My South Seas Christmases

From Suva to Salamaua With Alice Allen Innes

THERE was the first South Sea Christmas in Fiji. That series of rambling old bungalows, which, weighed down with most rigid economy, did yeoman service as the Colonial Hospital; Suva wasn’t very “civic-minded” In those days, but everyone expected, and received excellent attention from nursing and medical staffs. World War I had just threatened the Pacific, and, for the first time, Suva was conscious of its isolation.

The •‘Brisbane.” ‘‘Encounter,” “Nagasaki” and “Chikuma” came in and out at intervals, and always brought patients, both officers and men, most of whom were only too delighted to be ashore and in the hospital’s'very beautiful surroundings during convalescent periods.

I remember one Japanese officer of a very old and wealthy Sumarai family. He spoke Shakespearian English and excelled his brother officers in politeness; as we decorated his ward and sat him up (after an appendix operation had proved suecessful) to enjoy his first meal—Christmas dinner of conventional abundance— he brought from beside his bed a parcel and gravely presented me with a very lovely, beautifully-dressed Japanese doll, To Matron and Sisters he gave handsome albums full of views of Japan—and, strangely enough, mentioned that some day Japan would control the whole of the Pacific but that, should he be in power, Suva Hospital would ever be free from attack!

Christmas morning at Suva Hospital carried a wealth of cheerful memories . . . from the daylight appearance of Matron Anderson in her immaculate white, as she stood on the wide verandah despatching gifts and notes of greeting to patients and friends . . . The graceful and uniformed native nurses bringing up the

attractive woven baskets filled with masses of vivid canna, hybiscus and alamandar to decorate the wards. How merry they were! Meresani, giggling as she always did; Tepo, tall and most dignifled; Pwa, with the sweetest, shy smile; Ratieli, bubbling over with amusing small gossip; and Sanivula’s throaty contralto sending the early carol up from the rose garden below the hill! Hollywood could never catch and .record the beauty and music of that Christmas morning.

Sister Emily Anderson and Sister Stammer massing the flowers with magic fingers as the “ward vases” were quickly done; then the children’s Xmas tree arranged for native and European infants; the Watch Night service at the native church where the lovely old carols were sung in perfect harmony.

Old Rhuhdadu, the Indian gardener, complete with new headress, deeply salaaming to Matron and breaking into a flow of Hindustani greetings, which Matron returned with many flowery compliments and gifts for the Indian staff (What a soft spot we had for that old rogue Rhundadu, who did so little real gardening, but so much “liaison” and letter-carrying ... He had ever an ear and eye for the romances of the nursing staff.) And cook, coming up after the Christmas dinner to take a bow, and collect his gifts. fTIHE nurses, off duty, flying to press J. frocks and hoping that nothing would prevent their getting to the Grand Pacific for the party. Other nurses exchanging gifts and teasing.

Sister Livingstone, with a trip to England just ahead of her; Sister Grace Morrison, with a mop of golden curls, on duty, but still convalescing from a. seri-

ous illness (and now, these days, a matron of her own hospital in Fiji); Nurse Jess Finlay sen, doing the work of three nurses: Nurse Kaad, whose music brought joy to staff and the many visitors to the nurses’ home; Nurse Phieffer, with her quiet, efficiency, making savoury dishes for Sister Stammer’s party on Boxing Night—and we owed much to Sister Stammer’s individual coaching, apart from Matron’s beautifully delivered lec tures (lectures that were delivered with equal ease and fluency in English, Fijian or Hindustani).

IHAVE been fortunate enough to see the evolution of the “C.H.” from the scattered old buildings and cumber some domestic arrangements of my girl hood days to the modern, imposing-look ing War Memorial Hospital revealed to me on a recent visit. Suva can now be proud, too, that one of the most highly trained and popular of its “old nurses’’ is back there as Matron.

I had the good fortune to meet the first Matron of the hospital in 1915. She was Mrs. Stoubie—or Matron Webster- Wedderburn, as she was Jmown when she came from England 50 years before, to take up duty at Suva Hospital. Hers was the great honour of being personally selected by Florence Nightingale for Fiiian service.

From many letters and gifts that old Matron showed me, I knew there must have been a very deep friendship and confidence .between “The Lady of the Lamp” and Suva’s first Matron.

Suva was not officially “war zone” in World War I, but it was very surely, nursing service for all the staff, who had to face war nursing conditions, the fear of attack and the preparedness to cope with it, and the great shortage of drugs and dressings.

So came another Chris'tmas and yet a third, whilst the first world war lasted

Levuko—l9l6

SURELY there never was a more beau tiful Island port than Levuka when it wfis in its heyday and the “Capi tal of the South Seas.”

Timber shins came from the far cor ners of the world—full-rigged ships that had made history. And there were hosts and hostesses in Levuka who were un surpassed and are but rich memories these lean times . . . Captain Kaad with his famdus chef. Old Kura—the Solomon Islander whose life the captain had once saved . . . Wines from the famed vine yards of Germany and Spain; French vintage and sparkling wines served to an assortment of delicate and perfectly cooked local fish and venison from the captain’s own*island of Wakaya . . . Mrs.

Kaad. Mrs. Vollmer, Mr. and Mrs. Bently, of “Venice”—the latter couple famed for their famous stamp collection, their fine family of many sops and one very musical daughter. Such Christmas hospitality is rarely seen in these years.

Partv followed party and then, at grey dawn, there was the merry exodus to the Sonderberg pool, a natural series of rock baths near Captain Kaad’s lovely home.

Christmas in Levuka is a memory that makes one still feel young—it? famous hospitality, the beauty of its girls, from the lovely blonde Hjorring sisters to the manv lovely daughters of the island, will still live in the hearts of all of us who have shared in the festive gaiety of Levuka.

Christmas in Sud-Est

AFTER a friendly year in Samarai, came the isolation of Misima. It promised to be a very dull Christ mas but we reckoned without that very famous and dearlv-loved “mother of the Lousiades”—Mrs. Mahonev of Sud-Est, a neighbouring island. To Mr. Harrv Sim monds, our Resident Magistrate at Mis ima, and ourselves. came the summons to foregather at. Christmas-time in Sud-Est’s lovely homestead.

The “Guitana,” dancing as her name sake ever did, flew over to Sud-Est m record time, and as we arrived there was wild commotion near the little wharf: a “crocodile” had taken one of the new calves and crowds of native boys and Maries swung charms and curses after the defiant beast who still lay, sluggish and impudently, within vision.

A few shots from the revolver of Cap tain” Teddy Mears eventually sent him off, and we followed our hostess up to the home that held so many memories and links with the great “Rattlesnake” gold rush of 30 years before. There were 200 graves in the hills nearby, all of miners who had died from dysentery, ptomaine poisoning, and mulnutrition during the goldfield days. There might have been more but for our hostess Mrs. Mahoney, who had, single-handed, cared for and tended the many sick men through that ghastly epidemic.

Her life was an epic of adventure; only a few hours before we arrived for that Christmas celebration, she had sailed her own schooner, the “Nil Desperendum,” down to a nearby island to bring in a native baby whose mother had died, and who would otherwise have been buried alive with the mother.

As we approached the home “The Count” came to meet us. Tall and thin and aristocratic as his nickname implied, he wore his monocle suspended from a long leather bootlace and adjusted : it with regal dignity, at frequent intervals, in ‘his sightless eye. It certainly was impressive! He wore short, thick and very faded pink flannelette pyjamas, and a wide, cabbage-tree hat, but there un conventionality apparently stopped—he

embarrassed me v greatly, *when, upon being presented to us, he eyed off my meek “romper-cut” boat-suit of navy drill, and said, “I am afraid I have never met a young matron in her underwear before . . . would you pardon me if I retire?”

He should tell me—with his pyjamas wanting a patch where poets don’t tell of!

That afternoon, Sinabada Mahony gave the native servants and their many rela tives a huge feast and sports, which Ve all enjoyed. We saw them make sapisapi (shell money) and bring gifts to “Mumma” in return for her many gifts and feast.

Boxing Day saw us up and away to luncheon at Sud-Est Waterfalls. On a green lawn-like spot below the lovely cas cade of water that came down in three “bridal veil” effects from a great height above, we all sat eating cold roast duck in our fingers, when the clear sunlit sky seemed to darken for a few seconds, but no rain came; then came a dull roar, as a monster “roll” of water seemed to pause on the top of the falls. We jumped up and sprang for higher ground, and safety, and, as we did, over the falls came tons of water —hurling and splashing over the spot where we had sat a moment before.

It was a cloud-burst on the mountains above. A rare and awesome thing to witness.

So sped Christmas at Sud-Est. Hos pitality that one could never repay, and grand memories of an outstanding pioneer. Mrs. Mahony.

Christmas at Khabuga

CHRISTMAS at Khabuga, with Mons. and Madame Bernier, also held adventure. We had to walk 10 miles through the bush to the most isolated part of Si. Aignon’s lovely island—over the kunai grass country, then down through the heavy swamps. First went the Rossel Island nurseboy with our three-year-old son on his shoulders, then came Taubada, lastly the native nurse girl and me—and so to Madame’s lonely home. But our host and hostess, we found, were barricaded upstairs in their

bungalow and the nearby village was like a nest of Hornets. “Pig trouble” again!

Bush pigs had happened on Madame’s fine garden, with sad results. Madame had laid poison and warned the village; the village said pigs’ ways were “an act of god.” or words to that effect, and when the pigs died there was a war on between the village and Madame.

My husband and I went to the village

and promised that the .finest “Piggie man-belong-Sydney” should be given to' them, and, after much parley, all was well. However, as no native had gone fishing that day, and no “megani” hunt ing had been done, and as Madame’s fowls had all scattered to the bush, we feared the larder would not be too hefty.

But we proved to be wrong. We starv ing travellers sat down ’to a delicious “ragout” cooked in finest French style, \in claret, garlic and fine herbs, and -not until years later did we know that that meal was made from flying-fox. I have been most suspicious of gamey-looking cas serole since!

Dear old Madame Bernier, whom I visited in Grenoble, in France, 15 years later, when, looking years younger, she was settled in her charming family home, and made up for the “black-bokis” stew with lavish Grenoble hospitality!

Salamaua Christmases

THEN came the many Salamaua Christ mas-tides.

The first, when the community of 23 celebrated Yuletide at our early Salamaua Mecano-like home—“House Kruanky,’’ with the huge tree growing through the roof—or rather, built around the trunk of a huge tree, because the contractor had died suddenly, and the boss-boy had gone on with the job and no one had told him to move the tree.

Anyway, that was a good Christmas— all out of tins, even the warm cham pagne.

Then the Christmas of more affluent days, when all Salamaua danced at the new hotel and there was a fancy-dress ball.

A tall, dark, and (of course) hand some, scientist, happened on Salamaua

that Christmas Eve. He had been in far corners of the map, and was very weary.

IJe declined to come to the fancy-dress ball, but dressed in formal dinner suit for dinner that night, and then after wards retired. When the midnight revels were at their height, and prize-winners were being chosen by the amount of the onlookers’ applause, a tall figure appeared in dress shirt, sox and suspenders and even a black dress tie —but never a sign of hi.s trousers. We held our breath and hoped the “wee breeks of Scotland” were doing duty. Midst wild applause, he car ried the prize. Then, in a startled pause, the majestic, but half-clad, gentleman stood gazing around at the dancers, gave a moan, hopped the high balcony rail (and he didn’t wear ’em) and went wildly into the black night. $ Alas, that weary scientist had been a sleep-walker. The prize was never collected!

CAME many Salamaua Christmases— and, when the future Christmas tides bring all together again, I hope that those amongst us who may be pre sent will stand and drink a silent toast to the many heroic men who have given us throughout the wide South Seas, our happy Island Christmases.