Woodlark

By G. Mills-Rodger

WOODLARK Island, in Eastern Papua, ** is forty miles by sixteen. From that area hundreds of fossickers and miners have won hundreds of ounces of gold, worth hundreds of thousands of pounds.

But that was many years ago, when Woodlark was the chief goldfield of New Guinea, To-day, it is hard to realise the bustle and activity which there must have been. Only overgrown shafts, derelict machinery and tangled scrub remind one of former glory. The hundreds of whites are now reduced to some two score.

A few of the old timers are still left — in fact one has not been away from

Woodlark since h© arrived 37 years ago.

There is still gold; but never again will a dish yield a weight of one pound in one ■wash. How must these men have felt when a few swirls of their pan gave them twelve ounces of glittering dirt!

Woodlark Island is composed of hills and valleys, the coast line being flanked in many places by miles of mangrove swamp. The growth is almost impene trable; trees, vines, creepers and scrub are mingled in mad profusion.

To hack one’s way through is an arduous task. Journeying from one place to another by a recognised route means plunging along narrow jungle tracks. In wet weather it means slushing through quagmires. Snakes are numerous but the majority are considered harmless. Mili pedes abound, but also not to be feared unless trodden upon, when they emit a poisonous fluid. Wild pigs make excellent kai-kai and, incidentally, good hunting.

Certain spots are infested with crocodiles.

The rainfall is one of the heaviest in Papua, averaging some 175 inches for the year.

There are a number of coconut plan tations scattered throughout. With the recent rise in the price of that long de pressed commodity, the planter’s hopes of eventual retirement with a comfort able competence may, at last, come true.

The native name for Woodlark is Murua. The Muruan flatly declines to “sign on’’ for work either on plantations or mining. The chief reason is, of course, that he is lazy. Secondly, the island has abundance of native foods such as yam, taro, sago. Also there is betel nut which, mixed with lime, they chew with avidity.

This causes their teeth to become quite black, the mouth and lips a vivid scarlet.

Personal adornment takes the form of slit-ear lobes, in some cases almost hang ing down to the shoulders. In the aper ture is worn anything from a flower to the lid of a tobacco tin. Narrow bands of plaited grass are worn tightly on the arms and legs. Being a pure Papuan type, the Muruan has a fine mop of frizzy hair, of which he is inordinately proud and ever combing. To be possessed of red hair seems to be a great ambition and many a buck applies lime to achieve this effect.

Clothing is only a secondary con sideration. Indeed, there is a resemblance to an exiled Adam as invariably the only garment consists of a strip of pandanus leaf between the limbs, held by a strip of native grass.

The women beautify themselves much as do the men, but they wear a short grass skirt upon which, at times, another is clapped on and yet another until a tier of six or seven may be seen.

In mourning, the woman daubs herself all over with charcoal and wears an ankle length skirt. The effect is grotesque.

The period of lamentation may last six or twelve months, when a feast is pro claimed to celebrate the end of the penance. The lady is then at liberty to resume her glad rags; but in another few months it may be necessary to do some more mourning; and so it goes on.

Being covered with charcoal, in the heat of the tropics, with ablutions entirely unknown, must produce some discomfort ing effects. All have a strong aversion to cleanliness and it is indeed a matter for wonder that disease is not rampant.

Both sexes indulge in patterning their faces with charcoal. Viewed from an artistic standpoint, the results call for improvement. The native population has dwindled to about 800 and still appears to be on the decrease.

Mention must be made of the old wire less station. This concrete structure still stands in excellent condition. The erec

tion cost tens of thousands and, the writer understands, was the most power ful station in the Pacific during the War.

Occupied by a large naval staff, this must have ranked as an important unit in martial affairs at that time. The tall gaunt walls look as if they housed many a secret snatched from the ether.

It may be appropriate to relate an amusing incident which happened in connection with this wireless station in those troublesome times of war. Some of the local Europeans were enlisted as guards.

Walking down to the station at night from the mining camp of Kulumadau to take over their duties, two of the volun teers were halted by a native sentry who Jumped out of the bush with pointed rifle: “Who goes there?”

The two gentlemen had been gossiping a trifle too freely with their good friend John Barleycorn; and they resented being addressed in such peremptory fashion by a native. At any rate, they expressed their opinion of him in no mild terms.

Suddenly, one of the pair remembered they should use the password, but neither could recall it.

Meanwhile, the native, no doubt rather frightened as to what would be his fate at the hands of these two inebriated tauhadas helped them out of the difficulty, “S’pose you no talk ‘Glasgow’ I shoot.”

“Glasgow” came back the password, in chorus.

It is said the many bays and inlets of the island afforded shelter for that prowling marauder, the Wolf.

A peculiarly fascinating, intriguing island, Woodlark is no blue lagoon of Stacpoole’s creation. It has a history and, perhaps, a future.