deceptive. Go north and you will encounter mountains where ridges, barely wide enough to walk on, exist. Not to mention jungles and wild tribesmen who won’t hesitate to kill you for a square meal. Not a place like anywhere else you might know. Anyway, it seems we are about to tie up at the wharf and you will get your first taste of Papua.’
‘A shrunken head, old chap?’ George asked with a grin.
‘A cold beer and an opportunity to meet a real Papuan.’
On the wharf George took the extended hand of the man identified as Jack’s old friend. He stood a head shorter then Jack and was of medium height, wearing a clean white suit, tie and matching hat in the tradition of the tropics. He was a real surprise for George.
‘KwongYu Sen, this is Mr George Spencer,’ Jack said, beaming at George’s startled expression.
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Sen,’ George mumbled as he shook the smaller man’s hand. It was a firm grasp and he calculated Sen to be in his mid thirties. ‘I am afraid Jack has told me little of you on our voyage north.’
‘Jack has a well-known sense of humour,’ Sen beamed. ‘He would not tell you about me just so that he could see the expression on your face now.’
‘Is it that obvious, Mr Sen?’
‘I am a Methodist, Mr Spencer, and my Christian name is Sen. We Chinese use our family name first, unlike you Europeans who place your family name last. I would be honoured if you also called me Sen as my friend Jack does.’
‘I must say that you speak English like a native,’ George complimented. ‘I mean like an Englishman.’
‘I was educated by Methodist missionaries in China before I came to Papua.’
‘Well, now that you have met your first Papuan,’ Jack said, ‘I suggest that we adjourn for a cold beer. Sen’s boys will look after unloading our kit.’
‘Too right,’ Sen said. ‘I have the sulky waiting for us and the trip to my place will give me a chance to catch up with all that has happened in your life since I last saw you in ’15. I heard around the town that you won some medals in the war.’
George was impressed with Sen’s residence an hour’s journey from the town. A large sprawling house of timber walls and corrugated iron roof, it was raised off the ground and surrounded by a verandah. A mass of well-watered trees, shrubs and ferns shielded the house from the harshness of the dry stunted and drooping vegetation of the countryside. The windows lacked glass panes but were framed by shutters instead. The sweet perfume of frangipani wafted by as they stepped up onto the verandah where a young native man dressed in a clean wrap-around skirt of cotton cloth met them.
‘Hey, Dademo,’ Jack said. ‘Is that you?’ The young man’s face broke into a broad smile at being recognised. ‘You were just a piccaninny when I last saw you.’
‘It’s me, Mr Jack,’ the young man said. ‘Mr Sen said you come back.’
‘This is Mr George,’ Jack said, indicating the tall Englishman following him onto the verandah. ‘He’s one of those bloody pommies.’ Dademo nodded his head shyly.
‘There have been a few changes since you left,’ Sen said removing his hat. ‘I have a wife and sister-in-law living with me.’ Jack’s expression betrayed his surprise. ‘This is my wife My Lee,’ Sen continued when a pretty young Chinese woman presented herself with a small bow to the men on the verandah. My Lee wore her jet black hair tied back in a bun and dressed European-style in a long white cotton dress. She appeared fragile like a china doll and her serene beauty immediately impressed both men. ‘This is my friend Jack Kelly and his friend Mr George Spencer, My Lee,’ Sen said. Both men mumbled their greetings and Sen was pleased to see how impressed they were by his new wife.
‘And this is my wife’s sister, Iris,’ he added when another young woman appeared at the door. Yet again the visitors were stunned. George hoped that he was not gaping.
‘A shrunken head, old chap?’ George asked with a grin.
‘A cold beer and an opportunity to meet a real Papuan.’
On the wharf George took the extended hand of the man identified as Jack’s old friend. He stood a head shorter then Jack and was of medium height, wearing a clean white suit, tie and matching hat in the tradition of the tropics. He was a real surprise for George.
‘KwongYu Sen, this is Mr George Spencer,’ Jack said, beaming at George’s startled expression.
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Sen,’ George mumbled as he shook the smaller man’s hand. It was a firm grasp and he calculated Sen to be in his mid thirties. ‘I am afraid Jack has told me little of you on our voyage north.’
‘Jack has a well-known sense of humour,’ Sen beamed. ‘He would not tell you about me just so that he could see the expression on your face now.’
‘Is it that obvious, Mr Sen?’
‘I am a Methodist, Mr Spencer, and my Christian name is Sen. We Chinese use our family name first, unlike you Europeans who place your family name last. I would be honoured if you also called me Sen as my friend Jack does.’
‘I must say that you speak English like a native,’ George complimented. ‘I mean like an Englishman.’
‘I was educated by Methodist missionaries in China before I came to Papua.’
‘Well, now that you have met your first Papuan,’ Jack said, ‘I suggest that we adjourn for a cold beer. Sen’s boys will look after unloading our kit.’
‘Too right,’ Sen said. ‘I have the sulky waiting for us and the trip to my place will give me a chance to catch up with all that has happened in your life since I last saw you in ’15. I heard around the town that you won some medals in the war.’
George was impressed with Sen’s residence an hour’s journey from the town. A large sprawling house of timber walls and corrugated iron roof, it was raised off the ground and surrounded by a verandah. A mass of well-watered trees, shrubs and ferns shielded the house from the harshness of the dry stunted and drooping vegetation of the countryside. The windows lacked glass panes but were framed by shutters instead. The sweet perfume of frangipani wafted by as they stepped up onto the verandah where a young native man dressed in a clean wrap-around skirt of cotton cloth met them.
‘Hey, Dademo,’ Jack said. ‘Is that you?’ The young man’s face broke into a broad smile at being recognised. ‘You were just a piccaninny when I last saw you.’
‘It’s me, Mr Jack,’ the young man said. ‘Mr Sen said you come back.’
‘This is Mr George,’ Jack said, indicating the tall Englishman following him onto the verandah. ‘He’s one of those bloody pommies.’ Dademo nodded his head shyly.
‘There have been a few changes since you left,’ Sen said removing his hat. ‘I have a wife and sister-in-law living with me.’ Jack’s expression betrayed his surprise. ‘This is my wife My Lee,’ Sen continued when a pretty young Chinese woman presented herself with a small bow to the men on the verandah. My Lee wore her jet black hair tied back in a bun and dressed European-style in a long white cotton dress. She appeared fragile like a china doll and her serene beauty immediately impressed both men. ‘This is my friend Jack Kelly and his friend Mr George Spencer, My Lee,’ Sen said. Both men mumbled their greetings and Sen was pleased to see how impressed they were by his new wife.
‘And this is my wife’s sister, Iris,’ he added when another young woman appeared at the door. Yet again the visitors were stunned. George hoped that he was not gaping.
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