I Married Adventure

by Osa Johnson

  “Because I can’t!” he shouted back. “The damned generator won’t work!”

  He was sick with disappointment, and so was I. The generator of necessity was run by manpower, with two of our men on each side turning the handles. For what seemed hours Martin drove them frantically in relays without the faintest glow from the lights.

  The natives showed not the slightest curiosity about the machinery or the screen. Nagapate grew suspicious of my obvious efforts at detaining him on the beach. The men continued to grind the generator. It was no use. Martin wiped his forehead, shook his head, and signaled them to stop turning. Misunderstanding the gesture, the men doubled their efforts, the generator spun, and the miracle happened! The lights flashed on!

  The bright beam of light shot through the darkness with such suddenness and sharpness that the natives grunted and drew back.

  With no means of knowing how these people would react when the pictures appeared, Paul had placed armed guards around the projector, and because of this it now became a problem to get the natives to face the screen. Plainly they didn’t want the guards and the machine that shot light at their backs.

  There seemed only one thing to do. I took Nagapate by the arm and, with as imperious a manner as I could summon, sat on the ground facing the screen and indicated that I expected him to do likewise. Clearly he didn’t like being pushed around by a woman, but he sat down beside me, apparently to think it over. The rest of the natives, trained to do whatever their chief did, followed suit. At last we were ready for the show to begin.

  Through the titles the natives divided their attention between the screen and the shafts of light over their heads. They looked from one to the other, chattering like mad, until my picture faded in on the screen. Their chatter stopped short. They were literally struck dumb. Here I was on the beach, sitting beside Nagapate—and there I was on the screen, as big as a giant. Then the picture of me winked at them. This threw them into a furor. They shrieked with laughter. They howled and screamed.

  They were silent again as they saw Martin and me leaving the Waldorf-Astoria, and the silence deepened when they saw the mad throngs of New York on Armistice Day; glimpses of the great metropolitan centers of the world; flashes of steamers, racing automobiles and airplanes. Where we expected excitement, there was an uncomprehending silence.

  Only once did Nagapate stir, and that was during the pictures of Armistice Day. This troubled him, and he said afterwards he didn’t know there were so many white people in the world. He added that we must live on a pretty large island.

  Martin wanted to get a picture of the natives as they saw themselves on the screen. So he showed Paul how to crank the projector, and Perrole and Stephens the flares. Then he focused his camera on our strange audience.

  After a hundred feet of titles, Nagapate’s face loomed before the natives. Again a great roar went up. Over and over they yelled, “Nagapate—Nagapate—Nagapate.” Martin gave the signal for the radium flares. They went off, a bomb of light, and I caught a glimpse of Martin’s elated grin as he cranked the camera and recorded the mingled fear and amazement on the faces of the people.

  Some two thirds of the natives, terrified by the flares, scrambled for the bush. I touched Nagapate’s arm and gave him my most reassuring and nonchalant smile. This sort of business, I indicated, was an everyday occurence in the lives of white people. Nagapate wavered for an instant, then sat back on his haunches again, setting the example for his people.

  The flares lasted only about two minutes, and, after we had gradually coaxed the runaways back to their places, we started the reel all over again.

  Practically every native shown in the picture was in the audience. As each man appeared on the screen, the audience shrieked his name and roared with laughter. They had not changed a bit except perhaps to add another layer of dirt. Suddenly the roar became a hushed murmur as the figure of a man who had been dead for a year was shown. The natives were awe-struck. Martin’s “magic” had brought a dead man from his grave.

  After this we felt a definite change in the attitude of the Big Namba people toward us. No longer was there a feeling of treachery or defiance. Instead, they gathered around quietly and respectfully. It was apparent, however, that they were waiting for something else to happen. Inquiry revealed they wanted tobacco as pay for looking at the pictures. As I handed out the sticks, each one grunted the same phrase. I tried to learn what it was, but I never did.

  At last everything was packed. We were ready to return to the schooner and about to leave when a native came running down the beach waving his arms and yelling at us. He had come back with a message which said: “Nagapate, he big fellow master belong Big Namba. He, he wantem you, you two fellow, you lookem Mary belong him. He makem big fellow sing-sing. More good you, you two fellow come. He no makem bad, he makem good altogether.”

  All of which was meant as an invitation from Nagapate to visit his village, and the assurance that we would not be used as the main dish of a savage feast.

  Martin hid his elation and said, “We’d love to come.”

  Chapter 12

  Early the next morning we were once more on our way into the Big Namba territory. Martin pressed my hand. We were both thinking of that other time. Today there were thirty-one of us. Four white men, twenty-six trustworthy natives, and myself, all armed with repeating rifles and automatic pistols. We anticipated no trouble, although our natives were skeptical of the worth of our optimism and plainly frightened by these notorious cannibals. Our carriers held back when we reached the beach. They feared ambush in the jungle.

  We finally persuaded them to continue, and, equipped with photographic apparatus, trade stuffs, and food for seven or eight days, we plunged up the trail.

  At noon we reached a clearing, high up on the island. From here we could see miles of jungle valleys and grass-covered plateaus. Far below in the bay were three small dots—our boats.

  As we rested we heard a shout, and out of the jungle came some twenty men sent by the “big fellow master belong Big Namba.” They took our equipment, and about a mile farther on we came to a village—nothing more than a few roughly thatched shelters around a clearing. In the center sat some thirty well-armed natives. We greeted them, but they merely grunted.

  After a short rest we pushed on, and in fifteen minutes or so came upon another clearing, much larger and with many more huts. Here again were natives—more than two hundred, all armed. They squatted and eyed us in scowling silence. In the center were the boo-boos, the upright hollow log used to send messages and to furnish the rhythm for dances. One was lying on its side, and we whites sat on it for all the world like five schoolchildren.

  One native beat on a particularly loud boo-boo, maintaining an irregular cadence that was undoubtedly a code. Were they summoning the natives for a feast? I moved closed to Martin, who patted my knee reassuringly.

  The boo-boo stopped abruptly. There was a hush, and from the far side of the clearing stepped the huge figure of Nagapate.

  He stood for a moment looking over his audience, then he moved slowly to the center of the clearing. No Hollywood director ever staged a more dramatic entrance. He roared an order. A native rushed a block of wood as a throne. The chief sat down facing us. We shook hands with him. Having become familiar with this form of greeting he responded graciously, then grunted another command. In response, a native came forward with a large bamboo water bottle. Nagapate gulped down a great swallow, and then the black offered it to me, tilting it at a drinking angle.

  I hesitated. The very thought of putting my mouth to the same vessel made me almost ill. It was obvious that this community water bottle was a sort of South Seas “pipe-of-peace.”

  Concealing my distaste, I took a sip. The others did the same.

  With a great flourish, Martin then presented Nagapate with the usual trade goods and distributed two sticks of tobacco to each native. Th
ey greedily smoked or ate it at once.

  The formalities seemed to be over, so Martin set up his cameras and for three hours took pictures.

  I could see he wanted something he wasn’t getting.

  “You’re doing fine, Martin,” I called out to him. “What are you frowning about?”

  “I’d like to get some action in this thing,” he said. “Can’t you do something about it?”

  “Absolutely,” I answered promptly. “How about a man coming out of a house?”

  “Fine!” he agreed heartily.

  The openings to the huts were so small the occupants could only get in and out on hands and knees. I finally persuaded one man to enter his house and come out again. Nagapate laughed and the other natives took it up, jeering the fellow out of giving us any more action. The rest were too self-concious by now to give us any.

  “I’ll go in and out for you, Martin,” I said. “We’ll let them laugh at me for a while.”

  I took this opportunity to study the houses. They consisted, I found, of merely a few poles covered with leaves and grass. Inside there was nothing but the ashes of fires.

  I had been puzzled all along at the complete absence of women and children. It seemed to be wholly a man’s world. It wasn’t until after we’d been in the village for hours that I saw first one and then another woman peering at us from the edge of the clearing. They were the most miserable creatures I have ever seen. Their clothing consisted of the oddest arrangement imaginable. It was made entirely of grasses. Over the entire head was a sort of widow’s veil, solid except for a little peephole, and a long train that hung down the back almost to the ground. The dress was a bushy, purple-dyed skirt that reached from the waist to the knees. It was heavy, cumbersome, and unsanitary, and as the women moved about, it gave them the look of animated haystacks.

  In addition these strange dresses were matted with dirt, and the wretched creatures themselves were unspeakably filthy. It wasn’t their fault, however; bathing for women was taboo. No woman took a bath from the time she was born until she died.

  They cowered as we approached, and if we chanced to catch one looking at us, she would squat down and hide her face in her headdress of grass. I tried offering a string of beads and a jar of cheap candy, but the poor, tormented creatures would neither touch our gifts nor look at them. I’m sure that no human creatures were ever so wretched as these daughters of Eve.

  Nagapate was said to have a hundred wives, but we saw only ten, and these were fully as wretched as those of lesser station. The scrawny children of the village were as shy as their mothers. The moment we came into sight they scurried off into the bush like frightened rabbits. Most of them were covered with sores, and their bellies ballooned from malnutrition.

  For four days we accomplished exactly nothing. The women and children kept under cover, and the men sat around on their haunches and just stared. Nothing we could do aroused either their curiosity or their interest. Once it did look as if there might be a fight between Nagapate’s men and a neighboring tribe, but except for a few shots fired in the air nothing came of it.

  This minor crisis introduced us, however, to one of Nagapate’s important men, a sort of “minister of war” named Rambi. Here was a born exhibitionist if ever I saw one. Shedding every vestige of dignity, he capered, grimaced, and clowned before the camera, almost as if he knew the exact function of that complicated instrument. Soon the other natives forgot their embarrassment and did likewise. I could see that at last Martin felt he was getting something.

  It seemed to me that the six or seven days spent in Nagapate’s “kingdom” had yielded some fine and authentic scenes of native life, but Martin was far from satisfied. Added to this was the fact that the natives, much like children in temperament, soon tired of the novelty of having us about and seemed distinctly bored with our cameras. They simply would not cooperate, and at times even seemed a little ugly. Another complication was Nagapate’s attentions to me. Every morning he laid gifts of wild fruit, coconuts, and yams at the doorway of the hut which Martin and I had made our temporary quarters. He followed me about as I taught games to the small children, and I grew increasingly uneasy. Paul and Martin agreed with me that we’d better start packing up.

  Late on the afternoon of the day we came to this decision, Martin and I walked a little way from the village talking over the best method of taking leave of our strange host. We strayed farther than we realized, and came upon a much-traveled path leading to the tiny doorway of an unusually large hut. Always curious, Martin got down on his hands and knees, peered in, and entered. I followed. As my eyes gradually became adjusted to the dim light, I saw what looked like baskets of black grapefruit. I picked one up to examine it more closely and dropped it in horror.

  It was a dried human head!

  There were dozens piled in baskets. Most grinned at us from the eaves in a macabre frieze. Pendants of skulls dangled from the rafters. Untidy heaps of human bones lay in the corners. I loosed a shuddery groan. Martin clapped his hand over my mouth and dragged me as quickly as possible through the doorway into the open, and here, after one quick look about, he took my arm and hurried me back to the path leading to the village. Whether or not we had been seen entering or leaving the sacred headhouse we couldn’t know. If we had—and there might be one or a dozen men and women of the village moving like shadows through the dark bush—our lives and that of every member of our party would pay for it. Paul, Perrole, and Stephens agreed that we must pack up and be off by dawn in the morning. Martin always regretted not being able to get a picture of the headhouse.

  “The best pictures,” he remarked with a sigh, “like the biggest fish, are the ones you don’t get.”

  Up at dawn the next day, we packed in record time and sent for Nagapate to bid him good-bye. He paraded slowly across the clearing in his usual dramatic fashion. As an excuse for our abrupt departure we made an elaborate explanation of the fact that we had exhausted our provisions and supplies and were forced to return to our boats. What we didn’t tell him was that we were afraid one of the poor, timid women or one of their children might have seen us, and that we wanted to get out before they got up the courage enough to speak.

  We were surprised when the black chief not only agreed to our departure but volunteered to escort us to the beach. On our arrival he again indicated his wish to go aboard our ship and, once there, squatted down and waited to be fed some hardtack and salmon. When bedtime came, he was still with us and made clear that he wanted to sleep on board. Martin promptly led our royal guest and his bodyguard of two to the engine room. Nagapate seemed to think this was fine. We peeped in on them at midnight, and there they were, stretched out on the oily floor, sound asleep—the greatest compliment, certainly, that the savage chief could have paid us.

  * * *

  —

  Paul sailed us back to Vao, and the other two schooners went their separate ways.

  Martin had much to do on our arrival, for he had exposed more than a hundred and fifty plates and nearly two hundred Kodak films. The heat and humidity made it necessary to develop these still photographs at once. A method devised by him before we left New York made it possible to seal the exposed motion-picture negative and keep it safe without developing for several months. Without this, we would have had to return the thousand or so miles to Sydney before our work in this strange part of the world was complete.

  I was helping Martin in his hot little darkroom the day after our return from Malekula. He was very thoughtful as he worked.

  “What I think we ought to do before we leave here,” he said, “is to circle Malekula and put in at different ports and get pictures of the different tribes if we can.”

  “But you’d need a boat bigger than that whaleboat. Too bad you didn’t think of it sooner, and get Paul or Mr. Thomas or maybe Mr. Stephens to take us.”

  “I did think of it and I asked them, but th
ey all make more money at trading than I can pay them.”

  I reviewed our procedure to date with considerable regret. “If we’d known Nagapate was going to be so friendly,” I said, “we needn’t have hired three schooners and spent all that money in a bunch. One schooner and maybe ten armed men would have been enough.”

  “Yes,” Martin said, “and maybe he was friendly because we did have the schooners. Maybe he was impressed.”

  “But I still don’t see how. We’re practically marooned here until the British gunboat or something comes along.”

  “Well, that’s what I meant. The Euphrosyne will be along sooner or later, and instead of packing everything up and going back to Vila for connections to Sydney right away, I’d like to take only our cameras and trade goods.”

  “And leave the rest of our stuff here—come back?”

  “Yes, keep Vao as our headquarters.” Then, hastily, “That is, unless you’d rather not.

  “Why, no. No. That’s fine.”

  “We’ll be able to make a dicker with some trading boat or other.”

  I went for a walk to think this over and to rid myself of a touch of homesickness. Every now and then I wanted “home” so terribly. I even found myself longing for a nice, tall, foamy ice-cream soda. The tide was low and I probably went farther along the beach than usual. I was astonished to see a very old man sitting outside his wretched hut just above the tidewater line. Apparently he lived quite alone. Sightless and obviously starving, he was a pitiable object.

  Hurrying back to my well-stocked kitchen, I packed some stuff which I felt the old savage could eat in his weakened condition and sent our native boy, Atree, with it. Martin was surprised when I told him of the old man. Old people, as we had been told, and from observation knew, were not permitted to live. The next day, as soon as the tide was low enough, Martin went with me. He wanted a picture of this rare specimen of savagery. I took some foodstuff. Arrived at the miserable hut, we found a freshly dug grave and several natives about.