Land Of No Locks

Or Clocks

By Don Gordon

“TIUT aren’t you going to lock up be- JDfore you go?” I asked my host, as we descended the verandah steps of his island home in New Guinea. We were bound for the steamer’s port-of call, some 30 miles away, and would be absent three or four days.

Mine Host laughed. “Lock up?” he repeated. “How can I lock up when there are no locks?”

And then I realised that none of the doors had locks; in fact many of the doorways did not even possess doors!

We simply walked out of the house and left a young “monkey”—as the 12years-old house-boy was called —in charge of the silver forks and spoons, rare brassware and clothing; to say nothing of the canned food in the pantry, and the suites of cane furniture.

And not half a mile away stood a na tive village with some 200 sons and grandsons of cannibal raiders!

As we stepped into the launch my companion nodded to an ugly-looking six-foot black, “Me go now. You look out good along house”, he remarked casually, and the six-foot chief grunted.

“Aren’t you taking a bit of a risk?”

I suggested, astonished at his casualness.

He shook his head. There was no risk'

at all, he assured me. For two weeks, before his house was built, his packing cases of trade goods, provisions, trunks and furniture had lain in various na tive houses in the village. Not even a newspaper had been stolen. And news papers are greedily sought after by the natives for rolling cigarettes.

“They’re not civilised enough yet”, Mine Host explained. “The native is nat urally honest, and naturally moral. It is only after contact with the more popu lated seaports and their civilisation that he starts thieving; where he sees arti cles worn by other natives and his van ity craves for possession. It’s human na ture all the world over”.

“I wonder when the steamer will be in?” I enquired, later, as the launch ploughed its way through the waters by the coast of a picture-book tropic is land, with its coral beds and waving palms stretched out over the gleaming strip of white sand beach.

“The steamer? ... Oh, either to-day or to-morrow: possibly next day. She’s seldom on time. But what’s the differ ence ©f a day or two in this country?

I think we’ll have something to eat, eh?”

“What’s the time?” I asked.

“Haven’t the vaguest idea”. Then, glancing up at the sun, which rises around about six and sets at six in the evening, with only a variation of some II minutes from January to December he replied: “I should say it’s about one o’clock. But why worry about time?”

We both laughed. . Yes, why worry about such a small thing as time? There were no trains to catch; steamer sailings had a charming uncertainty extending over 18 hours. There was work to be done: One continued the job until it was finished—to-day, to-morrow or next week. What did it matter? Clocks were unnecessary chains to a civilisation whose advantages were doubtful in this

Land of No Clocks or Locks. One ate when one was hungry; one slept when one was tired. Hours were never men tioned.

“I’ll come over on Friday and see you”, says the departing visitor. He may arrive in the morning or late afternoon, or even on Thursday night or Saturday morning. It makes no difference. If you happen to be away he will make himself at home in your house of No Locks to await your return.

And then . . . Civilisation with its fastened windows, bolted doors and the elaborate burglar alarm. . . The morning rush for the 8.15 ferry; the unfinished game of bridge and/or the hasty kiss to catch the last tram; the appointment un der the clock at 3.30 sharp!

Slaves of the Ticking Clock and the Yale Lock! No wonder I envied Mine Host in his savage land of unlocked houses and his clockless days!