by Tim Flannery
What I did not realise then is that Woodlark had been travelling too, and along roughly the same track as the Sunbird. As anthropologist Fred Damon says of the island: ‘I think it needs to be stressed that Woodlark Island is in motion.’4 Its geological origins lie east of Samarai, among the islands trailing off southeast New Guinea. Our journey had taken just thirty-six hours, but Woodlark’s had taken millions of years. As it drifts serenely northward on its submarine rise, its mountains are slowly rising in parts and falling in others. Such movements cause earthquakes, and for an entire month in 1914 the place suffered such violent tremors that the natives slept by their canoes, fearing that their island home would topple into the sea.
In the south, Woodlark’s forty-million-year-old volcanic rocks are folded into rugged hills up to 400 metres high, and rainfall is high. In the east, where we landed and where most of the people live, Woodlark consists of raised limestone and a distinct dry season prevails. The prehistory of the island remains mysterious. Three great stone ruins—the island’s own Stonehenge, formed of great slabs of carved volcanic rock—lie at its centre, but nobody knows how or why they were made.
Woodlark was one of the last of the world’s larger islands to be charted by Europeans. It remained unsighted, or at any event uncharted, until around 1832, when an otherwise forgotten Captain Grimes of the Sydney-based whaler Woodlark noted its existence in his log. Gold was discovered in 1895 (the island still has a small goldmine) but by far the biggest intrusion from the outside world occurred in June 1943 when the American 112th Cavalry arrived and built an airstrip and barracks. With them came tonnes of material then utterly unknown and unimaginable to the locals. Despite these disruptions the people of Woodlark continue to participate in the famed Kula Ring, which involves men making long journeys by canoe to other island groups in order to exchange shell valuables.
We were still at sea. Between us and our anchorage in front of Guasopa village lay a narrow, winding channel dotted with potentially fatal coral bommies. The sun was low on the horizon, and even with sunglasses on it was hard to see through the glare, so I climbed the mast and scanned the channel leading to the beach ahead. All around, the water was a thousand shades of blue—some as vivid as I had ever seen—and beyond it lay rugged, green Woodlark, its peaks obscured in cloud, its forest cover uninterrupted as far as the eye could see. What creatures lay hidden there? What mysteries awaited us? Late in the day as it was, I was determined to go ashore the second the anchor hit bottom.
We finally reached water above a patch of clear, white sand immediately in front of the beach at Guasopa. It was protected by a point from the prevailing wind, and was so unriffled and clear that it seemed we were floating on air. Every detail of the bottom four metres below was visible. Delighted, Matt growled at the crew in his best gruff, Dutch-accented, captainly way to, ‘Put down the anchhorr!’ But instead of the sound of rushing feet hastening to obey his command, nothing was heard but a thin, dreamy female voice saying, ‘But Matt, doesn’t it look so much nicer over there?’
A prodigious thunder cloud crossed our captain’s visage. Never in all his years of sailing had an order been so impertinently countermanded! I watched as he struggled to regain composure, to remember that his crew was now his attractive young wife. And then I did something mischievous. By now the Sunbird was surrounded with outrigger canoes manned mostly by children curious to know who was visiting their village, and in an ill-advised moment of levity I quipped, ‘Well at least the locals know who the Sunbird’s real captain is.’
The explosive nature of the eruption that followed was of a kind not seen before on that volcano-free island. The torrent of Dutch was so fluid and voluble that it brought to mind the nuée ardente that consumed Pompeii, and it scattered the outriggers floating around the Sunbird to the four winds. Finally Matt roared like a wounded bull, ‘Mipi, now they know who the real captain is!’ In the silence that followed the anchor was released, and hit the sand below with remarkable alacrity.
We hitched a lift to shore with one of the outriggers, and within minutes felt the gritty sand of Woodlark Island beneath our feet. The village was almost on the beach, and I quickly found the head of the village council and explained our business to him. He greeted us enthusiastically and granted permission for us to work. He also mentioned that there was already a group of researchers in the village. Over the last century only two biological expeditions had visited the remote island. What were the chances that the third and fourth should arrive simultaneously, both intent on studying the island’s cuscus?
While the astonishing news dented our explorer’s pride a little, the presence of other researchers turned out to be a great benefit to us, and led to the development of lifelong friendships. Chris Norris and his team of students from Oxford University had planned and paid for their own expedition. They were particularly interested in the ecology of the cuscus, while we were more interested in its evolutionary relationships.
Because much of our work took place at night, and because the Sunbird was soon to leave in order to pick up other expedition members, we needed a base on the island. The head of the village council had allocated a disused shop for our accommodation and makeshift laboratory. Its concrete-slab floor was not comfortable, and it was full of mosquitoes, but at least it was secure. In light of the dangers that our liquid nitrogen fridge and formaldehyde presented to curious children, this was an important consideration.
As we explored the area we discovered that the village of Guasopa is built over the remnants of a vast American army base. The base was used only briefly after being established in July 1943, because by the end of that year the focus of the war had shifted westward. Yet the locals remembered it clearly, especially that there had been both black and white troops, whom they recalled being buried in separate cemeteries. The jungle had reclaimed most of the old infrastructure, but parts of the airstrip surface—which had been made of living coral—remained solid, and many of the villagers had built their houses on it.
I was surprised to see how dry the ground was around Guasopa. The thin forest canopy allowed the sun to penetrate, and the limestone immediately drained away any rain that fell. The trees had dropped many of their leaves, and we walked everywhere on a crackling carpet of dry leaves and twigs, which is hardly ideal for spotlighting flighty animals like possums and bats. Later we learned that we’d arrived in a ferocious el Niño-fuelled drought that held all of eastern New Guinea in its grip.
Our primary objective was to make a thorough survey of the mammals of the island, and that meant setting cage traps for rats, spotlighting for cuscuses and other creatures, and visiting as many caves as possible to look for bats. Once we had unloaded our equipment and set about this work, we sent the Sunbird to Kiriwina Island to pick up snake expert Greg Mengden and biologist Lester Seri, who had flown to the airstrip there and were coming to assist us. Back at the Australian Museum in Sydney, I had promised Greg to hold whatever snakes the islanders brought us until his arrival. Greg stressed that the creatures had to be alive—he was anxious to take samples for molecular analysis.
When I explained this part of our mission to the head of the village council, his eyes grew wide, for the islanders generally fear and avoid snakes. But word of the impending visit by this remarkable person and his need for living serpents, preferably venomous ones, spread as quickly as news of a circus coming to town. That very afternoon, snakes—tied, trussed and bagged in every way imaginable—began pouring in, and soon our humble abode was festooned with dozens of canvas bags holding writhing and understandably angry serpents. Indeed, I suspect that some sort of competition had developed among the island’s youth to see who could produce the largest and ugliest specimen for the redoubtable Dr Mengden—with the arrival of each snake, and the entertainment provided by my inexpert untying and bagging of the creature, came the query, ‘When is Dr Greg coming?’
Knowing next to nothing about Melanesian snakes, I was uncertain which were venomous and
which not, and I was soon regretting my offer to help Greg out. One afternoon, a spectacularly enormous snake of extremely irritable temperament arrived with half the village following it. The evil-looking thing was almost three metres long, olive brown, and had a huge head and thick body. It had been tied to a stick with bushrope, and as I unleashed it from the tail up I became aware of its prodigious strength. I selected the very largest cloth bag we had, untied the last bonds holding its neck and swiftly hurled the writhing fury into the sack before tying it tightly shut. The only place I had to store it was among the rapidly multiplying canvas bags that adorned the rafters of our dwelling, but the bag was so long that as we slept the creature writhed and hissed just centimetres above our heads.
Despite such inconveniences, we soon settled into a routine, by day setting mist-nets (which are like fine fishing nets and are set on poles) in order to sample bats and cage traps for rats, then spotlighting and monitoring the nets and traps at night as we searched for other wildlife. It was an exhausting routine, but as our time on Woodlark was limited we needed to make the most of each night. On top of this workload, we needed to investigate caves in which cave-dwelling bats might live. When we’d first arrived I explained this to the head of the village council. My request for help in identifying such caves elicited an enthusiastic, if wide-eyed, response. I’d been too busy to follow up immediately, so I was mildly surprised when he arrived at our residence one morning and enquired anxiously about when we would go to the caves. I suggested that, if it suited him, we could go the following morning.
I was expecting a long walk, but to my amazement a pick-up truck—one of the few on the island—arrived at the crack of dawn. In it sat the councillor and his wife, and soon we were rattling towards a limestone ridge a few kilometres inland. As we bumped along the dirt track, the councillor confided in a conspiratorial tone that treasure—in the form of Kula shell valuables—was to be found in the caves. One kind of Kula valuable is made of pearl shell ornamented with carved nuts and beads. These are exchanged clockwise around the eighteen islands of the Kula Ring in magnificent traditional canoes. A second kind of Kula valuable in the form of shell armbands is exchanged counter clockwise. The custodianship of the valuables brings tremendous prestige. Yet they are never held by one individual for long—it is the relationship between the traders that is valued. A Kula partnership is a bit like a marriage, creating lifelong bonds and obligations. The most esteemed Kula valuables have individual names and histories, and the most important chiefs may have hundreds of Kula partners, and ownership of the valuables, even if only short-term, is essential to status.
Still whispering, barely audible above the noise of the engine, the councillor requested that, if I happened to see any Kula valuables in my wanderings, would I mind bringing them out with me? Then he casually dropped the news that the caves had been used as a cemetery since time immemorial and were haunted. Finally he stressed that, if I found a Kula valuable, under no circumstances should I hand it to himself or his wife. Instead, I should go and sit in the back of the pick-up with the object in my hands, and when we got back to Guasopa I should place it on the ground beside the councillor’s house. If it was still there the following morning, he said, then the ancestors must want him to have it and he would become a rich man. These rather mystifying instructions left me with more questions than answers and a feeling that masolai, as ghosts and spirits are known in Melanesia, were believed to guard the caves. In any case, it was dawning on me that I was being kept in the dark about many aspects of the enterprise.
The truck stopped at the top of a low limestone slope covered in primary rainforest. The trees were huge and liana-hung, and the calls of birds and insects sounded everywhere from the undisturbed bush. Clearly this was a place where the islanders didn’t go. I took a few steps away from the truck, looking back at the councillor. I was expecting him to lead the way, but he was sitting determinedly, hardly daring to look towards the bush much less get out of the vehicle. Noticing my confusion, he gestured westward, telling me in an agitated voice to go that way and to keep walking until I reached the caves. So I set off in my new role as ghost-whisperer.
It’s very easy to get lost in such country; the broken limestone is like a labyrinth, and the bush is so dense that one can quickly become disoriented. It took me several hours of cursing and wandering, and avoiding half-grown-over sinkholes, to find anything like a cave. Unfortunately the one I came across had collapsed, but a few bones and pottery fragments among the rubble indicated that it had indeed been used for a burial. Unfortunately, neither bats nor Kula valuables were in evidence.
As I stumbled back to the car, flailing at insects and vines, and covered in sweat, the eyes of the councillor and his wife widened in alarm. Though I must have looked an uncouth sight, at first I didn’t understand the reason for their panic. Then it dawned on me that perhaps they thought the masolai had, as a punishment for my impertinent investigation, sent me stark raving mad. Feigning the wild-eyed look and antics of a man possessed, I dashed towards the truck, and for about two seconds I thought that the councillor and his wife might die of fright at the sight of this devil-possessed dim dim (white man) rapidly closing in on them. Regretting my joke, I managed to convince them that I had encountered neither Kula valuables nor ghosts, at which they seemed mighty relieved, if a trifle crestfallen.
The experience had left me pretty knocked-up and that evening, after walking the trap-lines and checking the nets, I finally crawled into my sleeping-bag around midnight. In the wee hours I was roused from a deep sleep by what sounded like a maniac loose in the house. Tins, cups and plates were being hurled around the room, people were screaming, and a huge whiplike object was swinging above my head. For a second I feared that the cave-dwelling masolai might indeed have followed me home, but I grabbed a torch and saw that the ruckus was caused by a metre and a half of very strong and angry snake. It had forced a hole in the corner of the canvas bag and was trying violently to free itself, a cat- or cuscus-sized bulge in its midriff the only thing preventing it from doing so.
There was no option but to lie as flat as possible and grope around the floor for an implement with which to restrain it. Grope as I might, the only thing that came to hand was a rubber thong. Thus far I’d managed to stay low enough to avoid the thrashing creature, but its enormous head was now waving about in my direction, its eyes full of indignation and anger. To this day I don’t know how I did it, but somehow I managed to pin its head against the wall with the thong, then to corral the writhing mass precariously under it long enough for Tish to find another cloth bag big enough to hold it. Thrusting both snake and holed bag in, I cursed the absent Dr Mengden and his slithering objects of study, and hoped that he would not be too long delayed.
As it transpired, the great snake expert arrived the following evening. Greg was an Olympic wrestler in his youth. With a big black beard and muscular frame, he has an imposing presence, softened only by the kindest of smiling eyes. When I saw him that evening, however, those eyes were not smiling. Greg’s stay among the Islands of Love had been beset by misfortune.
CHAPTER 2
Arrival of the Snake Man
I had hoped to visit Kiriwina, but the workload on Woodlark was just too great. So I asked Lester Seri to do some collecting there and in particular to keep an eye out for a large bandicoot that might still inhabit the island. I’d found a clue to its presence while rummaging in the museum collections, in the form of a stuffed skin whose tag stated that it had been collected forty years earlier on Kiriwina. Bandicoots are rabbit-sized, ground-dwelling marsupials that eat invertebrates and fruit. In the lowlands of New Guinea, a genus of bandicoots with spiny fur, Echymipera, tends to predominate. Bandicoots have the shortest gestation of any mammal—just eleven days in some species, and females can give birth while they are still suckling from their own mother. Such rapid reproduction is the key to their survival, for they are a major food source in many villages and without rapid replenis
hment hunting would lead to their extinction.
The specimen from Kiriwina differed from all others I’d seen in its large size, chocolate brown colour, and in having hefty pre-molars which seemed capable of crushing hard foods such as nuts. It was clearly a species new to science, and it had been collected by my predecessor-bar-one as curator of mammals at the Australian Museum, Ellis Le Geyt Troughton. Why, I wondered, had he not described the creature and given it a scientific name? That bandicoot would set me on a quest that would reveal as much about the history of the museum that had employed me as it would about island biodiversity.
The Australian Museum’s archives revealed that Ellis Troughton had spent his entire working life at the institution. He had joined aged fifteen, in 1908, with the very first intake of museum cadets. The position of museum cadet has long since vanished, but after a few inquiries among the older staff I discovered that it was a kind of apprenticeship. The idea was a novel one for a museum, and it seems to have originated with the museum’s director at the time, Robert Etheridge Jr, who served from 1895 until 1919. The museum board probably approved the idea because cadets provided cheap labour—a mere £26 per year—half an average museum salary. But there may have been another reason why they were instituted, and in particular why Troughton was chosen in the first intake.
John Calaby, one of Australia’s greatest mammalogists and a keen book collector, thought he’d discovered a clue when he was trawling through a second-hand bookshop in Sydney. He came across a children’s book called The Dumpy Book of Animals, which was inscribed, ‘To Ellie, on his 9th birthday, with love from his father’. John recognised the handwriting as that of Robert Etheridge Jr, and reflecting on the striking physical similarity between Etheridge and Troughton as revealed in old staff photos, surmised that Troughton may have been the illegitimate son of the director and the museum’s charwoman.