Some Impressions of Rabaul, Circa

August, 1951

From a Special Correspondent

DESPITE all the talk of moving the capital to Rapopo, the residents here appear to be building newer and better offices, stores and homes than formerly. It seems certain that only another eruption will separate the majority of them from Rabaul.

The place appears to be opening up, becoming cleaner, and the homes are getting gardens round them. Mango Avenue is getting quite shady again—a kind of Unter Den Linden —and the big trees look well. Only blots on landscape are the odd piles of guns, tanks and Army junk, the Japanese pillboxes, some nice assorted bomb holes, and the rusting hulks and barges on the water front. It is feared by many that they like the Poor will always be with us!

THE new Territory Motor Traffic laws are being enforced in Rabaul. Quiet, well-meaning jeeps have to have “Left Hand Drive” marked on their rear por tion —plain to be seen as they jog along the highway.

A smart and shiny Traffic Cop, riding a smart and shiny mo-bike,

relentlessly pursues John Citizen and pounces upon him as he gets be out of his car, to know why he hasn’t observed Section Umpteen, Para X and Sub Para Y.

Brown Brother observes his own Stone Age traffic laws and is a

great problem to all concerned.

After he has brought his truck load of vegs in from his garden, sold it, and chewed a liberal quan tity of betel-nut, he dismisses all traffic laws and proceeds homeward with a crowd of singing natives in the back! He blocks the road, he speeds, he goes slow and on the wrong side, and a hand extended from the cab may mean anything —“I am stopping”—“l am going astern” —“Keep clear of propellers,” or just “And you!” Yes, siree, Tobonita, of Blanche Bay, doesn’t

give a hoot for all the traffic laws the “Shoot Man” has made.

ONE is intrigued to go into one of the Big Firm’s stores with the idea of buying something.

How foolish to imagine that it can be done!

After waiting an interminable time, and having examined most things in the store, one becomes aware that the people talking ani matedly in the centre of the floor,

about various social events and sporting fixtures, are really the vendors (not hereinbefore men tioned), whose function it is to sell, barter, or otherwise dispose of the goods displayed in the area!

The intending buyer (known as the Purchaser, of the first part), finally plucks up courage enough to approach one of the Vendors and intimate that he would like to buy something; and he will probably

be met with the answer: “It's OK brother, I won’t be a sec.”

After another wait, the intending purchaser departs for Chinatown, where he is pounced upon and not allowed to get away until all his wants —and some things he doesn’t want—are supplied.

But, Lordy, the Big Firm’s stores are the places to find out Who in vited Who, to What, and who played well at Saturday’s game! It would be an idea to provide cracker barrels, or some dried apples, and whittling sticks!

AS one trickles from Pub to Club, and back again, one comes across a variety of people waiting for ships to go to Manus, planes to go to Lae, or a schooner to the Bainings, but so many things seem to be against them getting away!

You hear, as you stand at the bar, snatches of conversations re lating to this: “We were on the ship, all set to go, and the flaming boats crew walked off —said they weren’t getting enough toast and tea in the morning or something.

Now we’ve got a crew of bush kanakas from the Sepik on board and the Skipper has* walked off.

Hell, well never get away now.”

Or else: “Well, it’s this way. The sanguinary kite should have come in today, but the drome’s closed at Lae and, anyway, look at the sanguinary weather now—no ceiling and no sign of clearing, either.

Hey, there, Tim, two more of San Miguel—well, Red Horses will do if you haven’t got any other kind.”

Then, again: “No, nobody’s heard where she is—might be stuck on some so-and-so reef out near Massawa or Asalingi. The Skipper had a week-end with X, and any thing might happen after that, eh?

Sure it might! We’ll have one before the pub shuts —I’ll get some beer to take to my room, too. Eh, how will I get that out? I dunno, but I expect old John Stokie will be along with his workboat soon and he’ll give me a lift, I reckon. Bonzer bloke, old John—we were in the bush together when the Japs were here!” , , By this time the bartender has politely said: “Look here, you guys, time’s up, so mop it down and get to your Dongas! Eh? More? Not on your sanguinary life —there’s all tomorrow not touched yet, you know! Think a bloke’s like you— I’m not on holiday. I got to get me sleep, see.”

After the curfew has thus tolled the knell of the departing barman, the lowing herd winds slowly to its jeeps; remarks that the sanguinary batteries may be flat—steps on it and the resultant noise—like John Peel’s View Halloa—would waken the dead. The night is then left to darkness and to us!