The Missionaries

by Owen Stanley

  “Yeah, but yer don’t go to the quack unless yer feelin’ crook. No one’s grumblin’ on this island. You bastards make up the diseases as yer go along, and then try to con us ye’re the only blokes with the right medicines. Sod that for a racket.”

  “But you can’t be oblivious to the urgent personal problems here, the squalor, the–”

  “Listen, mate, I’ve got an urgent personal problem, and I’m buggered if you can solve it. See yer in the mornin’.”

  It was some time before Prout realised where Fletcher had gone.

  In the morning, Prout could hardly bear to squeeze his blistered feet into his cold, sodden boots. Fletcher came strolling up through the soaking grass from the village, looking well pleased with himself. As the two were breakfasting in silence, Sgt Oala entered the house in some alarm. The carriers were refusing to move until they were paid in advance for each item of baggage.

  “I think that’s quite reasonable,” said Prout, “After all, in a just society, one can’t expect them to carry for nothing. I’ll get some money.”

  “Ye’re as silly as a bag full of arseholes, aren’t yer? If yer give ’em what they’re after, they’ll double the price tomorrer, and double it again the next day. In the end yer’ll be payin’ so flamin’, much it’ll be cheaper to bring blokes over from England to move our gear.”

  “I’m in charge here, Fletcher!”

  “Yer a pain in the arse. I’ll handle this. Sergeant, what name man make him big fellow trouble?”

  “Kokoti, sah.”

  “Oh yeah, Snail Slime. I know the bastard. Raus him Kokoti long house kiap.”

  “Yessah.”

  A few parents, who had lost a number of children, chose names for their newborns that were intended to deceive the evil spirits and convince them that the bearers of those names were so contemptible that it was not worth the trouble of maiming them, or covering them in pustules. Fortunately, the malice of the spirits was exceeded only by their stupidity, so this religious camouflage was surprisingly effective.

  Kokoti, or Snail Slime, as his name translates into English, appeared beneath the verandah, with his mates a few yards behind him to back him up. Behind them were the police. Kokoti was unusually narrow-featured for a Morok, with permanently half-closed eyes, and a small moustache that had been inspired by a scrap of magazine in the gaol featuring Douglas Fairbanks, the Younger. Kokoti gazed up at Fletcher, insolently, with folded arms.

  “Jeez, I must be losin’ me grip,” thought Fletcher as he came nonchalantly down the steps. As he reached the bottom he smiled at Snail Slime, and hooked a smashing blow into his jaw. Snail Slime landed on his back in the grass, not moving. There was a hiss of indrawn breath from his companions. Fletcher walked over and checked to confirm that Kokoti was unconscious. Only then did he look up from the body of the fallen man into the eyes of each carrier in turn. He held out his hand, and curtly demanded the money which Prout had given them. They all fumbled in the belts of their laplaps and produced the now-soiled notes they had been given the day before.

  When he had collected all the money, he dismissed them, shaken and furtive, and went back inside the rest house, after detailing Sgt Oala to fetch three replacement carriers from the village, and to have a pole cut on which to suspend Kokoti for the journey back to Ungabunga.

  Prout, who had witnessed the over-ruling of Snail Slime, was crouched by a patrol box, his head in his hands. He raised a stricken face as Fletcher entered.

  “For God’s sake get me a drink, Fletcher. I can’t take any more of this, I just can’t.”

  Fletcher pulled the unopened bottle of rum from a patrol box and poured a stiff drink for Prout, and took a good swig himself, to celebrate a job well done.

  “It’s my feet as well. I can hardly walk. I don’t think I could last another two days.”

  “Feelin’ a bit crook, are yer? Yeah, well, it’s a bit rough at first. We’d better pack it in. If we leave now we’ll be back by tea time, easy. Here’s yer money back, by the way. Wouldn’t want yer to think I nicked it.”

  Prout pocketed the roll of notes.

  “It’s not their fault, it’s not their fault,” he said, brokenly. “You’ve made them like wild animals, who have to snatch everything they can today for fear of what tomorrow may bring.”

  Fletcher didn’t bother to argue, but simply gave a short laugh and began giving orders to the police and carriers to assemble the gear. Prout stood alone on the verandah, keeping out of the way of the busy men. A number of the Laripa people came to see the patrol off, hoping for another handout of money, but when they realised none was forthcoming they soon drifted away. As the patrol moved out, only Malek, by virtue of his rank as Village Constable, was still there to see them go, standing stiffly at the salute. Garang also watched, but from the cover of the trees.

  Chapter VI

  The eleventh Sky Van of the week touched down at Ungabunga, heavy with the necessities of life which a compassionate world showers upon its underprivileged brethren, including one hundred plastic Japanese clarinets and all the other instruments required for a full orchestra from UNESCO for the Department of Cultural Development; thirty-five gross of ceramic ashtrays, each with the blue emblem of the United Nations in the centre to spread the message of international peace among the Moroks; a social science library of seven thousand volumes for the use of the Mission; boxes of French letters and plastic models of the genitalia for the sex education clinic; bales of flags and bunting to encourage national pride; almost two miles of educational film strip, including such basic masterpieces as “The Nude,” and “From Leyden Jar to Fusion Reactor”; and a prefabricated gymnasium for Morok children, intended to correct defects of posture, from UNICEF. The custody of the gymnasium was the subject of bitter dispute between the Department of Health and the Department of Community Harmony.

  As the aircraft taxied to a halt and began to lower its cargo ramp, a horde of young Morok men, dressed in blue shorts and blue United Nations t-shirts provided free by that generous organisation, dashed forward to begin unloading it. At first they had eagerly pillaged the cargoes, putting the contents to uses which would have amazed and disconcerted their makers, but by now even their prodigious capacity for parodying the treasures of Western civilisation had become dulled by the increasing eccentricity of the cargoes, so they did no more than tentatively finger the crates and bales, awed by their profusion and by their mystery.

  When the first Sky Van had arrived, six weeks after Prout’s pilgrimage to Laripa, the police had been prepared to deal with looting by their customary techniques of bruising the culprits’ toes with rifle butts, or making them run up and down the strip carrying heavy weights above their heads, but Prout would not hear of any such punitive measures.

  “We must expect a little pilfering at first,” he had retorted to Fletcher’s expostulations, as fifty Moroks capered insanely about the runway in bonnets fashioned from maternity brassieres. “Having been deprived of their rights for so long, it’s quite natural for them to be a little exuberant when they are permitted to exercise them for the first time. But the only true discipline is self-discipline. It may take a while to take root, but it is all the more lasting for it.”

  The two men were standing in what had previously been the Government HQ, but was now the Logistics and Supply Centre, of which Oelrichs was, for the time being, in control. While Fletcher and Prout argued, he was leafing through the cargo manifests for the first twelve loads. During a lull in their dispute, he looked up and said:

  “If I may say so, there are some items on these lists which don’t seem urgently needed for the time being. There are lawn-mowers, four dozen of them, in cargo three, for example.”

  “No, no, Mr. Oelrichs, there you’re quite mistaken, I’m afraid, quite mistaken. (The theory of social change was one of Prout’s favorite topics.) You see, the great fallacy of arguments like that is to believe that because these sorts of items have no immediate use, they are unneccessar
y and absurd. In fact, these items you mention have been most carefully selected by experts. Now, of course, I agree that today, this minute, lawn mowers would be rather difficult to operate in most villages, and would perhaps not achieve very useful results, but that’s not the point. It’s only when the people see these things that they will realise their uses, and will eventually want to re-order their lives and roles around them. What to you are frivolous and unnecessary luxuries out here, to me, and other theorists of social change, are essential catalysts in stimulating a restructuring of need-awareness. Or, in layperson’s terms, the people can only be induced to accept change of their own free will if they are made dissatisfied with their old lifestyle, and the only way we can do that is to give them concrete examples of a new and better one. As you both become better acquainted with modern techniques of inducing social change, you will realise that it is essential to produce dissatisfaction, resentment, even envy, in the early stages of a project like this; after all, envy may be sneered at by those inclined towards religion and superstition, but regarded rationally, it is basic to material progress. In fact, I don’t know where we’d be without it, since without envy, or at least dissatisfaction, we couldn’t have change, and then everything would just go on as it had always done, which would be absurd, of course.”

  During the weeks that followed, the Sky Vans delivered, in addition to their other cargo, the prefabricated sections for the new buildings at Ungabunga, which were swiftly erected by crews of Tolai, from Rabaul, so that in a miraculously short space of time, Ungabunga was carpeted in a maze of asbestos-walled bungalows, offices, store-sheds, display-centres and conference-rooms. But the fort remained on its hill, overlooking all, as a reminder of the old order.

  One afternoon, an earnest conference was held in Hut 27 on the subject of this odious survival of reaction. Prout was seated in his chair, flanked by his wife Phyllis, a fleshy blonde, her hair wreathed round her head in a thick plait, who was acting as his secretary, and by Joe Treadwell, seconded from the South Thames Gas Board to be the Secretary for Energy and Trade Unionism. The deep purple of his countenance hinted that, apart from wearing an ill-fitting collar, prodigious forces for social good were in imminent danger of eruption. But his mates back home knew that a state of permanent frustration with his better half, Mabel Treadwell, also had a great deal to do with it, and that it was as much to escape from her as any feeling of sympathy for the Third World, that he had come to Elephant Island. This was the first such assignment he had been on, and he felt, in his antipodean isolation, as though the responsibility for defending the reputations of the whole British Trade Union Movement and the Gas Board in particular against devious and unappreciative foreigners rested on his shoulders alone.

  He also took great pains to conceal the fact that his middle name was Obadiah.

  To his right sat Rebeccah Bloom, from New York, the Secretary for Political Consciousness, sallow-faced and biting her nails, and opposite her was the Ecological Efficiency Officer, Tristram Daubeny, who as well as being golden-haired and pinkly handsome, had been afflicted with the additional disadvantage, in that company, of being independently wealthy. At the end of the table was an empty chair which should have been filled by Michael Moncreif, lawyer and constitutional draftsman, who was unaccountably delayed in arriving from Port Moresby.

  “Can’t think why you didn’t clear the ’ole ruddy lot out when you first came, Sid,” said Treadwell. “Give ’em their marching orders and no messing about. Bloody little ’itlers they are.”

  “That Oelrichs makes me sick,” interjected Rebeccah, drawing down her thick lower lip, and dilating her nostrils in disgust. “Just sick. Those poor indigenes actually had to carry the fat creepy bastard around in some goddamn throne. Just outa’ this world.”

  Prout raised a pacificatory hand.

  “I quite understand your sense of outrage at the goings-on here. Having seen Fletcher in action during my tour of inspection, I’m probably even more disgusted than any of you. But we can’t just get rid of them on the spot. To begin with, Fletcher and Oelrichs know the people and the language, so for a few months, until we establish our own relationship with the people, we need their knowledge. But there is an even more important reason for keeping them here. I must ask you to keep this strictly confidential for the time being.”

  His audience hung on every word, as he told them of his unexpected discovery that, despite the frequency of every other kind of violence, no homicides had been reported on the island.

  “When I pointed out this curious anomaly to Oelrichs, he just smiled, and said, ‘That’s surely a compliment, Dr. Prout. Our methods may not be orthodox, but they seem to be fairly effective. Surely you can’t hold that against us as well?’ He seemed almost to be expecting the question. Perhaps I should have said nothing. However, on the plane back to Rabaul after my first visit, the pilot let slip one remark which was rather interesting. I said that it was our policy to have a resident legal officer, in such cases as Elephant Island, and he replied, something like ‘Fletcher would never have that. Can’t stand judges nosing about the place.’ What I’m getting at is that there have almost certainly been homicides here among the indigenous people, and that Fletcher and his police have taken the law into their own hands by removing them from the records. I suspect that instead of imposing the moderate prison sentence that Canberra allows, they have callously slaughtered those they believed responsible. However, once the people realise that Fletcher is now powerless, I don’t think it will take us long to persuade someone to come forward, and then we’ll have the lot of them.”

  “The dirty bastards oughta be exterminated,” burst out Rebeccah. “Cut their friggin’ nuts off!”

  “Well, I don’t think we can quite go that far, although I tend to share your sentiments.”

  “Fair enough, Sid, we’re lumbered with ’em until you can pin charges on ’em, but what about this bloody fortress contraption, and them thugs with swords and ’elmets? You aren’t goin’ to let them go on rampagin’ around bashin’ the people, are you?”

  “I was coming to that, Joe. If we do nothing else, the destruction of the fort will make it quite clear to the people what our intentions are, and that we mean business. We can ask for volunteers from the local villages to tear it down. As for the police, I have already made an order forbidding further patrolling, unless the patrol is directed by a member of my staff. In the future, no weapons of any description will be carried. U.N. uniforms are to be worn, of course. Handcuffs are to be abolished. Arrests will take place only with the consent of the person being arrested. That should remove the problem of the police for the time being. As for the gaol, that will be destroyed together with the fortress, and Ungabunga will be declared a Zone of Custodial Care; within which, indigenous persons—and Europeans, of course—who are the subject of a Care Order will be placed on parole not to go beyond the Zone boundary without permission, except at weekends, or for compassionate reasons, or when deemed under the domination of an irresistible impulse.”

  The others nodded their heads.

  “These are obviously such basic remedies, the kind that we have to make at the very beginning of our programme, before we can contemplate anything more ambitious. Do we need to discuss them? No? Good.”

  “While we’re on the subject of the fort,” said Treadwell, “maybe it’d be in order for me to ask if any proposals ’ave been made for the utilisation of the site.”

  “Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Well, as Secretary for Energy, it’s my duty to draw the attention of this committee to the need to install a power source without delay. There are only two sources of power that concern us, electricity and gas. If we generate our own electricity, apart from the cost of the fuel, we ’ave the capital cost of the generating plant, and the problem of skilled maintenance, and so on. Now, if we ’ave gas, the only capital equipment we need is of a very simple sort: storage tanks, reduction valves, and basic piping, all cheap enough.
Domestic fittings work out about the same whether it’s gas or electricity. Maintenance of a gas storage depot will need fitters, of course, but I can train ’em meself—should be able to, thirty-five years in the trade and the Union, started me apprenticeship at fourteen!”

  He laughed, but he was the only one.

  “What chances are there for hydro-electric power?” asked Prout.

  “Given time, it might be promising, but there’s no feasibility study, no met’rological data. That’d take several years, and no use asking Fletcher and that gang. We’d look right Charlies if we stuck an intake pipe in some stream and the bloody thing dried up on us six months later, eh? So for my money, it’s gas all the time.”

  “That all seems very well thought-out, Joe. I can’t see any objections at the moment. We obviously have to import some sort of fuel, whether it is diesel or gas. Yes, a very good scheme, Joe.”

  “But y’know, Sid, there’s more to gas than that, much more. If we ’ad electricity, I doubt if even I could train the local people to maintain the equipment and appliances. We’d ’ave to rely on expats, which we must avoid at all costs. So by usin’ gas, we train up bright young lads into the trade, and lay the foundations of the Trade Union movement ’ere, into the bargain. And I don’t need to expand on what it would mean for the people to ’ave a flourishing Trade Union movement.” There was a chorus of agreement. “And where better to put the Ungabunga Gas Works than in the same place where their oppressors ’ave ’eld sway for God knows ’ow many years? Answer me that!”

  He sat back in his chair, more purple than ever, and pulled a handkerchief from his trousers to mop his brow.

  “Your idea is brilliant, Joe,” Prout said eagerly. “It’s a wonderful example of what the whole philosophy of our mission should be. This is the use of modern technology as the driving force to convince the people to accept rational, modern social institutions, such as your trade unions. Absolutely first-class. Would it be possible to extend the services of the gas works into the surrounding areas?”