Life On An Islands Outstation

By Helen Nurton

f TX) those folk who are willing to forego the amenities of civilisation usually enjoyed by such a tropical township as Rabaul, in the Mandated Territory of New Guinea, and who love an outdoor life of unconventionality and freedom, the out stations, especially the smaller ones, offer many attractions, Rabaul, though picturesque to the eye, with its lovely avenues of trees and gar dens, is on most days hot, dusty and stag nant, being almost entirely closed in by a high range of hills, which exclude both the south-east and the north-west trades. In the evening a refreshing breeze may sweep over the Namanula ridge, at the back of the town, on which Government House and a few favoured bungalows are perched pre cariously.

The outstations, however, with few ex ceptions, are situated on high ground, or hills facing the open sea, and enjoy con tinually the refreshing winds which blow warm and sweet by day and cool by night.

Approaching them by schooner, which usually makes the journey in a few days from Rabaul, they present an isolated appearance. Just a clearing in the primi tive bush, close to the foreshore of black muddy sand, or white and golden corally beach, with sometimes a background of higher hills or towering mountains. As the schooner draws nearer, one sees a tiny cluster of red-roofed bungalows, shaded by luxurious tropical trees, and surrounded by gardens, and a coconut plantation, the light green foliage of which forms a clear cut

contrast to the dark green of jungle, which stretches beyond.

On the foreshore may be seen a Chinese store or two, and a little stone jetty on which are gathered two or three white folk and many natives, to hear news of the outside world, and to welcome us to our new home for many months to come.

Daily life starts early in this little world in which we “live and move and have our being.” In the delicious freshness of early morn, we take our tea on cool verandahs, while watching the sun appear above sea or jungle, and wonder —for this is the land of uncertainty—what the day will bring forth.

For newchums, and visitors, there is an infinite round of pleasures and interests magnified into a veritable Elysium by the first glamour of the tropics.

But this does not last for ever; and for the “Missus”—and every woman is a “Missus” in New Guinea —the scene changes.

When the “Masters” have dispersed to their round of daily toil at the “House Paper” (office) or to work in the bush, you are left to your own resources. But you need not worry that the time will drag, as there are always many and varied “jobs” waiting to be tackled.

On arrival at a new station the food question, and other domestic problems, clamour for attention. If your cook-boy is raw, he very often is, you teach him to cook generally, and to make bread. In a 12 x 12 galvanised-iron kitchen, with a low

roof, on which a tropical sun is blazing,, and with a stove well stoked up, this is hot work. Yo.u stick it as long as possible and then leave the cares and chores of the culinary department to providence, and the boy, and in the course of a few weeks the risks of accidents will diminish, and a fairly decent cook-boy will emerge.

You recuperate in the shade of the verandah with a book, keeping your weather eye on the house-boy, who is “brooming” your room, to see that he does not linger too long in front of the “glass look-look” (mirror), trim his hair over your toilet table, or experiment with your powder.

Presently the vegetable garden claims your attention, and you find that, of the whole packet of epicure climbing beans which you gave the boy to plant, only one has come up. The next lot you plant your self, with better results. Sometimes these gardens will produce, abundantly, beans.

tomatoes, sweet corn, indigenous spinach, egg-plants, and rosellas, thereby repaying one for care and attention bestowed on them.

The flower garden is generally left to the cool of the evening, when one may potter, and ponder, at one’s leisure.

Next a visit to the poultry. Hens and ducks need constant care to ensure a regu lar supply of fresh eggs, and in the nesting season it is quite a work. Hens will dis appear into the bush, and reappear in three weeks’ time with a large clutch of chicks. These have to be guarded, and fed, or the mother will take them foraging

amid the thick undergrowth, and snakes will have heavy toll of them.

Islands hens become very familiar when treated kindly. Once, when living in a sac-sac bungalow, a little white hen al ways insisted on laying her egg on the sideboard while we were breakfasting. As hens were scarce and eggs precious in those days, a nest was made for her in the corner of the room, where she came and laid her egg regularly.

Last, but not least, of all the jobs is the washing.

If one should simply collect all the clothes and throw them out to the “Wash Mary,” the chances are that the Master’s khaki bush clothes and woolly sox will be dumped into the same tub as your floral voiles, silk stockings, and house linen — all scrubbed with a scrubbing brush, thoroughly “cooked” together with plenty of soap, rinsed in a minimum of water, generously blued, and hung on the line presenting a medley of rainbow hues.

In practically all the outstations there is an abundant supply of fresh food to be had for next to nothing—wild pigeons, fish, crabs, fruit, vegetables, and occasionally wild or village pig. So that, with a six months’ supply of groceries from Rabaul, the food question is not acute. In fact, it is possible in some districts not to open any tinned food at all, except butter and cereals.

Milk can be obtained by keeping a small herd of goats, which thrive so well in the tropics.

Fish is dynamited regularly. It is quite a common sight to see dripping natives arrive at your bungalow with a gleaming horde strung on a large bamboo, and car ried from shoulder to shoulder. These have just been dynamited, and retrieved by the station work-boys, who leave a few at each bungalow and keep the remainder for themselves and the native police.

Often Kanakas (bush natives) will come round selling kukas (large crabs), man grove oysters, pumpkins, and very doubt ful eggs, which the bachelors buy. Once we thrived on dugong (sea-cow), caught by the natives, grilled, fried, stewed, braized, and made into soup.

In the afternoon, tennis and tea, bathing, riding and bush rambles, delightful to the nature-lover, while away the hours. Some times folk come in from the plantations, when we will have gatherings at the tennis court, and dinner parties, and once a year there may be a visit from the Administra tor’s yacht, which means great prepara tions and festivities.

But, many times, a great loneliness will steal upon the station.

When most of the “Masters” have gone bush on long patrols and you happen to be the only “Missus” on the station, there may be several lonely weeks ahead.

The first week or two is rather pleasant, as one can pursue one’s own fancies ad UUtum. But after five or six weeks of this freedom, it begins to pall, and one listens eagerly for the noise and clatter of the returning patrols, with their long line of jabbering native carriers.

It is in the evenings that the loneliness tells.

When your boys have cleared up and gone to their huts, and you look round and find that your own light is the only one on the station; when a pitchy wall of darkness hems you in, and a deadly still ness reigns, save when the sullen roar of surf on reef startles you like distant thun der, you feel as though you are the only entity on a vast and empty planet. And you sit closer to your lamp for comfort, before turning in and tucking yourself up in your mosquito net for the night.

Later, no doubt, a police boy will come along to keep watch under the house. He will ‘ bring his blanket and little pillow.

and snore vociferously till dawn. It is a comfort to wake up in the night and hear him.

On nights when the moon shines her sil ver radiance on waving fronds of palms, making brilliant the shimmering grass, and waking into life a quiet world, the cricket shrills, the muk-muk sends his muffled melody from forest trees, the hammer-bird taps, the flying-fox screeches gibberishly in search of bananas under the verandah roof, or flies ghoulishly through the house; while from the native quarters and nearby villages an ever-rising cadence of gara muts (drums), song, and thud of dance give promise of a restless night.

A police-boy will come along as usual to “watch.” For perhaps half an hour he will sit cross-legged on his blanket, puffing fit fully at his “cigarette” of trade tobacco and newspaper. He will then rise silently, and vanish like a wraith through the lam bent moonlight in the direction of the throbbing drums.