A Nathan Pursued Him

Being the Misadventures of R. W. Robson at Nadi Airfield, Fiji

WE eyed the accommodation sourly.

Four bunks, one wooden table, bare walls without a mirror or a shelf or a clothes hook did not exactly represent the comfort to which overseas travellers are accustomed. However, we were obliged to wait on Nadi airfield, and Nadi was in the hands of New Zealand bureau crats. Take it or leave it!

Broken gauze across the window, a broken spring on the flyproofed door, opened anew thought. “What about mosquitoes?” I asked.

“No mosquitoes here.” said the official.

We took his word for it.

The four of us retired at 11 o’clock.

What with much travelling and the par alysing effect of Northwest Fijian hospi tality, we were prepared to sleep any where, even in this unbelievable Nadi hutment.

The lights went out—and the devil’s chorus came on. We shoo’d and slapped, and cursed —we even made experiments in protecting our heads in sheets tied tent-wise. But it was no use. One by one we left that place—some to seek sanctuary in other hutments, two to dress and pack and travel on another 15 miles to the Lautoka Hotel. My own experi ence was unusual.

AFTER midnight, a conspicuous figure in yellow dressing gown and slip pers, I went out on an exploratory prowl. Was there any mosquito-less place where I could sleep?

I reconnoitred the large, flyproofed messroom. There I found space and cool ness and a couple of lounges. Yes. that would do. Back through the midnight gloom I went, collected a sheet, a rug and a pillow, and set out again across the grassy paddock, headed for the mess room.

I thought myself unobserved. There was not a living thing in sight—except a lonely dog, and scores of the giant, hopping toads which have changed the entomological face of Fiji.

But, as I marched off with my armful of bedclothes, I saw a tall, strange figure moving in the shadows. It seemed to be following me. I turned off sharply to the right, around a hutment. The figure also moved briskly. Unquestionably it was trying to head me off.

I dodged back, and got my pursuer outlined against a patch of distant light.

The picture was startling. It was a tall, lanky Indian with a turban, considerable whiskers and half-mast trousers—and in his purposeful right hand he was flour ishing what undoubtedly was a long, curved sword.

“This is a queer turn-up,” I told my self. “I apparently am being hunted by a Pa than. Nadi has even greater ter rors than have been reported by out raged travellers. Courage, mon brave!”

ISET off directly for the messroom. It would be a libel to say that I ran. but I hurried. The Pathan closed in With the armed man only two hops behind, I arrived panting at the mess room door, simultaneously with an American officer from another direction.

The American seemed angry.

“Oh, watchman,” he called, “D’you know where I can get a mosquito bomb?"

The Pathan halted in mid-career.

“Watchman?” ... I began to under stand.

I had heard, only that evening, that thieves had robbed the fruit machines in the messroom, and the watchman had been towelled up and told to apprehend all prowlers. They evidently employed armed Indians as watchmen. Clearly, in the mind of my Pathan. I had been caught in flagrante delicto, pinching bedclothes.

The American was urgent, but the Pa than’s English was unequal to the oc casion. He said “Uh?”—but he never took his shining black eye off me.

“Oh. you know?” cried the exasperated American. “Skeeters. Like this.” He made a loud buzzing noise, circled his hand in front of his face, and danced a little.

The Pathan uttered a loud howl of laughter, and clearly asked for a repeat performance.

The American, evidently deciding that the Indian language was of no avail on Fiji’s coral strand, went away cursing.

I WENT in through the screened door, and headed for the empty couch. The Indian outside gave a loud cry.

He had sought the help of his Jema dar, or whatever it may be. When next I looked out, I saw on the other side of the screen two Pathans, two turbans, two sets of whiskers and two long, curved swords!

I must have been a mystery to them.

At intervals, through that hot and rest less I heard a p/entle footstep outside, and there, peering doubtfully in at me, was my patient Pathan.

The fact that, carrying my suspicious bundle. I had headed for the messroom. and official headquarters, probably saved me from being skewered. Those Pathans clearly were out for blood.

I told my mosquito story to Frank Exon.

“Reminds me of the days when the Yanks ran Nadi,” he said. “They de clared that on more than one occasion a ricefields mosquito landed on the strip, and they put twenty gallons into it before they recognised it.”

M. Jacob, formerly harbour master at Papeete, Tahiti, having been appointed harbour master at Noumea, arrived in New Caledonia by the “Sagittaire.” re cently only to find that his appointment had been cancelled while he was at sea, due to some previous Departmenal mis understanding.

Mr. C. W. T. Johnson, British Agent and Consul in Tonga, is at present spend ing three months holiday in New Zealand.

Mr. and Mrs. C. A. Leembruggen of Fiji who spent a long holiday in Aus tralia and Ceylon, returned to the Colony on February i.

Miss Patience Rowe, of St. George’s Hostel (Anglican) Labasa, Fiji, was on leave in Sydney in February.

Roadside Avenue of Rain-trees, Nadi District.