Rabaul Revisited

Jottings by S.A.G., who, being a dweller in Outports, regards the Metropolis with a jaundiced eye.

His opinions are his own—and not necessarily those of PIM.

LET’S go down the street and have a look round Rabaul.

Opposite the New Guinea Company a big car stops and out of it steps B. B.

Perriman and makes for the office! Our Bert is stouter than of yore but still the same smiling, dapper personality, who is always approachable. He has had a wide experience in the Pacific, including Fiji and Vancouver, and now has a man-sized job as managing director of the company.

People say he is the “Mayor of Rabaul!”

With Bert is Ken McMullen, bare headed and going grey, dressed in khaki and holding an inseparable companion— his pipe. He holds onto this when smok ing, and often answers a question by say ing: “Well, I couldn’t say—it might be and again it mightn’t be. Your guess is as good as mine.” Formerly a District Officer, and then a Colonel during the recent disturbance, Ken is now a director in the New Guinea Company and attends to the plantation side of things.

A car draws into the roadside near BP’s store, but before it stops a head is thrust through the window and a voice calls: “How are you, Mate? When did you get in? Gripes, you look fit, eh! I’m going to Africa by the Dominion Monarch in March—how about coming, too?” It’s that old-timer, Gilbert Renton, known as “Sparrow” because of his small size and alert manner and movements.

Gilbert has done much for the town— and the town has done much for him.

Now he has decided to take things more easily and is soon going off on one of his round-the-world trips. “May as well, Mate, see what I mean? No use sticking here all the time, eh?” He disappears into the store and his laugh is heard as he finds another “Mate” inside.

A jeep stops abruptly and out bustles a man of medium height, and sturdy build, with a fist) full of papers and talk ing as he comes; “Good day, young feller! How are you? Look, I’m as busy as Hell—can’t stop now! Where are you staying? Eh? Well, must get along—see you later” and he shoots into BP’s office.

This is A, H. Cresswell, who for the last 20 years or so hasn’t had a minute to spare. “Cressy” has plantations in the Bainings. As a youngster he was a machine-gunner at the storming of Mont St. Quenein, and he treats most of his problems as Mount St. Quentins and takes everything on the run! He has been many things including plantation manager and owner, gold miner at Edie Creek Across the street steps a tall, loose limbed Aussie, wearing a broad smile and calling a cheery “Good Morning.” Here we have that broth of a bhoy, Jack Keenan, now the Assistant District Officer, and a tower of strength in base ball and football teams and deservedly popular. He was one of the famous band of “Coastwatchers” during the Pacific war and collected a British DSC and a US Legion of Merit for work in the Solomons.

And here in “the best jeep in Rabaul” comes John Stokie of Notre Mai, cigar in mouth, one eye half-closed, exuding good humour and bustling energy. The car jerks to a stop and John descends and rolls towards us, smoke trailing over one shoulder, and hand extended: “Now, look” says he, “I want to see you on a matter of business; it’s about a plantation I was

thinking of leasing, now I well, hop into the jeep and we’ll go down to the Club and have a yarn.” So away we go.

John has more energy than any two ordinary men. He was fourteen months in New Britain after the Japs occupied it, and finally got away, then returned with AIB and was there for the kill.

DOWN from the cabin of a utility truck steps Frank Henderson from Keravat Experimental Station, where, as Economist-Botanist for the Ad ministration he has his headquarters.

Frank has spent many years at Keravat —and knows much of tropical agriculture.

Tall, quiet and slow-spoken, the local planters have come to appreciate his ad vice and assistance concerning planting matters.

With Frank is Ranald Maclean, a post war arrival in New Britain, who is now manager of Keravat and is vigorously carrying out the rehabilitation of the station. Brought up among coffee in Java, he came here to manage Vunalama Coffee Estate, which his late father, Major G. D. Maclean, had managed before the Japs came. After a term he joined up with the Administration, being keenly in terested in experimental work. Ranald is a keen cricketer and, generally, a man of energy and enthusiasm.

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Go into BP’s office and one sees Dug Ewing, delving among books and accounts and loving every minute of it. Ask Dug a question and he will draw himself up, fold his arms, and say very deliberately: “Well, now, that all depends, of course!

Now, take the case in point ”

Dug is now an Inspector for the Firm, and has a name for sound judgment and firm friendships. Always interested in navy matters, he rose to rank of Lieut.- Commander during the war and was latterly on destroyers, which is the place for fighting men.

And here comes our old friend Bobby Crookshank, a mariner of England, well known throughout the island groups in the Pacific. His very blue eyes gaze keenly from under bushy eyebrows, his head is bare and his white hair is crisp and curly. Bobby holds his pipe by the bowl, draws on it and smiles, saying: “Well, Senor, we meet again! Hm; It’s rather nice to come across old friends in this wicked city! Hm, hm! Do you think that we might, perhaps, repair hence and quaff a flowing bowl?”

So we repair to the village inn and quaff one—or maybe, two! We remember Bobby in command of various Islands ships, always smoking, always humorous and always addressing people as “Senor.”

One recollects, too, Bobby sitting on an island beach, oiling a .38 revolver about an hour before he left to pilot six American PT boats into Rabaul Harbour —this in March, 1944, when Rabaul was definitely a hot shop. Bobby gave the revolver a final rub, spun the cylinder, and bolstered the gun with the remark “It should be an interesting trip, Senor!”

The Americans loved his dry humour, his intestinal fortitude, the fact that he had been a Commander in the Royal Navy, and his record as an amateur boxer.

MORE buildings are noticed around the town of Rabaul, and others are in process of building. Scarcity of mat

erial and tradesmen has hampered rehabili tation, but it seems to be gaining momen tum at last Residents smile, unbelieving, when mention is made of the proposed move to Kokopo as they consider that merchants will not easily forego the facili ties of this deep-water port.

Another hotel is in process of erection on the site of the picture theatre of pre war days. It Is not anticipated that the place will be open until end of May. It is a badly-needed addition to the town. It is being built with local money and, so rumour says, will be floated into a com pany ere long.

The town has two taxi services, though at times they are referred to in other terms. Many of the cars are, or should be, museum pieces; and many of the native drivers are poor, but their calcu lation of the fare is keen. As there are no cards in the car to indicate the fares one wonders what visitors are charged by these native bushrangers.

It is a test of endurance to take a trip in one of the older cars with a boy who is learning to drive. One is jerked back ward by a fiercely let in clutch, propelled forward by a suddenly applied brake, whizzed round corners, missing another car or lorry by inches, and, at the end a grinning native demands what seems to be an extortionate fare which there is no means of checking.

The picture show does a thriving trade and shows pictures three nights a week.

It should be paying good dividends if one judges by the crowds that attend.

The theatre is a Qounset hut, which, on the hot Rabaul nights, causes patrons to sweat and squirm. Apart from any thing else it is hot work to follow cowboy heroes across desert and dusty plain at breakneck speed, while the dust behind a “trail herd” is choking.

The shrieks of joy which come from the coloured youths and maidens when the bad men are rounded up and shot down

are worth hearing. At the interval, and at end of the show, a rush is made to the ice cream and soft-drink department.

WHEN proceeding to Rabaul travellers are alwavs in doubt as to whether or not accommodation at the hotel will be available. On days when the steamer or plane is nearly due, the house is crowded with intending passengers and people visiting the metropolis.

The hopeful guest approaches the office and accosts a stern receptionist, who,

after an appraising glance, consults the book of words to see what vacancies there may be.

Often he is relegated to an annexe which is built of galvanised iron and is known as the “Copra Drier,” and he does not refer to his bed, but to his “tray.”

This building, they say, is guaranteed to completely dehydrate even a corpulent commercial traveller in one week.

But there are compensations, too, as one can go about draped in a towel, swear, tell funny stories in an ordinary

voice instead of a hushed whisper, and there are no babies or spoiled children to make the nights hideous.

The only reading matter provided for hotel guests by the management is a notice board bristling with typewritten regulations. One reads that native ser vants cannot be accommodated, that washing cannot be done for guests, that guests may not, at their peril, interfere with electrical fittings and that any ex cess electrical gadgets used will be con fiscated! The management must be used

to dealing with an unruly element—prob ably from among the planting fraternity who, as everyone knows, are no better than they should be.