Moonlight In The Vale

Of Wau

Some Reflections By "Mowgli"

117 E all have heard of the Edie Creek ** miner who entered Ushers’, trailing behind him a tiger on a leash. He ordered a neat “metho,” with a dash of nails; and, later, becoming maudlin, he began to weep. When asked the reason for his sorrow He replied that he had been refused the cameraderie of Edie Creek because of his effeminate nature.

The moral of the tale is that Edie Creek is a tough spot, where only the toughest survive.

There, and on the goldfields generally, any marked expression of sentiment is a violation of the miners’ unwritten code, and a sign of weakness. Should an un thinking newcomer make the remark: “What a beautiful sunset!”, the scornful reply (if any) would probably be “an other bibody hot day tomorrow!”

It has been said that there is at least five per cent of good in the worst of us and, by the same argument, I maintain that there is at least five per cent of sentiment and appreciation of beauty in the hardest-boiled miner in Morobe, des pite his grim exterior. But he would rather die than admit it.

If I am found out. I shall soon be breasting the bar at Ushers’ with our effeminate friend. It seems that I have considerably more than my five per cent of sentiment, for I never look upon the Vale of Wau by moonlight, but I indulge myself in a fantasy of dreaming and re flection. Lady Moon spreads her un earthly radiance all around and, as though in appreciation, myriads of in sects double the volume of their chirp ings. The voice of Nature otherwise is muted; all is quiet and still;, not even the rustle of a night breeze in the kunai grass.

Across the valley a few scattered lights are twinkling, and for a little while my thoughts dwell with those lonely people who have cut themselves off from con ventional life. Below their camps, a line of fleecy cloud hangs motionless over the waters of the Bulolo River, running the full length of the valley. Faintly, I can hear the river’s low lullaby. My eye follows the band of cloud, and loses it in the shadowy ridges towards the east, where nestle a number of native villages whose inhabitants live the same primi tive existence as their fore-fathers in spite of the nearness of modern Euro peans and their achievements.

Strains of music arise suddenly from Wau, to smother the sweeter voice of the river. The houses and buildings appear so close that I could throw a stone on to many of the roofs. The hotels, theatres, and dwellings are ablaze with light and, taken as a whole, look for all the world like brilliant gems resting on a black velvet ground. The music is from a gramophone, and the tune one of “Bing’s” latest. Occasionally, like forked lightning, the arcs of the talkie-picture

apparatus shine out dazzlingly, and an American voice will float upwards on the night air—“ls that so?”, “You’re tellin’ me!”

I seek again the comfort of the hills and the moonlight, and my gaze rests on the other end of the line of cloud— above Koranga Creek —a name to conjure with on the Morobe goldfield. It was here the Big Six made history, and for a time I make a sentimental journey into the past and live for a few moments with Shark-eye and his comrades, the men who pioneered Morobe.

“What changes have taken place since those days,” I think. Yet, looking to wards the gap, with its lone pine silhou etted against the dusty blue of the sky, I suppose that the jungle below has prob ably not altered since Shark-eye looked upon it. And yet, by daylight, over this jungle, aeroplanes fly endlessly to and fro —a modern commercial highway over a primitive jungle.

Before retiring, I take a final look at the aerodrome. It is large and deserted, except for a few resting planes, ghost-like in their tarpaulin coverings. Perhaps, if I look long enough, I will see dark human shapes take life, running, gesti culating, and throwing spears. Can they be the shades of natives returning to what was once their happy hunting

ground.

Meditations over, I am left with a sense of peace and contentment, for to me the beauty of a moonlight night in Wau more than compensates for the handicaps and sacrifices which life on the goldfields imposes.