new guinea natives—port moresby and its two native villages—huts on poles and trees—native superstition and its result on two tribes.

there no islands in the new world which have been the scene of greater adventures, more daring exploits, and more exciting times than those in the south seas. from the earliest days new guinea, new britain, solomon islands, and the new hebrides have been inhabited by a race of savages, on whom neither the efforts of missionaries nor the oaths of traders have been able to make much impression. for years the white man has tried in vain to break the spirit of these cannibals; with fire and sword whole villages have been swept away, but neither by fear nor by kindness have the natives been weaned from their worst customs, and it will take many years and much education, and perhaps the complete extinction of the old generation, before they cease to be savages. for over sixty years {14} the missionaries have been working amongst them and have taught many to read, and sent them out amongst their brethren armed with bibles and tracts in their native languages, but all this has been of little avail; every day we hear of massacres and risings, and missionaries and traders are pounced on and murdered, and there is no accounting for these outrages which make the problem more difficult to solve. for months or even years men may live on the friendliest terms with a tribe, and then suddenly, and for no apparent reason, the natives will rise up and slay them. the whim of a chief, an angry word, a bad bargain, a superstitious fear, any of these trivialities may be the cause of a rising, and may mean the death of dozens of innocent people.

but with all their disadvantages these islands have a fascination for the traveller that no others have, and when once the taste of the free and adventurous life of the south seas has been acquired, there is always a longing to return to them which nothing will suppress. neither stiff joints nor old age make one iota of difference, the yearning will not be satisfied by anything short of a speedy return.

off to market, british new guinea

the deep blue of the sea, the clear bracing air, {15} the screech of the wild sea-birds, and the roar of the surf, as it breaks on the reefs, are sounds that echo in the memory. to awaken and hear all these things is the longing that clings to one. to feel a good ship gliding through the still waters on the way to the islands; to rise from one’s bunk and through the port-hole to catch a glimpse of the rugged shores and the dark, shining skins of the natives as they paddle out in swarms from the villages to the ship’s side; to hear them calling to one another and yelling their greetings to the crew, are things which, when once experienced, can never be forgotten, and will ever haunt the memory.

but come, let us see these islands where the sun pours down on bright yellow sands through the long, waving, rustling leaves of the palm trees, and glistens on the skins of the crocodiles basking in the rivers, and on the strong, brown arms and tanned faces of the traders, who have braved all dangers for a life of adventure. let us look into the quaint lives of the natives—the last relics of barbarism; let us see their huts and join in their weird ceremonies and listen to their songs and learn their superstitions, for in a few years these things will be gone, and the cyclist and the tripper will be crowding these savage islands, whilst the sturdy {16} head-hunters will be dead, and their sons will be cadging pennies, whilst the dark, shy girls will be bold and talk with nasal accents.

civilisation is coming, coming quickly. even here, back in the dense bush on a still night when the insects are too lazy to fly and the silence almost speaks, if you listen you can hear the steady tramp of the ghostly army coming nearer and nearer, crushing through everything, sparing nothing—the army of civilisation.

the capital of new guinea is port moresby, a quaintly picturesque village facing a large bay with a natural harbour. in the vicinity are densely wooded hills, which stretch up and disappear in the distance—a dark-green and black mass. but when the sun is on them they dance with colour, and the tints of marvellous brilliancy turn them into a lovely fairyland, full of romance and adventure. it is wonderful what strange tales flit across the mind when looking at these hills; what scenes have been enacted there in times gone by, and now, how calm they seem!

granville, the small business part of port moresby, consists of a few corrugated iron-roofed houses, the head store of messrs. burns philp, the great australasian trading company, and the {17} homes of a few government officials, and government house, which lies back a little and looks solitary and out of place in this weird land of pile-built huts.

there is the mission house also, a low, white wood house with a big verandah running round it and a garden of palms and beautiful flowers.

hanuabada and elevera are the names of the two native settlements near port moresby. at certain tides elevera is an island, at other tides it is a peninsula, but at all tides and all times it teems with interest. quaint huts built on long poles line the shore and look like nothing one has ever seen before. when the tide is high the water washes right under them, swishing merrily against the stout poles, and if you want to inspect one at these times a canoe is necessary, but even then it is a hazardous job unless you are used to it.

no one knows exactly why the natives went to such trouble in building their huts, unless it was with a view to protecting themselves against the attack of an enemy from the land. there were no wild animals for them to fear.

a regular street divides these rows of huts, all exactly alike, but the inhabitants seem to know where their friends live, though i am sure the most {18} experienced london postman would suffer from continual confusion if his services were required in these parts. in the distance these villages look very much like rows of haystacks built on stakes, but on closer inspection they are particularly interesting and have a very imposing appearance. on reaching the piles one clambers up a rude ladder and arrives on a platform made of ordinary poles with gaps of a foot or two between each. here it is that the natives squat all day and do what work they have, or, more generally, idle the hours away. above the platform is a kind of porch built on a slant and projecting from the roof, which acts as a protection against the sun or rain. under this is an open doorway which leads into the house.

from a sanitary point of view, no habitation could be better than these pile dwellings, but for comfort give me a modern hotel.

motu village from the sea

no furniture or mats are to be seen in these dwellings to catch the dust, and you can squat on the floor and see through the planks the waves washing and swelling a few yards below. the floor consists of the same kind of piles, only flatter and broader than those used for supporting the house. the platforms are arranged like big steps, and many of the boards are beautifully carved. {19} some of them are immense pieces of timber, which must have required a deal more energy to cut than the papuan of to-day is capable of exerting—much less would he put them into position.

the wood used for the flooring is the hardest obtainable, and seems to be of a material which takes no heed of wear and tear; the planks are sometimes heirlooms, and have been handed down from father to son for many generations. one log tougher than the rest is placed in position by the door, and on this a fire will probably be burning and a woman squatting by it cooking her lord and master’s evening meal.

the rank yellow smoke which curls round her does not inconvenience her in the least. she takes no heed of it, but blows away at the embers, regardless of smarting eyes and choking throat, probably because she feels neither. she never fears that the fire will spread and burn down her home, but just goes on cooking. if you speak to her she may stop blowing for a second and glance up at you, but never a word passes her lips, and soon she will be blowing again as if it was quite an ordinary thing to have a white man staring at her. but though the smoke does not trouble her a bit, it blinds you, and you soon hurry on to the {20} next hut, and there confine your attention to its outside.

the roofs are thatched with palm leaves which, though scant, keep out the rain and sun. the sides and back are also composed of a kind of thatch on a framework of bamboo or thin wood.

unlike the habitations of many other branches of this race, these huts show very little artistic work inside. they are quite bare. a few cooking-pots may be seen lying about, and these are the only things which lead one to suppose that the huts are inhabited. the resemblance of the interiors of all of them is only equal to the sameness of the exteriors, which makes it impossible to know which one you have been in and which you have not. this, added to the extreme difficulty a new chum experiences in getting from one house to another, does not add to the equability of his temper. it needs a steady head and good balancing powers to keep footing on these planks, many of which are quite loose and wobble when you are treading on them. after half an hour of such walking a giddiness seizes you, and a strong desire comes over you to kneel down and scramble along on hands and knees to the next hut. but with practice, and a certain amount of patience and indifference to the {21} nasty fall one would get by slipping, walking can eventually be accomplished with ease.

the island of elevera from the mission station, port moresby, british new guinea.

the natives themselves run along the poles as quickly as if they were on paved streets, whilst the little kiddies scramble, and slip, and tumble about as if they were on an ordinary floor. a fall through the piles is almost an unknown calamity to them.

under the houses, when the tide is out, the natives can be seen cutting out their canoes, making their pottery, repairing their fishing gear and attending to other duties; but they much prefer to loll about on the verandahs of their huts, looking out at the sea, thinking of nothing.

the whole of elevera only covers about ten acres, but in that space the huts are crowded together, and give cover to hundreds of healthy and prosperous-looking inhabitants. on the mainland the houses are built on small pile platforms, only three or four feet from the ground, whilst others in the back country are built in trees and look like gigantic birds’-nests. this last custom, however, has quite died out, for with the introduction of the axe the protection of a house in a tree would be of little use, for one blow would fetch the whole construction down. also the introduction of the police and the work of the government have so diminished the {22} chances of tribal wars that the native no longer goes to such trouble. in the old days the inmates of these nests kept a supply of stones and spears on their verandahs, and were able to use them with great effect on their troublesome neighbours below. now such a position would only make them good marks for a rifle shot.

the bush men, or “men belong bush,” to speak in native parlance, are far more industrious than the “men belong sea,” they who live by the shore. for besides cultivating the land, growing yams, bananas, and taro, they make a fair living by hunting.

two distinct tribes inhabit the villages in port moresby, the koitapus and motus. they live amicably enough together now, but seldom intermarry. the koitapus were undoubtedly the original inhabitants, and in colour are somewhat darker than their friends, and have narrower heads, otherwise it is very hard to distinguish one from the other; but in their manners, customs, and language there is a marked difference. the motu tribe consider themselves the superior of the two, though they live in great fear of the mysterious powers the koitapus are said to possess, and were it not for this superstition the motus would soon overrule and probably vanquish the other tribe.

tree house in british new guinea

{23}

so strong is their superstitious belief in the powers of the koitapus, that directly one of them falls ill, presents are immediately despatched to a koitapu man or woman with instructions to remove the evil influence that has brought the sickness or calamity. the weather also is supposed to be in the hands of the koitapus, and be it wet or fine the motus have to pay up, that is if they want it changed.

as a tribe the motus undoubtedly are superior, especially in such things as cleanliness, cooking, and eating. the koitapu natives will devour almost anything with a relish unknown in civilised countries, but the motu is careful and particular both about the cooking of his food and the article cooked. most of the motus have their eatables boiled in earthenware jars, whilst the koitapu cooks his in an earth oven.

the motus gain their living chiefly by fishing and making pottery, and they exchange both fish and pots with the koitapu for animal food, vegetables, and the results of their agricultural pursuits.

the position of the two tribes is summed up thus:—

“yours is the sea, the canoes, the nets,” says the koitapu man, “ours the land and the wallaby. {24} give us fish for our flesh, and pottery for our yarns and bananas.”

it is on this understanding that the two tribes live amicably together in hanuabada and elevera.

altogether port moresby is as quaint and picturesque a spot as ever was seen. a bright blue sky and a sea the colour of which is for ever changing, a stillness only broken by the roaring surf, the hum of insects, the occasional cries of the sea-birds, and the chatter of the natives, make up this delightful haven of rest. no roaring train or smoking chimney is there to distract the wayfarer; no newspaper boy yelling out his “disasters” to cause one a sleepless night. a spot in which to rest and dream, ay, and study the curious customs of one of the most interesting savage races in the world, if you like that sort of employment.

motu village, port moresby, british new guinea