A Movie-Cameraman On

Rennell

By G. J. Mackay

(Editor’s Note: Mr. Mac Kay’s motion-pictures of the Rennell Islanders secured him invitations to display same before the principal geographic societies of the United States.) THE “Ranadi’s” anchor was dropped in the one bay of the huge raised-atoll of Rennell, whose Polynesian natives live on fish, fruit and nuts, naming their atoll island “Munggava.” Richard Rutledge Kane, the Solomons’ Resident Commis sioner, introduced me as “his friend” to Tahua, hereditary “king” of Rennell, upon whom had been bestowed the English title, “Master of the White Sand,” since the “king” controlled the only ocean frontage of Munggava.

Tahua, an elderly man of good physique, was naked, save for a loin-covering of yellow bark-cloth. Long Polynesian tattoo lines marked his body. A straight, black mass of hair fell over forehead and shoulders. In order to curry instant favour with the Munggavan king, I presented his highness with five sticks of tobacco, like a travelling salesman who thrusts some cigars under a prospect’s nose. King Tahua

smelt the offering - and hid it in the folds of his scanty robes. He murmured some thing to the R.C., who, after moment’s mental guessing, said; “The Master of the White Sand wishes to know your name.”

Accordingly, I uttered my Scottish patronymic, repeatedly ejaculating the name of the clan of green, black and blue tartan into the hair-sheltered ear of the King of Munggava. Finally he raised his head, affirming: “MacKay—goodfeller; Mac Kay good feller!”

The royal mind was made up. His majesty clinched the compliment with another handshake and the gift to me of a wooden frigate-bird totem.

There was reason in all this. I found my name to be half of the name of a much respected Polynesian god, “Makei-Makei”!

All the tribe then followed their king’s example. Men, women and children just had to welcome the messenger of the gods with the box of magic. This was not so great an ordeal as their own tribal method of greeting—nose-rubbing! Had the Mung gavans followed* tribal custom I would be minus a schnozzle to-day!

One woman had the crown of her head scraped clear of hair—a sign of widowhood.

Her man had recently been buried in a good, old-fashioned style—that of Egypt of 6000 years ago.

The first thing we understood they wanted was a knife. They had no metal whatever, Munggavans being in the “wood” age. A knife was given, so as to know' why they were all in such a hurry for it.

Immediately, the tribe clustered round the knife-possessor and got their foreheads slashed —merely a little sign of mourning for the tonsured lady’s husband!

My Malaitan assistant, Maike, had erected the motion-picture camera (a “Wil liamson”) in a place commanding the vil lage of leaf-huts and its adjacent ceme tery of graves decorated with spears, paddles, bows and arrows. For a while I deserted the camera so that the Mung gavans could grow accustomed to such an unusual object. A shock-headed youth, however, touched me on the arm, pointing to the camera resting haughtily on its tripod. I pretended to “no savvy.” A piccaninny then grasped my hand and led me forth, indicating by gesture that I should manipulate the works. I examined the controls at the back of the machine, took a purple trick handkerchief from my pocket and set about polishing the glass dials—rather to my (pretended) dissatis faction. I wagged my head in disgust be fore the primitive audience, casting a dis approving eye on the purple handkerchief which I shook vigorously. Marvel of mar vels, it turned green! The glass-polishing was resumed by means of the green objec. with a (supposed) gratifying result.

The audience began to retreat. I waved them to return. A score peeped into the view-finder. This was the climax leading to my election on Rennell as the Big Shot of the Devil-devils!

The ladies of Rennell are among the best-looking and the most beautifully formed of the female natives of the South Seas. In line with everywhere else in the Solomons, brassieres are not adopted by the native daughters. When skirts are worn on Rennell, their material is bark paper, once round. Invariably, epidermic ornamentation forms the sole garment.

The inspection of a feminine guard of honour would be a most embarrassing duty to a 8.5.1. P. officer!

Native females contrive to fight shy of anv camera. The native men—ever hold ing their womenfolk at a discount-use every means to prevent their women from being portrayed. My telescopic lens secured

a close-up of some sleek, light-brown girls, the picture showing very obvious feminine pouts on the discovery that they were objects of my photographic attention.

Chow Chu, the yacht’s Chinese cook, observing my predicament with the local “fair” sex, overcame the shyness of the tattooed ladies by Oriental methods un known to me, when he paraded them all before the motion-picture camera in a Chinese version of “Here We Go Hound The Mulberry Bush”! In granting a bonus to my movie actresses I secured permanent goodwill among them by means of my col lection of used safety razor 'blades! I pre sented the dames with one treasured blade apiece. A string- of fibre connected a hole of the blade to a hole in a shell-like Poly nesienne ear.

Maike asked me why I did not choose a Rennell girl for a wife, for he knew I was not a married man. His argument was that he had often heard that a white wife from “Sedney” cost a lot of money to main tain, whereas a beautiful Rennell girl need only cost me a few beads, a yard or two of calico and my razor blades when dis carded! I ended this discussion abruptly by detailing Maike to give the Munggavans an exhibition of the reflex “still” camera as a scene in the travelogue.

Near the white men’s tents a crowd of piccaninnies always congregated, whenever we washed our hands and faces. At the conclusion of the mysterious rite, the basin of soapy water was emptied over their heads. The game was to run and avoid the baptism. “Green” kids were always enticed to be front-rank spectators. The soaping process made the Munggavans gape in astonishment at the queer customs of white men.

The time came when we had to leave the (to us) almost-unreal world of the atoll-inhabiting Munggavans. We were escorted to the “Ranadi” by Rennell’s fleet

of catamarans—twenty foot dugouts with light outriggers. Munggavan men, women and children scrambled aboard the yacht after the white men.

The Commissioner relaxed in a canvas deck-chair. King Tahua knelt down at his right hand, Tiketa, a male relative, squat ting near. Long-haired Tahua bewailed “Sorry too much sorry too much! Fre quently he would seize the Commissioner s hand and stroke it. Nowhere have I ever witnessed such a manifestation of grief over the departure of constituted authority!

“This is becoming irksome,” said the R.C.

“Yet, I don’t want to offend the Master of the White Sand or infringe Protectorate law. Something will have to be done, and done quickly!”

On the bridge-lounge of the yacht a cere mony was to be enacted—the genial repre sentative of white majesty farewelling an aboriginal king! There was no precedent to follow. An awkward “stage-wait” was about to mar the proceedings when Corn mander Cruikshank, the captain of the “Ranadi,” suddenly exclaimed: ‘Tve hit it!”

Immediately the captain gave an order to Ula, his steward. Ula re-appeared quickly with a silver tray containing four glasses, a teaspoon, a glass jug of water and—a bottle of Eno’s! Cruikshank, in his white uniform and gold lace, was chief actor in this strange scene. Holding aloft the bottle of fruit salts, he solemnly enchanted: “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest, Yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum.

Drink and the devil had done for the rest, Yo ’ ho ’ ho ’ anc * a bottle of—er—fruit-salts!”

Seizing a teaspoon from the attending Ula, the bottle was uncorked and white grains of salt deftly spilt into the spoon, Giving each glass a portion of salts, the naval officer presented a glass apiece with

a deep, ceremonial bow to Tahua, the Com missioner and myself. Taking the last glass and replacing the Eno bottle with the water-jug, he rapidly made four fizzy mix tures which he sign-languaged to be quaffed while each “boiled.”

And thus it came to pass that Tahua, King of Munggava, became appeased by the strange ritual and frothy tonic of powerful white lords!

“Aloha, Munggava!”