Papua's Western

Division

It Is Not All Mud

By W.D.

MUCH has been written about the un loveliness of the Western Division of Papua: Of its malaria, mosquitoes and most of all, its Mud, spelt with a capital M.

And it is all true, the depressing, dirty rivers of the delta, the rushing waters of Spring tides, the turbulent waves of the wide river spaces which must be crossed to get anywhere.

To the uninitiated, the Fly or Bamu speak of tranquil calm; but the wise look well to sails and engine, for one never can tell how these rivers will behave. In an incredible short time the calm changes to roaring hills of white-capped sea, huge logs tearing down to smash any contact ing object, that heaving swell, or again that short, sharp wave, the terror of small craft on these rivers.

Notwithstanding all this, there is much of beauty to be found—if you look for it.

There is pretty little Daru Island, the town of the W.D., with its mango avenues along the main paths, and brightly colored crotons everywhere. The green slopes, on top of which are the Government residences, the rustic foot bridges leading to each building, and the well-arranged and neatly-kept gardens.

The long country road which leads to the other side of the island may not be paved or even, but it passes grand old gums and the farm, and winds on to the fishing village. A delightful walk.

My first impression of Daru was good, as then there were few houses and the whole place was a mass of gold and green and brown crotons, and the slopes were emerald after rain. There is real beauty in Daru.

Then, the wide creeks of the W.D. have a beauty all their own. Especially so at neap tides; green, still waters fringed by stately coconut palms, or maybe even the common Nipa, gently

swinging in the breeze; the graceful picture of canoes gliding along, reflected with the bending palms in the water; tiny fish jumping here and there; the morning sun chasing shadows.

Or is there anything more glorious than a sunset on a palm-edged creek?

Time after time one stands spellbound at the sight. Old gold and mauve, deep scarlet and rose, changed every moment to shades indescribable. Fleecy mountains of smoky-blue clouds enveloping, and again releasing, the dying sun, their silver' linings turned about, long arrows of blue and crimson, seeming to pierce the very tops of the trees.

And all this reflected perfectly in the “winding ribbon of a creek”. It is still W.D.

Even the night has its glory on these creeks —the vivid lightning, the silvery glitter on every leaf after rain, the full moonlight playing on the water and sending mysterious shadows through the trees. And what could be more beautiful than the million lights of tiny flittering fireflies, glowing on every shrub, until the whole place is a fairyland.

Yes, there is more than mud in the W.D.

Someone has written: “There are not many pretty women in the Western Division”. It depends, of course, on the definition of “pretty”. But there are some of the finest-looking and perfectly developed girls and women, here; splen did physique and features, with no cut or stain or tattoo, and no need of any cosmetic. And they are W.D.

Then, surely, the loveliest part of all the division is the enchanting Gogadara country. Those wonderful lagoons become masses of pink and mauve glory, when the water lily flowers. The tall, wild-rice grasses nodding with every passing breeze, whispering secrets all day long.

Brown women bending to their paddles, with grace not found among whites, every movement beautiful to behold. The men, tall and well built, move as one man, speeding their canoes along. A Gogadara canoe race, seldom featured, creates an indelible picture on the memory. Every action speaks of grace and beauty again.

The miles and miles of undulating grass country, trees of white scented blossom, the glories of the hills one can never forget. Well-arranged gardens round the most interesting “long houses”; pretty plots on the hillsides looking to ward the sun; the rich red and black soils. The villages, mostly neat and clean, the gay flowers in old tins on the plat forms, all show the love of beauty in the people.

At sunset, it is glorious, the great golden ball slipping behind each rise; at dawn, as beautiful, and every moment of the day calls for admiration. Sunrise and early morning in the Gogadara is be

yond real description. The house or camp is filled with a haze of blush pink and gold, and, on waking, one feels for the moment that the bush around is ablaze with fire. Morning glory, fresh as the mountain air; the songs of a million birds; gorgeously marked butterflies; the rising sun breaking up the heavy mist ever the trees and bush and lagoon: wallaby hopping along the narrow track; the deep call of forest life; everything, trees and birds and all life, join to sing their morning song of happiness.

It is a grand sight to watch the miles of growing, floating grass-land, sweeping majestically down the Aramia from out the lagoons. At times, it is so wide as to take the whole width of the river. Often loaded with birds, it is a singing, moving mass.

This is a rich country, splendid timber, good soil. The fruits are excellent, and fish and game abound most times. One is away from the rush, which has in vaded every centre, away from the petty squabbles of small communities, away from all that is false and wearying to the grandeur of this unspoiled Eden. A living, throbbing poem to the poet, a glory be yond compare to the artist, and to the ordinary man, God’s own country.

And it is still in the Western Division.