Michael Moran - Beyond the Coral Sea - Travels in the Old Empires of the South-West Pacific

‘I’m Chris Abel.’ The fair-haired man smiled briefly.

‘Ah! I’ve been waiting to meet you.’

‘You must be the writer fellow.’ His voice betrayed unusual caution. An engaging yet slightly defensive attitude revealed itself in his English accent. We shook hands and I flowed into a bamboo chair.

We discussed his childhood on Kwato Island and his grandfather, Charles Abel, the famous and controversial missionary.

Chris had spent some twelve years in Popondetta as an Agricultural Extension and Development Bank Officer. During an election it was discovered that many of the villagers were unable to read the ballot papers, so he invented what they called ‘the whisper vote’. The locals would whisper their choice in his ear, and he would mark their ballot paper accordingly.

Large drops of rain began thudding onto the roof with increasing velocity. A mysterious figure carrying an ancient Gladstone bag wandered onto the veranda. He was wearing a beige linen suit, maroon-spotted cravat and heavy brogues. His engaging face and sculpted beard achieved a wan smile, but he was way overdressed for the tropics and sweating heavily.

‘A Victorian detective looking for the ghost of a missionary,’ Chris Abel commented wryly.

The BBC were making a programme about the Reverend James Chalmers, a famous nineteenth-century missionary eaten by cannibals on Goaribari Island in the Gulf of Papua. The next day I saw the optimistic film crew board a decrepit yellow coaster and dissolve offshore in a dark tropical storm. Abel suddenly turned to me.

‘And what exactly are you doing here?’ His eyes hardened and a measure of suspicion crept into his voice.

‘Just travelling around the islands and writing about the culture,’ I answered carefully.

‘A couple came here recently for a good reason. ’ He emphasised the words meaningfully. ‘A lad came back with his father who had fought in the Battle of Milne Bay. He’s going to write a book about it.’

An atmosphere of unspoken confrontation entered the conversation. He seemed suspicious of writers. Russell Abel, his father, had written an excellent biography of Charles Abel in 1934 called Forty Years in Dark Papua. But the latest published biography of the missionary had made the whole family angry. One reviewer reported that the book contained errors, twisted facts and nasty allusions.

‘And we gave the writer access to all the private papers.’

Clearly I had uncovered a nest of scorpions. The downpour blotted out the light and almost stopped conversation. He was forced to shout over the noise. Water was swirling everywhere and the storm drains were overflowing. He raised his hands in a gesture of hopelessness at attempting to talk over the hammering rain. The fans rushed moist air over our faces.

‘I’ll dig out some books for you to look at. You can set the record straight!’

‘I’m going to Samarai and Kwato tomorrow in the Orsiri 1 dinghy.’

‘Have a good trip!’ he shouted as his slender figure disappeared into the murk.

‘What was all that about?’ commented Mocquery rhetorically.

‘I have absolutely no idea.’

1 Pidgin for ‘betel nut’.

1 ‘Masurina’ means ‘the fruits of an abundant harvest’ in the local Suau language.

1 ‘We work at the Lodge in the kitchen.’

1 Originally a Milne Bay word long used for white men, probably meaning ‘stranger from across the sea’.

1 Pidgin for Papua New Guinean woman.

2 At the outbreak of the Second World War, Australia maintained three separate armies of volunteer personnel. The Militia were part-time, citizen-force volunteers ineligible for service outside Australia or its colonies. The Second Australian Imperial Force (AIF) was a highly-trained volunteer force eligible for service anywhere overseas. Finally, there was the permanent army made up of a relatively small force of trained volunteers. There was friction between these armies due to the differentiation of combat role and degree of professional training. Many Militia units subsequently distinguished themselves abroad when their theatre of operations was extended.

1 A local trading company based on Samarai Island in China Strait.

The elderly ‘whiteskin’ standing on the wharf at the Alotau harbour side, casually dressed in check sports shirt and light trousers, was waiting for the St Joseph putt putt 1 to tie up. I was waiting for the Orsiri banana boat to finish loading and head off for Samarai. The fresh bread delivery was delayed so I hung about smoking a rough cigarette made from tobacco rolled in newspaper. An albino Melanesian ambled past squinting against the sun, his pink skin shockingly blotched, yellow hair dazzling against the palms. Decrepit trade boats were taking on crew who sat on the stern rails, ejecting jets of scarlet into the water and calling out to their friends in passing trucks. My nose was assaulted by a peculiar mixture of fish, yeast, distillate and copra. Banana boats packed with produce and drums of diesel skated across the harbour towards the islands like hunting water spiders. The sun beat down.

‘Good morning!’ I was the picture of bonhomie.

‘Good morning, my son. Are you visiting Alotau? We don’t get many of your sort, oh no.’

I thought this was an extraordinary way to greet a stranger. He had an Irish accent and mottled complexion. All ‘whiteskins’ who have lived in the tropics for years have this wan appearance. We stood side by side rocking on our heels in a foolish colonial manner, looking at the colourful activity, glancing from time to time at the oil slick and coconut husks floating in the water below the wharf.

‘I’m the Catholic priest in Alotau … oh yes … the Catholic priest.’ He volunteered in answer to my quizzical look.

‘Ah! How long have you been here, Father?’

‘Oh yes … must be getting on for thirty years now, thirty years since I left Ireland. I’ve stopped counting, I have that.’

‘I suppose there have been a lot of changes in your time.’

‘Oh yes … murders and break-ins are increasing all the time, they’re always about, they are that. That’s right. A boat from Lae brought in a whole criminal element, it did. It’s gone now, thank goodness, together with the murdering, thieving boyos we hope … oh yes … we do hope that.’

‘I heard about that boat.’

‘Did you now. You must have your ear to the ground. Oh yes … they know where you are all the time … they’re watching all the time … oh yes … now he locks his door … yes … now he’s gone out … yes … yes … now he’s come back. He’s gone inside and locked the door … He’s turning on his light. Now he’s having a shower. They know it all and see in the dark … oh yes … they see in the dark, they can do that.’

‘Has your health stood up over the years, Father?’

‘Well, to tell you God’s truth, I’ve had the fever recently … and it laid me desperate low but I seem to be all right now … oh yes. Age creeping on now.’

More shuffling and gazing.

‘I’ve read that sorcerers and magic are still about.’

‘Oh yes … the magic and the witchcraft are strong, strong. They might be Christian but that old black magic is still there in them … it’s a terrible ting, terrible ting, terrible, terrible … Propitiate the spirits of the departed now … it’s a dark existence out here to be sure. It certainly is that.’

The St Joseph , freshly painted in yellow ochre, finally tied up at the wharf. The priest waved to some village women dressed in Victorian cotton smocks.

‘That’s my lot there … oh yes … I’ll have to leave you now. God be with you on your travels … yes … God be with you,’ and he wandered over to his flock.