Pidgin As She Is Wrote

By Fpa

LETTERS from natives always intrigue me, and, being an Old Hand, I get them from some who have known me a long time and are always quite anxious to shew off their knowledge.

This morning a boy from across the lagoon stepped ashore from a canoe and handed me a letter in a YMCA envelope relic of war-time—and said: “Me bring ’im you one pass from Koro.”

Thanking him politely, and begging to be excused whilst I read it, I opened the epistle! It was about an arrangement we had made to take a tour round the Bougainville mountains and seek a few toilers for the vineyard, and/or planta tion. Koro, it appeared, was ready to go but, unfortunately, his aged mother was ailing, and like to die, and he felt in duty bound to attend at the bedside: so he ad dressed me thus: “Poka River, Feb. 15th, 1950.

“Dear Sir, Mr. Archer, Please, one fella something ’e makim me tqo sorry. Bekos Mother belong me like dead. Now me think too much long him. True, you-me two fella like walk about along all the mountains, but me think about Mother— bekos ’e like no good now. Me think, Sir, more better you wait along me first time.

I tell you, me trouble along this Mother, but suppose ’im ’e strong lik lik, orright, me can send talk along you. Then you me can walk about along Kunua. But, I tell you, I think Mother not can stop—bekos very old. Me cross about this trouble (he spelt it “trabol”) too, bekos it fas’ ’im walk about belong me.

“In my opinion, I have no more to say.

“Coppy write by ANDREW KORO.”

ANOTHER recent epistle was from Namus, who is Native Medical Orderly, at a native hospital, at the adjoining island. I sometimes send him as that pleases him. does the patients no particular harm, and it gives him a chance to write me a letter in reference to his diagnosis, with remarks on proper treatment.

Namus was. pre-war, one of the village bad boys and he went to sea, as a pin nace-boy on one of the inter-island boats.

Post-war, he was still one of the lads that mothers of growing daughters didn’t like to see coming around!

Being a bit unpopular in the village he decided, as so many bad boys do, to take up the study of medicine! So, away he went to the Malahang Medical School, near Lae, where he studied diligently.

Anyway, he passed his exams and was installed at his native island with a hospital building, a lot of drugs, a good Government salary and an assured social position in the community. From thence,

he has come to judge the quick and the dead—his detractors aver that you have to be the former if you wish to escape being the latter. But I, personally, think that’s a bit unfair!

It is pretty to see him at work in his “surgery.” With an old stethoscope dangling from his ears, and a 12 inch “cigar” of vile-smelling trade tobacco, wrapped in newspaper, hanging from his mouth, he inspects his clientele, diaws a few long whiffs of tobacco and lays it down carefully. He signals to the first patient, adjusts the stethoscope and jabs it onto the victim, then listens intently.

God knows what he hears; but it seems to cause him anxiety as he twists his lips, shakes his head, and then reaches for the cigar. After a few whiffs he an nounces the verdict. It is frequently “Po monia” or “Better me cut ’im this sore.”

The many decisions to “cut ’im” sug gests a leaning more towards surgery than to ordinary physics. Sometimes the patients argue about the decision; but he quickly and firmly over-rules them, pointing out that “it simply isn’t done.”

I had sent him a native with a bad cold: as the man wasn’t likely to work I thought a day or so off the plantation, plus treatment from Namus, would be a break! Soon after I got a note from Namus on the matter. He wrote: “Dear Masta FPA, “Me talk along you now. This fela man you been send ’im ’e come long me, has has a the Pomonia. Now, I tell you he must catch ’im marasin (medicine) three times along one sun—morning, apper noon, now along bello too. Him some thing me talk along you. Now, ’im too he no can work strong—’e can burum (broom) along all house but no can make ’im bik (big) work. Me no got any more talk now—’e finish. Thank you.

“God bless you—and ’im too.

“It is my name of, NAMUS.”

My native employee turned up next day, large of life, and completely free of “pomonia.” He said he wanted to go to work. Asked why he came back so quickly he said he wasn’t going to stay longer at Namus’ hospital and be filled with dope. He said that he had once had a dispute with Namus and was afraid that, because of it, his treatment might be prolonged and severe! He didn’t, in fact, like the way the medico looked at him and the way he shook his head when “listening in” on the stetho scope. Even work was preferable.