Steamer Day—Then

And Now

(Contributed) 117 HAT happy memories Territorial Tf in the outposts have of the pre war highlight of the month — steamer day!

Householders, running low in stores, had visions of filled larders and the means to make un a delectable meal once again; the luxury of a fresh cheese or a few English potatoes or onions. Prob ably, beer supplies had run out, and there was nothing wherewith to build the mysteriously interesting cocktail.

The whole community met the small cargo vessel. Women in bright cotton frocks made a pretty picture as they gaily chatted, or walked on the grassy slopes or on the wharf over the sparkling, green sea. Men, cool and clean in “whites,” organised the squads of natives.

Houseboys waited as eagerly as their Sinabadas, to carry home the “specials,”

Then there was always the thrill of who may be aboard—the Governor, or the Judge, or even that rare event, a new resident. Now the teleradio in the farthest places tells us all that before hand. Very handy, but the old thrill is lost.

Unloading was very orderly. The ob liging supercargo had already loaded our cargo in senarate lots at Moresby, so that Jones’ stuff came off all together, the Browns’ next, and so on—all being set down carfully (please note that word) on the wharf.

Jones’ boys, with their Taubada, ouickly checked and cleared their stuff.

Brown followed, and then the others, in like order.

Next—usually last by reason of bulk and quantity—Government stores came ashore. . Cool-tempered Government

officers rapidly checked and in no time, the wharf was empty and all clear, everybody happy. Then, all aboard the steamer for a yarn and a cool drink.

Conversation inevitably centred on copra and rubber prices, on who is where, and on all the gossip from South.

The ladies, after a chat, returned home to supervise lunch, dinner or a cocktail party, worthy of the popular Skipper and Supercargo, They must often have been troubled as to whose invitation to accept, for there was always friendly rivalry. Residents were all anxious to entertain the cheery Captain Anderson, with his twinkling eyes and good stories.

It was said of him that he knew the coast so well that he took his bearings while wearing smoked glasses.

In our town, everybody took an even ing stroll and met again for drinks and more talk. One big happy family they had their “get-together” on Steamer Day. How we looked forward to it, too.

BOAT day in this same port to-day would just about break the heart of the “old hands.” The cheerful, orderly routine is no more. Gone are the laughing, willing, eager natives; gone the chit-chat across the plank and wharf; gone the even-tempered white population. And no wonder!

Natives sullenly lounge round, on any convenient post or case. Jones’ fellows mix with Brown’s, and finish their cigar ette before deigning to start work (if they ever do work!). Our friend Mr.

Ward would enjoy our Boat day, if he could watch the boys (pardon, the natives!) slowly and sullenly carry on his union-to-be. no-hurry system.

We miss their old cheery shouts and fun as they work. Everyone is on edge, nuzzling how to avoid a broken neck, and how to keep one eye on the goods and the other on the expert native thieves; and how in the world to collect your

own stuff from the great disorderly heap of cargo, thrown like so much rubbish on the wharf.

A further problem, often, is to sort out who owns what in the cases that are burst open in derrick transit.

The Europeans no longer wear smart “whites,” for now they work on the cargo as white navvies, and khaki, if not so smart, does not show quite so much dirt.

Over comes the derrick with its huge

net full of cargo, and then down —not so gently. There is no order now in the sending off of goods, it is a jumbled

mixture. The load is disgorged, the net goes, and then there is a mad, wild rush of natives and whites to snatch and sort

out their individual parcels.

Mr. Brown yells: “There’s one of ours.

Catch this of yours, jonesy! Come on, you so-and-so coons, lend a hand! That’s ours—grab it!”—and so on, until in the general Bedlam everybody is shouting at everyone else. With everybody “all in,” backs and heads down in the cargo heap, it’s a first-class footer scrum. Usually, halfway through, yells tell us that the sling is coming over again. So, if you have not collected your stuff, it is bad luck. Clear out, or you will be under the new load of falling cargo!

Again the rush into the scrum—and at long last you collect and check, your goods—to find that the dear Fuzzy- Wuzzey Angels have pinched one or two of your cases. Who could stop them?

No one has a moment to keep an eye on anything but one’s own gear.

As for later social entertainment—well, no one is capable, after the day of grab and snatch, or lose.

THIS is all bad enough for the Port dweller. But it is far worse for the outside man, away from Port, with often no boat, no labour, heavy seas in bad weather, no shipping or regular mail facilities. He has to* depend on perhaps one available agent—a much harassed man. Heaven alone knows how he sur vives the day, trying to get his own stuff out, as well as for all who live outside.

Of course, he may be unavoidably ab sent when the ship arrives, and then— well I leave it to you to imagine how much cargo may be lost, or stolen.

Insurance is rather a myth. A stock insurance answer is: “Your goods were delivered on the wharf safely and that is where the ship’s responsibility ends.”

Heaven help us when the much-talked of native labour union starts up, and sleepy natives decide on a sit-down strike in the middle of the scrum! All we can hope is that the derrick man will not strike, too, but will let down the load (none too gently) on their silly, wooden, woolly heads.

Do you wonder that this is dedicated to the departed glory of Steamer Day?

It is surely no credit to the powers that-be that the more intelligent natives now ask for the “good Judge Murray fashion” again.