muddy water.
The current was so strong that it was impossible to cross directly from one bank
to the other, so, sweeping rapidly downstream, we made diagonally for the first island.
There was very little freeboard on the canoe, and from time to time water splashed
into it. The crew did not seem very concerned at this, and it was one-third full
before they began bailing with their coconut-shells. Meanwhile, with all three paddles
on the right-hand side, with much panting and sweating, they were slowly urging our
little craft nearer to the island. As soon as we reached the shallows they jumped
overboard and began pushing, until we finally grounded at the lower end of the island. Then,
by means of a rope made from vines, they hauled the canoe through slack water to
the upstream end of the island, and we were off into the second main stream and over
to the second island. Another repetition of the manoeuvre, and we had crossed the
Markham and were on more or less dry land at the mouth of the Erap. The crossing
had taken about half an hour.
It was a long way from this bank to the south one. Through the field-glasses I could
see Tom and his sentry on the other side. They were waving, having seen my safe landing,
and I waved back. Their figures, so small and distant, and the vastness of the stream
between us, gave me a sudden feeling of inexpressible loneliness, which was cut short
by the boss-boy in charge of the boats’ crews.
As he squeezed the water out of his tattered loincloth he said, ‘Suppose behind you
like come back, all right, you shoot three-fella time long musket. All right, me-fella
hearim musket ’e fire up, me-fella come quick.’
In other words, when I wanted to return, three rifle-shots would bring them over.
Without another word they scrambled onto their canoes and pushed off on the return
journey.
I looked about me. It was a dreary stretch of country, all ooze and mud, and covered
by a dense growth of cane-grass, or pit-pit, through which it was difficult to push
a way. Even here, at its mouth, the Erap River was very swift, and carried such a
burden of silt that its consistency was that of thin porridge rather than water.
The Mari boys regarded it with misgivings, pointing upstream and chattering to each
other in their own local language. It was so swift here, they said finally in pidgin,
that it had certainly been raining in the mountains, and the higher we went the more
difficult it would be to cross. However, after a little persuasion they picked up
the loads and, with our eyes firmly fixed on the opening of the Erap Gorge in the
distant line of blue hills, we set off across the flat.
We spent the first half-hour scrambling in and out of water and it seemed that at
any moment the squelching mud would pluck the boots from my feet as we shoved our
way through the pit-pit grass. We were heading almost due north straight through the
tangled mass of distributary streams that formed the delta of the Erap.
Soon, however, the stream entered a more defined course, and the growth of pit-pit
gave way to kunai. Although it was so swift, the river had virtually no banks, and
one had the impression of a stream flowing over the plain rather than through it.
The nature of the ground changed, too. In place of the mud there was an endless stretch
of stones – water-rounded pebbles of varying size, but mostly about as big as a cricket-ball.
They were extraordinarily difficult to walk on, rolling from underfoot and making
one stumble every few paces.
In the course of a couple of hours we made about half a dozen crossings of the Erap,
which snaked round and coiled itself across our path.
As we scrambled out of the water onto the right-hand bank after one of these crossings,
Kari, who was at the head of the line, called out, ‘Master, you come! Me lookim leg
belong man.’
Tracks! I could scarcely see a sign of a footprint, but Kari and the other boys assured
me that they were there, and led in the direction of a
The current was so strong that it was impossible to cross directly from one bank
to the other, so, sweeping rapidly downstream, we made diagonally for the first island.
There was very little freeboard on the canoe, and from time to time water splashed
into it. The crew did not seem very concerned at this, and it was one-third full
before they began bailing with their coconut-shells. Meanwhile, with all three paddles
on the right-hand side, with much panting and sweating, they were slowly urging our
little craft nearer to the island. As soon as we reached the shallows they jumped
overboard and began pushing, until we finally grounded at the lower end of the island. Then,
by means of a rope made from vines, they hauled the canoe through slack water to
the upstream end of the island, and we were off into the second main stream and over
to the second island. Another repetition of the manoeuvre, and we had crossed the
Markham and were on more or less dry land at the mouth of the Erap. The crossing
had taken about half an hour.
It was a long way from this bank to the south one. Through the field-glasses I could
see Tom and his sentry on the other side. They were waving, having seen my safe landing,
and I waved back. Their figures, so small and distant, and the vastness of the stream
between us, gave me a sudden feeling of inexpressible loneliness, which was cut short
by the boss-boy in charge of the boats’ crews.
As he squeezed the water out of his tattered loincloth he said, ‘Suppose behind you
like come back, all right, you shoot three-fella time long musket. All right, me-fella
hearim musket ’e fire up, me-fella come quick.’
In other words, when I wanted to return, three rifle-shots would bring them over.
Without another word they scrambled onto their canoes and pushed off on the return
journey.
I looked about me. It was a dreary stretch of country, all ooze and mud, and covered
by a dense growth of cane-grass, or pit-pit, through which it was difficult to push
a way. Even here, at its mouth, the Erap River was very swift, and carried such a
burden of silt that its consistency was that of thin porridge rather than water.
The Mari boys regarded it with misgivings, pointing upstream and chattering to each
other in their own local language. It was so swift here, they said finally in pidgin,
that it had certainly been raining in the mountains, and the higher we went the more
difficult it would be to cross. However, after a little persuasion they picked up
the loads and, with our eyes firmly fixed on the opening of the Erap Gorge in the
distant line of blue hills, we set off across the flat.
We spent the first half-hour scrambling in and out of water and it seemed that at
any moment the squelching mud would pluck the boots from my feet as we shoved our
way through the pit-pit grass. We were heading almost due north straight through the
tangled mass of distributary streams that formed the delta of the Erap.
Soon, however, the stream entered a more defined course, and the growth of pit-pit
gave way to kunai. Although it was so swift, the river had virtually no banks, and
one had the impression of a stream flowing over the plain rather than through it.
The nature of the ground changed, too. In place of the mud there was an endless stretch
of stones – water-rounded pebbles of varying size, but mostly about as big as a cricket-ball.
They were extraordinarily difficult to walk on, rolling from underfoot and making
one stumble every few paces.
In the course of a couple of hours we made about half a dozen crossings of the Erap,
which snaked round and coiled itself across our path.
As we scrambled out of the water onto the right-hand bank after one of these crossings,
Kari, who was at the head of the line, called out, ‘Master, you come! Me lookim leg
belong man.’
Tracks! I could scarcely see a sign of a footprint, but Kari and the other boys assured
me that they were there, and led in the direction of a
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