Magazine Section

Last Christmas In My Garden Of Sinners

BY the thirties, Salamaua was over the worst of its growing pains. No longer was it a haphazard collection of native huts where restless miners lived only long enough to gather stores before departing once more to the interior. It had become a township of neat bungalows along the foreshore; a place where ladies met over silver tea-pots to hold tea parties.

But one or two legacies from more primitive days remained. One was the stack of empty bottles—beer, whisky, champagne, wine—almost mountain-high, which had accumulated at the hotel; an other was the wide stretch of swamp near the inner harbour where lurked large and lively mosquitoes.

To these two problems was added one of my own: that of providing light sentences for erring native servants with out the time-wasting business of having them taken to the calaboose where they lazed their days away.

Then I was taken by a brainstorm! Why not kill three birds with one stone, as it were? Why not fill in the swamp with the Dead Marines, at the same time mak ing it a punishment task? Why not, in deed! And that is how my garden of sinners began, THEN and there I decided that any future petty lapses into thievery or roguery by my native staff would be dealt with by me personally, acting as prosecutor, judge and jury, and the sentence would be worked out on my land scape gardening scheme.

From a staff of 40 natives we could always be sure of a few who had kicked over the traces in one way or another, and, instead of calling in the Government to deal with the culprits, I hustled the minor criminals off to carry loads of beer, champagne and other empty bottles to the waterfront, where they had to be placed neatly. That my plan worked well will be shown by the fact that within the next few years a large patch of quite level land emerged from the swamp, in many places the bottles being nine feet deep.

I shall always remember with gratitude the late Cecil Levien, well-known local pioneer, who became so interested in my swamp-filling that he ordered his lorry, then the only vehicle on the beach, to bring me back a load of river soil each time a load of cargo was taken up to the newly-made drome at Logui.

The fine old toiler himself spent many a spare half-hour driving to and from the river flats a mile away, bring ing me soil from there. Nature,' too, as sisted the work, by the heavy daily rains which soon levelled the soil between the bottles.

A huge cement retaining wall, running two hundred feet along the waterfront, was then constructed to finish off my bottle effort, and for some time this proved a bone of contention between the local agent of New Guinea Goldfields Ltd.

“Territories Talk-Talk” this month appears on page 15.

and ourselves. However, this matter was eventually settled amicably. Indeed, a mutual arrangement resulted in the com pany putting up a fine wharf from the retaining wall in question, and we finally had a large area of attractive waterfront garden, dotted with several rustic tea houses. These were round in shape,

By Alice Allen Innes

latticed and had cement floors and creepers rapidly grew up around them into a glowing blaze of colour: yellow alamanda, pink and white antignon, mauve Dutchman’s pipe, and masses of vivid bush orchids. Many Salamaua brides carried bouquets made from garden flowers thereabouts.

How such a profusion of plants and shrubs grew on that swamp as the years went by, was a continual mystery to me.

Even great citrus trees bloomed profusely later; though so little soil and such deep stacks of bottles seemed poor nourishment for such large trees.

Don’t be imagining that this charming effect was achieved without the usual set backs to which I had become inured since setting up housekeeping and whatnot in Salamaua. Far from it.

One such occasion was when Bishop

Baddeley very kindly offered me a trip, in the mission schooner “Southern Cross,” down to Morobe and Buna Bay. The trio was a never-to-be-forgotten joy but, alas, a never-to-be-forgotten sight greeted my eyes on my return.

During my absence, Anah and her native cronies had decided to have a pleasant surprise awaiting my return. A large shipment of seeds, shrubs and other plants, had arrived from Yates, in Syd ney, but had not been released from Customs at the time I left. Anah had col lected them, and gathering all the local youths who could not dodge that energetic lady’s demands, she soon had an army of labourers planting frantically in accordance with her idea of the perfect garden design.

Imagine my horror on returning home to find what looked like a series of new graves covering the whole area: The per golas alone stood as I had left them. J found that the graves were garden beds, about seven by four feet, built up in high mounds and spaced evenly a few feet apart. On each grave drooped the preci ous trees and shrubs, sadly wilted. They had been grouped together according to their height when unpacked, irrespective of the species to which they belonged: roses and mango-trees rubbed shoulders on one mound, tree tomato and manda villia hobnobbed together, banana passion fruit sat with the salvia, whilst a custard apple tree wearily drooned against a tired marigold plant. Well might the beds have reminded me of graves, for Anah’s effort was certainly the cemetery of all those high hopes with which I had awaited the arrival of my southern plant consign ment. I had left a nicely levelled area

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spaced with pot-holes of good soil ready to receive the precious trees and plants without the loss of time, but well-mean ing Anah had upset all my carefully laid plans.

Fortunately, a few of the plants clung stubbornly to life, and we received another shipment later which among other things, included roses; and ultimately the flowers and the fruit sat in their appointed places, where the majority flourished.

In later years I found that all the woody trees and shrubs died, or white-ants at tacked each one as soon as it was about six feet high. Limes, mangoes, rosellas and a few other fruits did well, and the gay and hardy annuals crowded along sociably in and out of season, at all times lending a cheerful note to the “garden bottle,” as the natives called it.

AMUSING arguments often went on be tween the staff as to which had helped most with the garden. Gimah could then strut boastfully along, point ing to his patches and, perhaps evolving some new “crime.”

Many of these were unprintable.

As ali the work in the garden had been done by native servants in lieu of a term in jail for minor offences, each boy called the spot he had filled with bottles by the name of his offence at the time, with the result that the “garden-bottle” became a kind of crime record, details of which are better omitted here. The following incident will give a modified idea of the method of naming a particular patch.

Little Bobdubi, copying Gimah’s marked swagger, appeared with a splendid plume of scarlet celosia in his hair and the light of a conqueror in his big, brown eyes.

“Missus, me got new fella flower ’long

garden belong me,” he said, parading for my inspection.

I duly admired the unusual and lovely head-dress. “What part of the garden did you pick it?” I asked.

“Garden belong bloody fool before,” he said proudly.

I was taken aback for a moment; then I remembered that Bobdubi had been sent to fill in the spot where the celosia now grew, because he had called the boss boy “Bloody fool.”

There was the zinnia bed —always re ferred to as “pul-pul belong kick-cross” (flowers of football fight) and hinted of punishment when the hotel boys’ football team got out of hand and punished their opponents more than the game warranted.

The unsporting team dug and weeded for so many afternoons that zinnias flourished in that particular bed for years.

So the zinnia bed reminded the boys ever after that football must be played without a “kick-cross” developing.

The borders could have been termed thieves edges, as they were tended and weeded by any boy caught stealing, and few missed out on being caught occasionally.

Once I was surprised to see a conscience stricken culprit tugging weeds and clip ping the blue Angeloma into trim tidiness.

“Now, what name trouble.” I asked.

“Me man belong humbug,” he replied. (What male isn’t, I thought.) Aloud I asked for further particulars.

“Me steal ’em sardine belong store. Me savee one boy belong house cook ’er look ’em me. Me like walkabout long Satur day, now me work ’em garden belong trouble to-day.”

He had known the other boy would re port him so he “made court” with himself and worked his self-given sentence out on Friday afternoon in case I punished him on Saturday when he wanted to go to a Sing-Sing.

So, out of a stack of bottles that

threatened to overwhelm us, a swampy patch that was an eyesore and a menace, and the expiation of a bunch of native offences, blossomed the bottle garden.

What a shattering there must have been when the first bombs hit that “Garden of Sinners.” ♦ ♦ ♦ THE garden needed more humus and manure as the sandy isthmus had only a streak of rotted calophylium bark in it —not enough to make zinnias

distend themselves to the size of saucers, as the catalogue showed so temptingly.

Hopefully I made inquiries about mules; then I suggested cattle expectantly. How ever, planes eventuated—PLANES! I ask you. Have those tinned beasts of aerial burden ever given humus back to the good earth from their great panting engines?

They did —when some good soul taught me that artificial fertilisers could compensate for the lack of homely animals. That garden bloomed.

Sometime afterwards a large quantity of specially designed crockery with name and address branded upon each piece, was ordered from England. The pottery people evidently failed to cope with such an outlandish name and as we unpacked the crockery even the natives joined in the hilarious shouts of laughter. Himself rudely murmured something about “even the china manufacturers heard of your sandy garden’s urgent need” for there, printed clearly on each of the many articles of dinner and tea ware, was— Allen Innes. . , Salamanua.

“Manua” at last came to Salamaua on cups and plates! * * * MY husband’s office handled various 'guarantees, such as Landing Bonds, Native Labour Guarantees, and Un controlled Area Permits. Most newcomers appreciated these protective measures and conformed willingly, even if they were people of sound interests.

However, one old prospector decided that it hurt his pride and he would fight it out with the Administration. He wanted to go to W T au to prospect but the Admin istration would not allow him to leave the Beach until the necessary permit was taken out. Neither side would give way, so he built himself a kunai hut on the narrowest strip of the Isthmus and sat down.

One day I took him some magazines and had a chat; he seemed a very in teresting and well-read man so I followed up by sending him other books. He was rarely seen by any one locally but after two years of waiting the Administration proclaimed the desired district as a “con trolled” area and he was at last free to venture forth unrestricted.

The garden, from the time of my Mambare trip, had grown rapidly into a jungle of plants and shrubs, but since Anah had lost all the labels and literature

in connection with the imported plants I could not identify them. Not knowing my plants by name, my garden pride was hurt. This was mentioned to the Hermit in casual conversation.

One bright moonlight night, hearing the dogs barking a great deal, I looked from the balcony to see the old man go ing slowly from shrub to plant; he would pause, kneel down, rise and then go on; it was like some strange ritual being re

peated.

When I went to the garden in the morning, to my surprise, each of the scores of plants, trees and shrubs had a neat label fastened securely to its stem.

Printed in copperplate hand was the botanical and common name clearly in scribed.

The Hermit had vanished. Thin wisps of blue smoke showed where his hut was still smouldering away in the distance. He had burnt down his little grass home and gone at last to- prospect inland.

It was found out later that the old gentleman was a famous botanist and re nowned traveller.

ONE Christmas morning dawned to find Binatang, Bobdubi and Anah gather ing flowers for the table. Sounds of their voices came to me as they darted in and out amongst the hibiscus and gardenia hedges, filling lovely' Buka baskets.

They were singing a Christmas carol— Sing belong Mission —and harmonising very sweetly. It remains with me as a picture of my last New Guinea Christmas; “Ol wachman blong Betlem ol wach long bignait, Ol lukim wan anglo, em anglo i lait.

Em tok long ol wachman, “Kirap kwik, kirap, Long krib blong haus shipship Mesias i stap!” . . . Nau yumi olgeder adorim Em tu, Em Yesus, Ridimer, i God end Man tru.” * * * (All Watchmen belong Bethlehem, all watch through the night, All look for one angel, but the angel is late.

They speak to all the watchmen, “Get up quick, get up To go to the manger in the house-sheep where the Messiah is.” . . . Now you and me adore Him, too, He is Jesus, Redeemer, He’s God and Man true.)