The Malolo Lagoon

A Story in Rhyme by Tolala

WHILE cruising through the lazy Southern Seas, I lay becalmed one day; the Nor’-west breeze dropped suddenly, and so I made my way towards a little land-locked island bay, and there I anchored; made all snug and tight, and paid out cable to remain the night.

Of all the places that I’ve ever seen it was most beautiful; and in between the palm-tree trunks a native house stood there: A rambling, roomy, low, well-built affair. Surrounding it a small plantation grew, while on one side —splashing and tumbling through the tangled jungle rushed a mountain stream. ’Twas like a picture in a pleasant dream: the calm, blue waters of the land-locked bay; the golden, sandy beach which shelved away into the water blue, while tall palm trees stood sentinel, to temper every breeze along high-water mark.

I went ashore, and met the owner near his copra-store; a man of fifty-odd, sun tanned, alert; attired in spotless trousers and a shirt. He greeted me in friendly island style; I liked his cleanliness, his open smile. He showed me through his store of native trade, and pointed out his workshop, where he made his “odds and ends” or so he lightly said; and then, as self-appointed guide, he led to wards the house, ’tween beds of blooming flowers.

“ Tis here,” he said, “I spend my hap piest hours.”

And I could see the tender love and care he lavished on his garden every where: A mass of colour and, more rare, perfume. For sad it is that many a tropic bloom is pleasing to the eye, yet lacks the scent of the more temperate climes.

An argument, no doubt, to prove that great Compensation which Dame Nature gives to every nation.

Then we sat upon his cool verandah, an icy drink beside me, a cigar of his own manufacture in my hand; and then, as the shadows closed down on the land, to my surprise there came electric light throughout the house —a most uncommon sight to see in this place—almost off the map.

“It’s nice,” said he, “to always have on tap an adequate supply of light and power for any purpose and at any hour.”

“Surely a costly luxury,” I said. He only smiled, and then he shook his head: “Nature provides my luxuries,” said he.

“You’d be surprised how cheap living can be.”

I smiled at what, no doubt, he thought was cheap, and thought I surely would not like to keep such an establishment as his appeared, on narrow profits which each year I cleared from selling trade goods in a native store. I gazed upon the highly polished floor, with heavy woven mats placed here and there, and every shape and size of rattan chair.

He watched me as I gazed, then with a wave about the room remarked: “See what I save in having my own furniture made here; an outfit such as this would be quite dear; the jungle here is full of good hardwood, and rattan vines and reeds —all very good for making furniture and all cane-ware. Some Island men will have their home quite bare be cause they cannot buy things from a store, or else have packing cases by the score serving as tables, chairs and book

cases. My idea when living in such places—away from towns and men of your own kind —is all for comfort, for it rests the mind; and when one can have these without much cost it would be very foolish if one lost one’s mental rest in order to escape a little work to plane, to saw and shape the virgin hardwood to the finished ware. A case may serve, but I prefer a chair.”

While he was speaking I gazed round the room, and saw some products of the native loom, in table cloths and native tapestry; and, too, I saw, the products of the sea: The light-shades made from highly polished shells, their opal colour ings like fairy bells; ash-trays and vases —not cheap souvenirs that lose their lustre with the passing years. I realised then how true his words had been as, gazing on that cosy, home-like scene, I noticed chairs and tables, mats and such were all home-made, but with the finished touch of one who was an expert at his trade.

THERE are but few things which are not home-made,” said he, “the radio, ice-chest and stove, and electric fittings, which go to prove Dame Nature is an able provider. But come!

Let’s dine and you will see some more of what Dame Nature gives to those who wish. We’ll have fresh oysters in the shell, and fish with curried pigeon and a chicken pie; of local vegetables a good supply. We’ll finish with fruit salad and ice-cream, and have our coffee here where we can dream while dinner music, played in London Town and coming o’er the air, will help to drown the singing of the local insect choir. But come!

Let’s cease our talking and retire and put the local catering to the test. My cook, you know, claims to be the best there is throughout this island neighbour hood.”

So we dined from off the polished wood. Fine woven mats with glistening silverware, two well-trained house-boys handed round the fare, which proved to be as good as he had said. All food was local-grown, save the bread; and he ex plained to me about his light and power, his water-wheel, his coffee, cocoa and his sugar-cane: his rice and his attempts at tea—in vain—the vegetables and fruits of every kind; the shops and mills to turn, to husk and grind, his poultry and his goats and pigs and bees, his coconut, rubber and kapok trees, the fishing traps, the pigeon islands where the birds are caught by palm-leaf flare.

I was surprised and he, silently amused. He was not boastful, but was most enthused he said in making Nature “toe the line”. And then later, over the nuts and wine, (which, incidentally, were home-products, too the latter good, and made from rice brew) he solved for me the secret of the loom. Waving his hand about the dining-room, he said: “You see these native mats and tapes tries? You will note that all designs and studies are fashioned from the old Malayan art, and that is where my good cook plays her part.” He added with a smile: “She’s a Malay. She’s been with me for years; she ran away from some old drunken whiteman up the coast; she’s educated: knows far more than most of these Malayan women in the ports; she’s taught me many things, and

works all sorts of basket-ware and mat ting-odds and ends upon which so often a room depends for just that little finished touch, you know. When I have visitors she’s not on show, for reasons that you’ll likely understand, despite the super freedom of this land.” We laughed and rose, he waved me to a chair.

“And now,” said he, “we’ll see what’s on the air,”

He worked the dial of his wireless set; while I sat back and lit a cigarette— one of my host’s selected local blend, and soon realised how foolish ’twas to spend large sums each year on Lady Nicotine.

Relaxing, I studied the peaceful scene: The “boy”, with tray of coffee and liqueur; my host who’d just picked up an overture from Rome or Sydney, listening with intent; the brightly-lighted rooms, each ornament of pearly lustre, glisten ing with light; the polished floor, the woven mats—a sight to gladden any housewife’s heart; outside, the insect choir sang counter-part to the grand overture, played o’er the air. Truly my host had built a place most rare, and lived a peaceful life of Great Content. I saw the force of his pet argument of training Nature to supply all needs, but Man himself must concentrate the seeds and plant them near at hand for harvest time; that could be done in this New Guinea clime, but not so easy in a temp’rate zone; so Tropics had advantages their own.

AND then beloved Big Ben struck out his hour from dear old London’s parliamentary tower. And I heard: “This is London calling you . . .”

And sat up in my chair to hear what new events had happened in this world of ours: “A millionaire insolvent . . . Three Great Powers were meeting to discuss World Peace . . . Five thousand workers strike, productions cease in allied in dustries . . . Rioting in France ... A talkie actress murdered at a dance . . .

Ten thousand homeless through a big cyclone ... A Balkan monarch abdicates his throne . . .”

My host arose and turned the volume down: “I’m glad,” he said, “I’m not in London Town; ours is a weary world, I am afraid.

I’m very glad my old age paths are laid along the shores of Malolo Lagoon; no doubt,” he said, “the wireless is a boon.

But there are times when news makes one feel sad, and makes one realise, too, how very bad this world of ours has grown these latter years. It could be called, I think, a 'Vale of Tears’. But then who knows?” he added with a smile. “Malolo in Samoa is ‘Rest a while’, a most ap propriate name it seems to me for this, my stepping-stone t’wards the To-Be.”

I told him he was young yet, as years went, and that his life here was not nearly spent: he was, as I could see, a busy man with much to do before his earthly span had run its course. He laughed at what I said: “Perhaps you’re right; I really have no dread of that time when I shall be called away, and yet I would prefer a while to stay in order that I may com plete some task I have on hand. It is not much to ask.”

Then he fell silent, and the insect choir outside sang loudly; a pin-point of fire upon the distant reef danced to and

(Continued on Page 67)

(Continued from page 54)

fro. I rose; looked at his books there, row on row: Some travel and many biographies, and many works on different “ologies”; my host was of a scientific mind it seemed, and in one row—all neatly lined—a dozen learned books from the same pen. I knew the name from scientific men at Home, who quoted him on native lore of Melanesia. Across the floor my host advanced and said: “Have you read him?” His tone was quiet, though just a little grim it seemed. It was, I said a name I’d heard; he was accepted as the latest word in matters Melanesian, I thought, and as I spoke to him it seemed I caught a twinkle in his eye.

“Oh, by-the-bye,” he said with certain laughter in his eye, “You did tell me your name now, didn’t you?”

I told him with a laugh. ‘And, sir, your name?”

He. pointed to the dozen books. “The same!”

I gasped and registered sincere surprise, then laughed as friendliness crept in his eyes.

"I’m very glad your friends support my views, and do accept the theories which I choose to put together in my simple style; they’re observations over a long while.”

And then he showed me works in more detail; some fiction and some poems— for private sale; his specimens of insects and of plants; of native curios and lores and chants. He saw my interest and waxed verbose, confiding theories which lay very close for want of understanding comradeship: His ardent hopes to make a mountain trip to ascertain the language

spoken there, and also seek an orchid very rare. And thep; “I must go Home again next year. There is a conference, and I must hear what Smith has got to say on native lore. We never have agreed on that before.”

He then explained bis theory, word by word, but I could grasp but half of what I heard. But, sitting there, I envied this savant, who lived the life he loved, with out a\ want, goes half-around the world to please a whim because another dis agrees with him.

All this I told him later on that night.

“I’m glad,” said he, ‘‘you see my theory’s right. But why be envious when there’s no need? What should prevent your own good self, indeed, from doing just exactly what I’ve done? Where’er you go you have the earth and sun. All

you require Is system and the will to make Dame Nature faithfully fulfil her sacred duties to the Master Man. She will not fail; and if you will, you can.”