native village nestling in the cool depths of the
mountain valley - far from the madding crowd indeed.
The villagers seemed not a little surprised at the intrusion. The female section of the community
immediately stampeded to the friendly shelter of some neighbouring trees where they remained
for a time, until curiosity got the better of them, when they crept forth again, to see and to be
seen.
A strange and wild looking crowd, these rugged mountaineers, who spoke not the language of the
East nor yet that of the west, and whose men and women alike dressed as Nature intended that
they should dress, providing them with a forest full of leaves to choose their habitments from.
The men just sat and scowled at us; the women seemed interested, but not over hospitable. I
wished to purchase some taro and some yam as it had begun to dawn on me that we could not
possibly reach the settlement at Big Bay that night. They did not seem inclined to barter but the
sight of some pipes and tobacco judiciously displayed brought them to their bearings and, having
got all we required, we were allowed to depart in peace - not in pieces, as seemed at one time
probable.
On we went, mile after mile. The sun went down and the stars came out but still we walked and
still Big Bay was far ahead. Our advance guard had reached a river our rear was stumbling
heavily along in the semi-darkness. I called a halt and we decided to camp. Fires were made,
yams roasted and soon we were enjoying a well earned repast.
Soon we all lay down in the soft long grass of the river bank to sleep. The natives with their
bundles to carry were all wearied out. I confess I was pretty tired myself We had walked since
day-break with little rest, a distance of over 30 miles; but sleep came not that night. Myriads of
mosquitos kept somnus at bay, to say nothing of bush ticks and beetles and grass snakes. I shall
never forget the horrors of that sleepless night. It was like a slice out of Dante's Inferno.
We were up betimes next morning, pushing on for the settlement ahead, landing there in time for
a late but welcome breakfast. Leaving again at 11 am, we strolled on round the shores of the
beautiful bay, passing some populous villages on route.
Thanks to an exceptionally long spell of dry weather, we had little trouble crossing the Jordan,
that historic river on the banks of which poor de Quiros attempted to form his Spanish settlement
300 years ago, only to be driven off by fierce fevers and the spears of hostile natives.
As I hung myself out to dry on the bank, visions of those plucky old Spaniards crossed my mind
-the hastily constructed fortifications, the treacherous native gliding silently through the shady
gloom of this very forest waiting ever for a chance to thrust his poisoned spear point through the
bosom of the strange white man who has come from afar in his great canoe. I wondered, too, if
Quiros had often to wade the ~ 00 yards of swiftly flowing river. I expect the gallant Spaniard
would have considered that a trifle; so would I had I been in his place with his leather breeches,
coat of mail and all the other luxuries of that ancient time.
We saw fine shoals of fish in the river, tempting fellows too, but had no time to catch any.
That night we camped by a Frenchman's deserted home in the south east corner of the Bay.
Again, the savage hum of many mosquitos filled the air; again Satan's flying millions were out on
the war path, keeping the drowsy god at arms length.
1 October 1905
Next morning we were early on the march, and ere the sun rose had turned our heads for home.
My compass was now our only guide and it proved a faithful one, the quivering finger ever
pointing out the way, though the country through which we travelled was just a network of paths.
Our road lay through fine level country, wonderfully rich but alas unused. Hour after hour we
trudged on and the sun rose high in the heavens. We had left the water behind us at Big Bay but
expected to get more at Mr B's old place where we intended having lunch.
It was one o'clock when we reached the water-hole. The hole was still there, but the water was
not. King drought had been there before us. However, we managed to get a coconut each for
which we were thankful.
In the red glow of the sunset we came to the end of our tramp, thankful enough to be back again,
and feeling just a little proud too, perhaps, of having crossed the island from West to East, in its
very widest part, a distance of 70 or 80 miles.
A party of Frenchmen once came through from the south, it is said, but, as far as I know, none
here have crossed from West to East hitherto.
An! it is a pleasant thing to have one's own bed to tumble into, and to know that here, at least, the
mosquitos are too well mannered to disturb one's slumbers.
9 October 1905
Busy putting up quarters for new recruits. Buying "natala" (ivory nut leaf) from natives at the rate
of sixpence per bundle. When sewn up each bundle will make about ten 8 feet lengths of good
thatch.
Mission men and women, 23 in all, helping us with sewing it up. with our own 30 recruits we
have a total working today of 53 - a record for us.
10 October 1905
The building is progressing satisfactorily. Dr M returned at 9.30 pm after a good trip.
11 October 1905
Having some difficulty providing sufficient native food for our labour owing to the hardness of
the ground - as a result of protracted dry weather - the bush natives (from where we get our
supply of yam) cannot or care not to take their yam out.
Fortunately we still have a good supply of navy biscuits and rice in store.
12 October 1905
Finished houses today. The building is extraordinary! Two houses, 45 feet long by 20 wide, and ~
8 feet by ~ 0 - in 7 days. Total cost of erecting these houses is 9 guineas. Not a very expensive
structure certainly but quite comfortable, nevertheless.
13 October 1905
Keeping extremely dry. The sky is like a brazen furnace today, with no appearance of rain in the
near future. Dust, actually rising, the first real dust I've seen since coming to Santo.
14 October 1905
Had half a dozen of the boys carrying water from the beach in bamboos - and a slow process. The
water (which is delightfully cool and fresh) can only be got from the beach at low tide. The fresh
water comes out through the sand in a wide and rapid stream, only to disappear again when the
tide comes ashore. I have never noticed the slightest difference in the volume of fresh water
coming out at low tide; always the same plentiful supply.
18 October 1905
I have been taking some levels. Our house is 150 feet above sea-level; the plateau at the back 300
feet; while the highest point on this side of the bay is slightly over 400 feet.
19 October 1905
Natives are either bigger fools that they look or look bigger fools that they are. Today, a
backwoodsman tendered a threepenny bit for tobacco. We were short and told him that we
couldn't sell tobacco for money, whereupon he decided to purchase matches instead. Ne sooner
had he received his 3 boxes of matches then he planted then down, with a triumphant gleam in
his eye; "Tabak" says the unsophisticated one, with a grin - but it didn't come off
20 October 1905
"Tambo" came in at 3 pm. Mr and Mrs Mackenzie came back, also H from Undine Bay. H, who
is going to stay with us for a few days, hails from - plains Station, and his very appearance brings
back pleasant memories of rushing rivers, cracking stockwhips and racing hooves. Wattleblooms
too, and the whiff of fresh mountain air from old Talbingo.
21 October 1905
The centenary of the battle of Trafalgar. Nelson killed. Poor Nelson! Well, he has been spared a
remarkably hot day.
The Tambo returned from the north. We spent the evening on board listening, with Captain W's
cigars between our teeth, very contentedly to Captain W's tall but interesting yarns.
Ms Beatrice Grimshaw - the veracious chronicler of "island" life- has been a passenger as far as
Malekula, where she stayed in hope (for the sake of copy) of being eaten alive by cannibals or
something of that sort.
22 October 1905
Sent five letters away by steamer yesterday, containing in the aggregate about 20,000 words.
Writing letters has become almost a necessity here, to keep one in touch with one's former life,
and to enable one to distinguish between a crowbar and a pen.
24 October 1905
H and I sailed down to Bridge's old place late in the afternoon. We found the house in good repair
and decided to make it our headquarters for the next 2 or 3 days (H is surveying ground).
25 October 1905
Accompanied by half a dozen natives, we left camp very early on our marking out expedition.
Made but poor progress through the scrub all morning, but did better during the afternoon. When
we returned to camp we had done about half of the B.P. boundary line.
Heavy rain is falling; in fact, it has been all day - a regular breakup of our three month's drought
I had never seen the bush hereabouts so dry. Even in the densest parts, the undergrowth was
withered and sere, and a fire, once started, would have run almost anywhere.
26 October 1905
Raining heavily this morning. Our clothes are wet from yesterday's downpour, and not fit to put
on; but the work has to be done, so after some discussion we sallied forth, each dressed (?) in a
large piece of red Trade Print - a la native. That, with hat and boots, constituted our dress. We
tried to convince ourselves that freedom of the limbs was a fine thing, but stinging nettles were
plentiful among the undergrowth and we were mightily glad to get back to camp where our
clothes had been drying all day by the fire.
Crabs for supper, tinned meat and hot roast yam with a big billycan of tea to wash it down - a
gallant repast. After supper, with pipes in full blast, the talk turned naturally to places and people
we both knew in sunny New South Wales.
Incidents of the stockyard; the day that roan bull put Fisher over the fence, and West's black horse
got rid of his rider on the flat below the yards - all these things were talked ot, but especially long
and interesting (to each other at least) were our reminiscences of wild rides through timber, hard
on the heels of snorting brumbies. The creaking of the saddle; the ring of galloping hooves and
the echoing roar of the stockwhip seemed near as we talked.
Our pipes had long since gone out and it was nearly midnight before we remembered quite where
we were. Then we yawned and "turned in".
27 October 1905
Struck camp and returned home. Owing to the lack of wind, we could not make use of our sails
and so pulled all the way home.
28 October 1905
Sunday - and very hot. I lounged about the house, dressed in my pyjamas until 3 pm. Then we
shook ourselves out and went to service at the mission. Sermon: transmutation of pain is good,
but long.
2 November 1905
The old chief Wustair, who was to have come down yesterday to talk over a plan by which all the
muskets of the district might be collected and handed over the government, thereby putting an
end to the eternal fighting, was, we hear, prevented from coming by the entreaties of one Taroo,
who, very reasonably, asked for a postponement, on the grounds that he was one man in arrears.
When he had wiped that trifling debt off the slate, he would be willing, he said, to fall in with the
peace movement; but even then he would point out the advisability of making the "other fellow"
hand in his gun first.
And so the peace movement has, like the Federal Capital question in Australia, been shelved. But
a constant drip will wear away a stone", and with continually impressing of these people the folly
of killing their neighbours (and of getting killed themselves), they may be gradually induced to
give up these senseless tribal wars.
4 November 1905
Party went up to Lathi in the "Goodhope" for yam, of which we are all in need. They left at 8.30
am and returned at 4.30 pm with very little.
Here, we weren't idle, as we planted 600 yam heads during the day. The soil is deep and rich,
such as the deep rooting yam loves, and we can expect a good return.
6 November 1905
I have just finished reading Donald McDonald's book "The Warrigal's Well". Every line of that
simple realistic story had a deep interest for me. Every leaf reeked of hot sands and saltbrush;
each chapter bought back visions of boundless plains and waterless wells, "Darling showers" and
dancing mirages - memories too of droving and hot still days in the far far west. Not all dull
pictures either. The book contains gleams of bright blue skies and sweet scented flowers; one
hears the singing of the forest birds and catches now and again snatches of a bushman's song.
The tale ends happily ( as tales should) amid bright scenes of light and life, love and laughter.
Such a book cannot fail to be of interest to every true Australian - to all those who know that
there are other (and better) things in the great island continent than drought and privation - and
all such will thank Mr McDonald for his interesting little book.
9 November 1905
While inspecting some bee boxes this morning, I suddenly contracted what is known locally as
"bee-keeper's eye" so I have to spend an idle day at home.
10 November 1905
"Cannibalism in Sakau - An Ancient Custom Revived - Respected Resident Makes a Meal for
Bushman - Goes to Eat and is Eaten".
A case of out and out cannibalism is said to have occurred today in the bush village within a
dozen miles of this settlement, the victim being a dusky gentleman by the name of Nopray, a man
who has worked for us occasionally.
He is said to have been clubbed, then nicely cooked and served up hot. This would appear to be
the revival of a pleasant and time-honoured custom, if indeed it was ever dead. There is a general
belief that the natives of the mountains beyond Big Bay occasionally enjoy a roast from a
fellow-man, and no doubt this love of their fellow-kind extends further eastwards (in a less open
manner).
The flavour of a human radius is so fascinating that it takes a long time to eradicate the desire for
it - longer than is generally supposed.
The story is a long one, but I will endeavour to make it short.
A party of natives, including the luckless Nopray, were walking along a bush track. Each man
had his Snider and each Snider was carried loaded and at full cock (the fashionable way of
carrying firearms in Santo).
Immediately behind Nopray, with his forehead within close proximity to that gentleman's gun
barrel, walked Sair, honoured son of the big chief Taroo, and, when Nopray's trigger caught on a
twig, Sair left suddenly for another world.
Now, when Taroo heard the news, he rose up in his wrath and would have smitten Nopray hip
and thigh had he waited to be smote - which he didn't - preferring largely to take refuge in the
village of a neighbouring chief, where he was received (apparently) with open arms.
So warm indeed was his welcome that a pig was killed in order that he might eat. But alas! for
the honour among thieves. Even while he recounted his adventures, the hospitable chief was
dispatching a messenger to Taroo to say that the fugitive was at his village and asking what he
should do with him. "Do just what you like with him" came the answer; and the messenger sped
homeward with his olive branch (a stout junk of it) in his hands and a quiet smile on his face.
There is a little more to be told; a whispered conversation between the messenger and the
Hospitable One; a whack on the back of the head with the olive branch and the unsuspecting
guest occupied the position of honour upon the fire.
Around the festive board poor Nopray sped - in nicely adjusted portions. Most of those present
were satisfied with the pieces allotted them and testified their appreciation of their late friend's
many good qualities by low grunts of ecstasy. Those to whom the wrists fell as their portion,
however, were not so well pleased. The tendons had, they protested, so contracted that they
couldn't take a comfortable bite without being clawed in the face and that, they said, took away
their appetite.
13 November 1905
Heat everywhere and over everything. It is one of those blazing days - common enough at this
time of year in these sun-kissed regions - where every living thing seems to stand with head
bowed down, unable to meet the fiery glance of great Apollo's flashing eye.
The breezes, which temper the heat of these latitudes, usually, have been absent for the past few
days and we have been left in the enjoyment of real, undiluted sunshine, too much of which, like
wine, is apt to colour one's nose
Speaking of the sun: We were watching him rise this morning in all his ruddy splendour, and as
he climbed up over the horizon, I attempted to explain to some natives standing by that the sun
really didn't move. It was the earth, I patiently explained, moving around the sun that made day
and night, whereupon one sagacious individual, thinking to help the explanation by corroborating
my statement, drawled out that "what Master said was true" as when he was at Bundaberg he
"seed the earth going round". That man had either a quick eye or a very vivid imagination, as
scientific explanations to such are almost unnecessary.
16 November 1905
Went up to Port Olry with a whale boat hoping to get a load of yam and coconuts, but a French
craft was in before us and left little behind. But we had some duck shooting which made up for a
lot.
On the island of Theon, in Port Olry, are two fresh water lakes on which wild ducks abound. The
larger of the two lakes is a good half-mile in length, with a depth in the middle of 66 feet.
Though almost, if not quite, on the level of the sea, which is distant only 400 yards or so, the
water is absolutely fresh, and pleasant to drink.
How these freshwater lakes came there is a mystery, to me at least. The natives are afraid to
swim in either of them. The water is not "strong", they explain, by which they mean it is not
buoyant, like salt water.
18 November 1905
French schooner "Hauntless" came in. About midnight, a dozen of our boys came home rolling
drunk and a nice picnic we had, stowing them away in their respective bunks. Of course we were
wild enough to have killed them and the French wretch who sold them the grog, as well. Yet
there was a humorous side to the affair. One cheerful idiot would insist in referring to me as his
"Master in heaven", while another exhorted his companions, in a stentorian voice, to make less
noise; another would-be "Peter Jackson" fought quite a number of spirited rounds with an
imaginary opponent, while his mate chased phantom reptiles round the room. In half an hour, all
were asleep
Ever the same old tale; the British doing their best to dissuade the natives from drinking grog; the
French, for the sake of gain, selling it on every possible - and impossible - opportunity.
19 November 1905
Boys very seedy after last night's carousal. Thus Monsieur Frenchmen's gain is our loss.
The Forest Queen, a 50 ton Ketch, came in at noon.
12 November 1905
The Mission horse died of tetanus. A fortnight ago, she received a cut on her side by some
unknown means. Later on, suppuration commenced and yesterday she showed unmistakable
signs of lock-jaw. This afternoon, after a succession of violent spasms, she died.
23 November 1905
A native named Tabi, who came up in the "Helena Norton" in hopes of inducing his wife, Lai
(who is working here) to return with him to Malekula; seems to have bought matters to a head
today by asking her to get ready for the steamer (expected at any time).
The charming Lai responded to her husband's overtures by taking to the bush, to stay there,
probably, until the steamer had gone, and her "better half' with it.
"Malaita" came in at 3.30 pm. I had dinner on board. Concert on deck afterwards, music and iced
wine. What ho!
24 November 1905
"Malaita" went out at 2 am. The gentle Lai softly returned to her lowly cot early this morning,
looking none the worse for her al fresco holiday. As we surmised, she had waited in the bush
until the steamer had gone well away.
The hot dry weather still continues, without even a shower to freshen things up. Today is perhaps
the hottest day I have yet to feel in the New Hebrides.
29 November 1905
Lucy, one of our working ladies, evidently forgot that she was the owner of a 3 month old boy.
Strolling over the field where the women were working, I descried something like a miniature
windmill a few yards distant. On going over, I found the supposed windmill to be Lucy's baby,
silently but strenuously protesting against being left out in the open with a fierce sun beating
down on its little head.
I did the good Samaritan by dragging the little chap into the shade and emptying the contents of a
water-bottle over his face and head.
A white baby would surely have died if exposed to the sun for half the length of time that this one
was, but nothing short of a tomahawk (or trader's rum) will kill a native.
30 November 1905
Maevo's boy Bailin develops dysentery, accompanied by frequent and violent fits of vomiting;
and therein lies the trouble, for what would cope with the dysentery, if taken internally, will not
stop down sufficiently long to do its work. Dr M recommends 3 to 5 grains of bismuth to be
given half an hour before meals in order to settle the stomach.
2 December 1905
Patient shows no sign of improvement. giving him 5 grains of ipacac every four hours but the
dysentery does not seem to have abated any.
3 December 1905
Just arrived back from church to find one of the boys giving the invalid ajunk of nice solid yam.
This is always the way with natives who think you are treating their friends badly by not giving
him everything he asks for. Often they kill a sick man in this way, by sneaking him some
indigestible stuff and letting him eat of it to his heart's content.
5 December 1905
Patient shows much improvement. Providing no one gives him a green pineapple or any such
delicacy he should right again in a week.
6 December 1905
Sickness rampant. Fever, accompanied by aching pains in the region of the diaphragm, is smiting
the natives left and right. This unhappy state of affairs (according to Machnikoft, the great
Russian biologist) has been bought about simply by allowing the macrophages (the bad microbe
in the blood) to get the upper hand of their well-meaning - but apparently weaker cousins, the
microphages - which of course is very thoughtless of the owners of these quarrelsome microbes.
7 December 1905
No less than six on the sick list today - four from fevers, 1 swollen glands and 1 dysentery,
besides four light duties - quite a nice assortment.
Loud boomings - probably from the Ambrium volcano - distinctly audible tonight. the sky, too, is
covered with peculiar leaden coloured clouds, and the air is hot and still.
About this time of year there is usually a scarcity of native food, the old crop of yam being
finished and the new not yet ready for use. In this connection, the natives have a tradition that the
noises above referred to are caused by two huge stones (Feast and Famine) fighting in a cave. If
the stone of Plenty is victorious, the following season will be a good one, but should he get
knocked over the ropes by the Lean One, then it's pull up your belt another hole for the yam crop
will not be good and there will not be overmuch to eat.
11 December 1905
Heavy rain fell during the night. Today it is dull and showery. Made a start hackling millet. The
machine itself strips well, and does its work wonderfully quick, but sorting the stuff into different
grades is laborious and takes time too. Got about a quarter of a ton out for the day but were
working short handed.
12 December 1905
Raining heavily. Big tank overflowing. First time for six months.
Had all the women sorting millet, also a few local "never-sweats" from the Mission. Balance of
labour preparing ground for "kamala", or sweet potato, and repairing road between here and the
Mission station. 8pm and still raining.
13 December 1905
Planting komala cuttings - four to each mound. These cuttings, or sprouts, when put in showery
weather strike readily, and, in an incredibly short space of time, cover the ground, and serve a
double purpose - keeping down weeds and undergrowth, and ultimately providing a good supply
of food for one's labour. An acre under komala, in suitable ground, will yield ten tons of tubers
and once planted requires no further attention.
14 December 1905
Raining heavily: since Monday 530 points of rain have fallen.
Men are "packing up" on the beach. I have done three acres there, leaving 47 more to do. Cost,
approximately 8/6 per acre.
A boy had a touch of giddiness this morning and explained to me that his head wasn't "strong",
and that his eyes were "walking about".
Natives, by the way, when left to themselves are at once the most careless and absolutely the
laziest of living things. Two days ago a notorious loafer by the name of Haroor, alias Gaspar,
came to me for medicine for his eye. It was so bad that (at least I thought) nothing but constant
attention would save it. I told the weary one something of this, made him wash his eye well with
boracic lotion, and told him he had better come up every day for treatment or that he would lose
his eye; to all of which he replied, with a tired look in his good eye, "Yes, Master, suppose he no
rain, me come".
Suppose he rain?
"Yes Master, me want to come but me laze (lazy)". He would cheerfully lose his eye for an hour's
gloat over a smoky fire and he probably will.
15 December 1905
Raining on and off all day - mostly on. 880 points since Monday.
I have only two on my sick list, two Tasmate women and treasures they are. They scorn such
things as arrowroot or chicken broth, and accidentally upset the basin every opportunity they get.
They show their queenly contempt for the miserable Whiteman's medicine by spitting it out the
moment he turns his back - if he is fool enough to turn it.
By threatening, cajoling and entreating they use every endeavour to persuade weak minded
friends to smuggle them in something to eat, something worthy of their royal palates - green
mummy-apple, unripe watermelon, underdone pork - any of which would kill a Sandow in less
than a week.
Yet these human tigers are docile and food enough when well, but if you wish to see them
perform, just put them in a cage for a few days.
18 December 1905
Raining nearly all day. Getting rather monotonous, this ceaseless patter of rain on the roof; yet in
spite of it all, we have not lost much time during working hours and so far have avoided fever by
giving the boys a dose of quinine each night.
19 December 1905
Still raining. The total for the week is 24 inches. Outside, everything is vividly green, inside drab
is the prevailing colour. everything that can be covered in mildew is covered. The row of boots
under our beds looks like a group of grey and white native cats - so mossy are they; the matches
are just a conglomerate mass of moist phosphorous and dissipated looking wax, quite unstrikable.
20 December 1905
55 Tambo arrived from Sydney. Everyone seems to have sent us a Christmas pudding or a cake.
think we have four puddings and six cakes in all, therefore a Happy Christmas is assured.
21 December 1905
Fine at last and hot steam rising in sluggish clouds from moist, dank soil. Every hole and hollow
is filled with water - and mosquito larvae. This is the time for ajudicious use of permanganate of
potash, or kerosene. The latter I have found the best remedy. The young mosquito comes
frequently to the surface of the water to breathe and the kerosene, forming a floating layer on the
top, as it does, prevents them from accomplishing this very desirous object and so they die.
22 December 1905
Tambo returned from the Banks. Shipped a ton of broom millet to Sydney by her; this not very
large quantity by measurement is taken as four tons, being bulky stuff Sent "Charlie" away to
Tangoa, time-expired. Also paid the gentle Lai off intending to ship her back to Malekula but I
suppose she did not want to go back for she absconded at the last minute.
T-, who has been down for six or seven months, had his first dose of fever today - is still enjoying
it.
25 December 1905
Ml hands, ladies and all went down to turtle Bay (20 miles south) in the "Goodhope" for a day's
outing. We left at 7 am. the day was fine, with a delightful nor-easterly breeze blowing and the
seas as smooth as glass.
We had our Christmas dinner at Turtle Bay, a good one too. Afterward we went up a picturesque
little river near Mr Petersen's place, in the launch, fished for a while and returned in the late
afternoon. Altogether a delightful day.
26 December 1905
Boxing Day.
"The stand thronged with faces; the broadcloths and laces; the booths, the tents, the cars, the
bookmaker's jargon, for odds making bargains, the nasty stale smell of cigars
Away on old Monaro, 'neath a dazzling noontide sun, they are saddling up for the first race. I can
see, plainly enough the old race course on the hill, the river below, and beyond the great grassy
plains, dancing and quivering in the heat haze.
The old crowd too! The indispensable Rooney with his apples and his grapes and his lemonade;
long legged, belegginged bushmen ridden in that morning from their homes 25 miles away, just
to see daylight and dawn, grenadier and the rest of them, do their "bit of a sprint"; young men,
with gaudy silk handkerchiefs round their necks and hats (or hanging from their breast pockets in
pretty bunches), walking with rosy-cheeked "gairls" in their best frocks, the skirt of which is too
short in front and too long behind; youths from town with pimples on their faces and sweep
tickets in their hands; all happy, all smiling, all gay; some are picnicking, some strolling about,
some showing off their Sunday hacks; some are drinking Rooney's doubtful lemonade in the shad
of his big hat and some - alas, I must say it - who have been celebrating the auspicious occasion
with just a little too much zeal - are embracing each other, each telling the other fellow that he
hasn't "seed" him for a year and if ever he can do anything for him just to let him know and he'll
do it etc.
Over a thousand miles of rolling sea; a hundred miles of mountain, valley and plain, I can see it
all and my heart would be there were we not to have a day's sport ourselves, a boar-hunt up on
the mountain at the back of our house.
8pm. Succeeded in capturing a "losker", a real man eater, beside two or three lesser lights.
We came back with our clothes all torn from scrambling through the bush but that rather added to
our happiness than otherwise. We did not have to mend them.
27 December 1905
From an early hour this morning bush natives have been excitedly journeying missionwards,
while their superior brethren, the local converts, have been showing an amount of energy quite
foreign to their lethargic natures, for - regardless of the fact that the 25 of December eventuated
two days since - this, to them, is Christmas Day.
They are going to have sports in which they don't want and a good feast afterwards - which they
do - and surely a feast means Christmas. The "come, let us be joyful" has sounded simultaneously
with the soul-stirring smell of roasting pig and they come, and they are j oyftil, and the more
roast pig there is the greater will be their joy.
The making of Christmas down here, by the way, appears to be among the ordinary duties of
some of those who are down here for the purpose of evangelising the heathen, and it is not
unusual to hear one missionary asking another in the most off-hand manner, on what day he is
going to "make" Christmas.
The Sports consisted of shooting at the eye of a large pig, drawn in black with a background of
white, a few foot races, climbing a greasy pole and sitting in the shade waiting for the other
fellow to go out and do something.
At shooting, these natives are, fortunately, not much good. None hit the porker's organ of sight;
very few hit the porker himself, while some even missed the canvas at a hundred yards.
But, at climbing the greasy pole, they shine. Climbing you see is their forte (they can walk up a
coconut tree just about as easily as we can up a flight of stairs) and grease, also, they are well
used to. The heavenward path, to a native, when there is a wooden-pipe or perhaps a stick of
tobacco to be met with on the way up, is tantalisingly easy.
To finish up we had a great tug-o-war - our recruits against an equal number of mission boys.
"When Greek meets Greek, then's the tug-o-war" may simply be changed to "When grease meets
grease". After a good pull, during which the final issue was very doubtful, our men won and
received each his stick of tobacco.
The schooner Polynesia came in at 4 pm.
29 December 1905
Weather continues fine, with a good breeze for burning off Made good progress with that hot job
today. When your stuff is nice and dry it takes little time to kindle; the wind does the rest. A long
dry bamboo, we find, makes the best torch for the lighting of heaps.
B- of the schooner recruited two local boys as "boat's crew" for one month. These Frenchmen
will be taking recruits by the week soon.
From a planter's point of view, one of the biggest troubles of the near future will be that of
recruiting labour for his plantation. Already the competition is keen for recruits, and, in spite of
the fact that fabulous (to a native) sums are being offered to induce them to work, it is as hard to
get five men now as it was fifteen men in the days gone by.
Then they were certainties for a three year term, now they try to beat the hapless recruits down to
one year and six months. To finish things, Monsieur steps in with a smile on his cheerful
countenance and says that he will have much pleasure in taking them for one month. Whether
they get back at the end of that time or not matters little - Monsieur fame will have travelled far
and wide and the natives will regard him as the sort of man to suit them.
But all that sort of thing is demorali sing these children of nature. Certainly nature has been
wonderfully kind to her children in many ways, but a few years of regular work and wholesome
and regular meals does more for these pampered children of a fickle mother than most people
would readily believe. As for them not wanting money - well, I don't know, but I have never
known one to refuse it. There is a story of a benevolent old gentleman placing a penny and a
sovereign before an unsophisticated heathen and asking him which he would have. The answer
was characteristic of the native instinct - me no greedy master, me will take small one.
30 December 1905
The Polynesia went out early this morning bound south. Went out fishing during the afternoon,
had supper - the same old kind of supper- and the pleasant smoke out in the moonlit verandah
afterwards.
31 December 1905
"Nil Admirari" had fever. Mr H- is away from home. I went over (in the rain) to milk Snowy (I do
think twice a day cows should be abolished).
Snowy was altogether contrary to custom. She always comes up to be milked of an evening (so
the children told me). Today, I searched far and wide and, after running tracks like a black
tracker, Succeeded in finding her (with her head turned the other way, but probably coming home
by some devious route) placidly eating "nauos" in the centre of the virgin forest a mile away from
where she was popularly supposed to be at this time of day.
There was no pail, nor yet even a yard but Snowy needed none (according to the same
trustworthy source of information) she would "stand anywhere". I discovered later that if she had
any preference in the matter of position, she would generally elect to stand on one's toes or in the
milk pail or at a very respectable distance from the stool upon which the milkman sat.
Eventually however I got her "dry" (that's more than I was, by the way - the rain never ceased the
whole time) and repaired housewards with what I had saved of the milk - together with the drips
from my coat sleeves and hat. I deposited the milk-bucket on the kitchen table and after finding
that there was nothing more I could do - without waiting for thanks - I started hurriedly
homewards, with a "good-bye, Mr Witts, I've never known Snowy to kick anyone ever before"
ringing in my ears - and rankling in my heart, for it pleased me little to learn that to me alone
Snowy had paid such marked attention.
Slop, Slop, through lush wet grass, and dripping bush. The night closes on as I reach home and
the rain is falling still. The day is over, the last of the whole year and I blow out my lamp and
"turn in", I say a goodbye to the old year and Hurrah for the new.