Have Some Kokomor Soup

By Peter

England

WHAT, kokomor * soup? No, thanks, it’s a bit too rich for me. Look, let me tell you a story . . .

We were prospecting over the other side of the Ramu, out from Madang, at the time, me and Sam.

This particular day I had gone out on my own, with one boy to carry a dish and a pick and a bite of lunch. I had crossed the Simbai fairly high up, and had panned a few dishes here and there up a creek on the far side. Well, it was getting on lunch time, and I hadn’t even seen a colour, so I picked a good shady tree and sat down for a smoke while the boy boiled the billy.

Presently he brought the tea and retired to have a sleep himself.

I had a light snack and made another smoke. Now and then a faint drip fell on the back of my head. Probably the moisture from the early morning rain; anyway I was too comfortable and too lazy to move.

Rather a bare looking place, not the usual crop of undergrowth, and the trees themselves were a bit stunted. Unpleasant odour, too. We were evidently not far from a habi tation of some sort. . . . Filthy habits these people have. Only the other day I went into a house to shelter from the rain; there, sitting on a shelf in the communal living room, hunched up with his knees under his chin, and laced with split cane, was an ancient grandfather.

Must have been dead for a couple of years. Sometimes they park them

on trestles in the back yard, sur rounded by a low, stake fence.

I must have dozed off. Next thing I remember was being awakened by quite a substantial “splosh” on the top of my head, and something trickling down behind my ear. As I started up there was a flutter of wings and a familiar honking cry. I looked up in time to see two kokomors fly away . . . and I saw something else . . I turned and ran for the creek.

I washed and soaked and scrubbed for a couple of hours.

When I got back to the camp it was dusk and Sam was just sitting down to dinner. He said, “You must have got on to something good. I thought you were going to stay out all night. Well, kai’s ready. Come on, hop in, you must be pretty hungry by now.”

I said, “No, thanks. I don’t think I’ll eat anything to-night. I’m a bit off colour—touch of fever or something.”

“Well, just have a drop of this soup,” said Sam, “It’ll put you right, the real McCoy, kokomor soup— plenty of body in it!"

I staggered to the door and was violently sick for the second time that day. * * * What, aren’t you going to finish your soup. Hope I didn’t put you off it.

* Kokomor—A large bird of the hornbill type, found in New Guinea. They make an extraordinary noise with their wings in flight, are said to make good soup— and incidentally have some less pleasant habits.