patch of jungle about half
a mile from the stream.
‘Who do you think it could be?’ I asked Kari.
‘It might be Japanese,’ he replied. ‘But I think it is more likely that they are
kanakas from Bivoro, the village we are making for.’
‘That’s right,’ the others chimed in. ‘Whoever made those tracks was not wearing
shoes.’
‘The Erap kanakas often come down to these flats to hunt and fish,’ added one.
A faint wisp of smoke curled up from the patch of jungle. Whoever they might be, they
were now in the bush. We put the cargo in a pile and moved quietly in the direction
of the smoke. A hundred yards or so from the edge of the timber we found a faint
path, and in the soft earth were several clear footprints. These convinced Kari and
Achenmeri that the people we were seeking were natives.
‘Leg belong kanaka,’ everyone agreed confidently.
We crept along the path and into the timber. Five minutes brought us to the edge
of a small clearing, in which stood half a dozen tiny rough shelters of sago-fronds,
the sort of huts which natives make for an expedition of a few days’ duration. Eight
or ten men were moving about, clad in the usual garb of tattered loincloth. There
were a couple of women, wearing the typical grass skirt, short in front and knee-length
at the back. There were also one or two small children. It was clear that they did
not suspect the presence of any stranger.
While the rest of us remained quiet, Kari stepped forward. At the sound of his approach
the women snatched up the children and fled into the bush. They had vanished almost
before one realised that they had moved. The men seized the long spears which lay
handy, but they were reassured almost at once by the sight of Kari’s police uniform.
He told them of our presence and then motioned to us to come out. An elderly native
with greying hair stepped up to me and saluted. He explained that he was the headman,
or luluai, of Bivoro, and apologized for not having his official cap on.
‘We have seen so few white men since the time of trouble with the Japanese came,’
he explained in pidgin, ‘that we expected nobody. Least of all did we expect anyone
to come upon us here. In fact, when your police-boy stepped out of the trees we were
afraid it was Japanese. They have sent native messengers up here to say that they
are going to take over all this country and send some of their people up from Lae.’
With a loud yodelling call he summoned the women back, apparently telling them there
was nothing to fear.
I asked him if there would be any Japanese in Bivoro, which was still some hours’
walk away.
‘No,’ he replied, ‘though it is nearly a week since I have been there myself. We have
been down here hunting wild pig. But they would have sent for me at once from my
village if anything of that sort had happened.’
This was good news. Bivoro was important, for it was the last village on our line
of communications from the mountains back to Bob’s. If the Japanese had not visited
these people and spread the usual propaganda about all the Australians having run
away, there was a good chance of our getting some help from the villagers.
The reluctance of the Mari carriers to make the journey up the Erap had increased
visibly with every mile we put between ourselves and the Markham. I was afraid they
might slip off into the bush and return home, so I asked the luluai of Bivoro if
his men would take over the job and carry my six boy-loads of cargo to his village.
He agreed at once, and shouted orders to the women to pack all their belongings –
grass mats, blackened clay cooking-pots, and so forth. These went into the inevitable
string bags. The men he instructed to collect the cargo, which still lay in the kunai
outside the patch of jungle.
This arrangement pleased the Mari boys immensely. Now they would be able to sleep
the night at home, and not in a foreign village. Kari lined them up to receive their
pay, and I dropped a
a mile from the stream.
‘Who do you think it could be?’ I asked Kari.
‘It might be Japanese,’ he replied. ‘But I think it is more likely that they are
kanakas from Bivoro, the village we are making for.’
‘That’s right,’ the others chimed in. ‘Whoever made those tracks was not wearing
shoes.’
‘The Erap kanakas often come down to these flats to hunt and fish,’ added one.
A faint wisp of smoke curled up from the patch of jungle. Whoever they might be, they
were now in the bush. We put the cargo in a pile and moved quietly in the direction
of the smoke. A hundred yards or so from the edge of the timber we found a faint
path, and in the soft earth were several clear footprints. These convinced Kari and
Achenmeri that the people we were seeking were natives.
‘Leg belong kanaka,’ everyone agreed confidently.
We crept along the path and into the timber. Five minutes brought us to the edge
of a small clearing, in which stood half a dozen tiny rough shelters of sago-fronds,
the sort of huts which natives make for an expedition of a few days’ duration. Eight
or ten men were moving about, clad in the usual garb of tattered loincloth. There
were a couple of women, wearing the typical grass skirt, short in front and knee-length
at the back. There were also one or two small children. It was clear that they did
not suspect the presence of any stranger.
While the rest of us remained quiet, Kari stepped forward. At the sound of his approach
the women snatched up the children and fled into the bush. They had vanished almost
before one realised that they had moved. The men seized the long spears which lay
handy, but they were reassured almost at once by the sight of Kari’s police uniform.
He told them of our presence and then motioned to us to come out. An elderly native
with greying hair stepped up to me and saluted. He explained that he was the headman,
or luluai, of Bivoro, and apologized for not having his official cap on.
‘We have seen so few white men since the time of trouble with the Japanese came,’
he explained in pidgin, ‘that we expected nobody. Least of all did we expect anyone
to come upon us here. In fact, when your police-boy stepped out of the trees we were
afraid it was Japanese. They have sent native messengers up here to say that they
are going to take over all this country and send some of their people up from Lae.’
With a loud yodelling call he summoned the women back, apparently telling them there
was nothing to fear.
I asked him if there would be any Japanese in Bivoro, which was still some hours’
walk away.
‘No,’ he replied, ‘though it is nearly a week since I have been there myself. We have
been down here hunting wild pig. But they would have sent for me at once from my
village if anything of that sort had happened.’
This was good news. Bivoro was important, for it was the last village on our line
of communications from the mountains back to Bob’s. If the Japanese had not visited
these people and spread the usual propaganda about all the Australians having run
away, there was a good chance of our getting some help from the villagers.
The reluctance of the Mari carriers to make the journey up the Erap had increased
visibly with every mile we put between ourselves and the Markham. I was afraid they
might slip off into the bush and return home, so I asked the luluai of Bivoro if
his men would take over the job and carry my six boy-loads of cargo to his village.
He agreed at once, and shouted orders to the women to pack all their belongings –
grass mats, blackened clay cooking-pots, and so forth. These went into the inevitable
string bags. The men he instructed to collect the cargo, which still lay in the kunai
outside the patch of jungle.
This arrangement pleased the Mari boys immensely. Now they would be able to sleep
the night at home, and not in a foreign village. Kari lined them up to receive their
pay, and I dropped a
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