Kuku
IT was nearing sunset, and the day long walk had tired me and given me a headache, sore feet, and ach ing legs.
I had outstripped my carriers and was alone on the interminable stretch of dull, grey Papuan beach, a continuous wall of green foliage on my right hand, and on my left an endless, snarling line of mud-coloured surf. The setting sun shone directly into my eyes, and I longed fervently for Barima, my jour ney’s end, where I should find a bath and a drink, and rest.
This was my first experience of the district, and, as I had encountered no sign of life for several miles, I was re lieved to see a native coming down the slope of the beach just ahead of me.
He was old. His skin hung loosely over fleshless bones; his knees sagged, and he put his feet down delicately, as though doubting the strength of his legs. His only attire was a narrow strip of tapi-cloth, and a diminutive net-bag, its strap over his shoulder, nestled under his left armpit. He grinned at me, showing toothless gums black ened by lime and betel-nut.
“Kuku,” he said.
I gave him kuku; the coarse trade tobacco so dear to the native heart.
“Barima?” I questioned, pointing ahead along the beach.
“Barima,” he echoed, with a grin, nodding his skull at me, and copying my gesture westwards.
“Kaila-kaila?” (Is it near?) I asked.
“Kaila-kaila,” he repeated comfort ingly.
I turned to go on, and he fell in be hind me. After a few hundred yards, he spoke again:
“Kuku,” he said.
I gave him more kuku, which he stowed away in his little bag, and we went on for a couple of miles in silence.
We came to a wide creek flowing rapidly across the sand. It was too deep to wade and too strong too swim; and I looked at him inquiringly. For answer, he led the way out into the surf, and stood knee-deep, waiting for me. As I approached he laid a hand on my shoulder and indicated that I should turn my back to him. It dawned on me that I was to carry him through the creek.
I thought it out. It is well-known; the best method of wading through a strong current is to carry a weight.
Obviously, he could not carry me. If there had been a boulder in sight, or a log of wood, I should certainly have preferred it to this unsavoury old skele ton as a burden. But there was nothing portable in sight. Also, it occurred to me that he knew where Barima was, and I didn’t.
“All right, daddy,” I said. “Crawl up!”
He scrambled on to my back, and I went ahead. The current was even stronger than it looked, and I could feel the sand shifting under my feet at every step. A skinny arm pointed the changing direction, and a senile voice shouted meaningless babble in my left ear as I struggled and staggered in the loose sand and rushing water.
I got across, eventually, and dropped my burden, not very gently, into six inches of water.
“Kuku,” he said.
“Barima?” I countered.
This seemed to exhaust the possibili ties of conversation, so he began again: “Kuku,” he cooed.
I broke cff a piece and held it in front of him.
“Barima,” I said firmly. “Barima, kuku.”
A light, dim and wavering, broke over his sagging features. He turned and pointed a skinny arm backwards and upwards, across the creek which we had just crossed, throwing back his head to indicate great distance.
“Barima,” he said, as he pointed.
“Dau-dau.” (It is a long way.) I spent a luxurious half-minute in muttering some extremes of Austral ianisms; then I shrugged hopelessly and re-entered the snarling torrent. Half way across, my feet were swept from under me. Eventually, as I toiled and floundered up the farther bank, I heard his voice again: “Kuku!” he called plaintively.
“Kuku! ”
And I had an uncomfortable feeling that he was right!