by R. B. Shaw
“So they say. They regard the area as a ‘place tambu’, because twenty tribesmen were killed by the evil Maselai when they plundered the ark of valuables, including piles of ‘spirit stones’. The legend states that the Maselai killed them in three quick cataclysms.”
“What are spirit stones?”
“Just abnormally marked stones the size and shape of a smooth doughnut. Others are like a large hen’s egg. Usually these egg-shaped stones are scarred or grooved and another I saw was simply an agate thunder-egg created through volcanic fallout. The natives believe they have supernatural powers, which can bring a man anything he desires. I’ve attempted to stamp out the belief and have the stones destroyed, but by tradition they’ve been handed down from father to son since time immemorial.” Father James now seemed enthralled with his own rhetoric, as though the discussion might give one more clue about the mysterious ark. “Incidentally, in a Bible class over ten years ago, the text on the Great Flood in our scripture book started with the name ‘Noah’. In typical Bible fashion, the ‘N’ in ‘Noah’ was a quarter-page high, gold and heavily embellished. Alongside was a painting of the Ark. The Digendi tribesmen were aghast at the ‘N’ symbol, the story of Noah and picture of his Ark. It was about this time the pendants started to appear and Digendi tribesmen deserted my classes.”
I laughed in the embarrassed silence. “They’ve certainly got wild imaginations, but it isn’t a classic cargo cult pattern. Their supposed riches are already there. Why don’t they just take them?” I suggested.
“They’re scared of the killer Maselai and are waiting for Nopondi to seek revenge and kill him so they can claim the riches.”
“Nopondi?”
“The spirit protector of the tribes.”
Father James then called to one of the mission assistants in pidgin. “Haifu, tell masta Dave the story of Nopondi and Noah.”
Haifu’s eyes shuffled between Father James and I—it was obviously a tambu subject for a mission worker.
I listened intently to his story. He told how long ago, word had reached the Digendi from the northern side of the mountain that brave Ramu warriors had climbed Gomugomugo. They brought back treasure from a boat on the mountain, including the yellow metal much prized by the white man. A large group of Digendi warriors climbed the mountain and eventually found the ark. As they were carrying the plunder and the spirit stones from the ship, the invisible Maselai struck three times, tearing the men limb from limb. The survivors ran off in panic at the ferocity of the attack, taking little plunder with them. Over twenty men never returned and the area has been tambu and a sacred “Place Maselai” ever since.
According to the Digendi, Nopondi would eventually kill the Maselai. Haifu ended his tale saying the evil Maselai had never been seen, but frequently his mournful howling could be heard as he haunted his sacred ark.
“I think I’d lay my money on the Maselai. Nopondi doesn’t seem interested.” My joke went down like a lead balloon.
By the looks I was getting, I was the only one who didn’t put some truth in the legend. Even Father James looked serious.
“When is your helicopter arriving?” he asked suddenly.
“Probably Thursday morning,” I replied, “but it’s not our helicopter. It belongs to Helicabs. We’re only leasing it. There’s been a shortage due to an incident.”
Within an hour I was in bed trying to sleep. The story of the Digendi’s ‘Noah’s Ark’ kept playing on my mind, imaginary phantoms of Nopondi and the evil Maselai haunting my room.
I was sorting some tools and equipment when I heard the drone of the approaching aircraft. Father James rose and walked to the door. “That will be the mail plane,” he said, then walked outside.
I followed in time to see the Tarangau Cessna 185 pass low overhead. Father James called some mission workers onto the small sports field to await the mail drop. One hand shielded his eyes as he searched for the plane in the glare of the early morning sun.
“There it is,” I shouted. The 185 could be seen, but not heard, moving slowly straight toward us now, flaps down and power off. It was just above the foliage, crabbing sideways into the stiff crosswind. The pilot’s window was open. A white canvas bag appeared, then plummeted down to the sports field. The pilot waved, opened the throttle and banked to avoid the rising terrain behind Tepsugl village.
Father James peered through his bifocals, scrutinising a handful of mail. “There’s some letters for you here, David.” I hadn’t expected any messages. The first was in a Tarangau Airlines envelope.
Mr David J Stark
C/- Tepsugl Mission,
Chimbu Province.
Dave,
Due to technical difficulties with the 402 at Prinzberg, have pulled out Pete and Chris in your absence. We have a shortage of reconditioned aircraft engines, so I am sending Chris up Tuesday afternoon with a truck to bring back the 206 engine. According to Lance’s statement the engine couldn’t have been heavily damaged. It has to be stripped for an impact inspection anyway, so we will overhaul it and use some parts on the 402 at Prinzberg. Make it your first task to remove the engine and get the helicopter pilot to fly it to Chris at Tepsugl. We’ll sort out insurance problems later. I hope these arrangements meet with your approval.
Regards and Good Luck,
Alf Campbell.
Managing Director, Tarangau Airlines.
The new plans certainly would not create any problems. It would be good to have Fang as company in this primitive community—might in fact stir the place up.
“Good morning, Father James.”
I turned at the unfamiliar sound of a young woman’s voice. Father James was greeting a tall slim woman, pretty with shoulder length brown hair. The only drawback to my way of life was the scarcity of sights such as this. As the couple chatted, I took the opportunity to indulge in a detailed inspection. I thought she was stunning—not surprisingly, considering how long I’d been away from women and city life.
She had high cheekbones, small nose and sensuous lips, almost oriental in appearance. She turned and caught my gaze. Her wide and lively brandy-brown eyes were edged by long dark lashes. They mingled with an untidy fringe of hair. Somewhat embarrassed, I nodded. “Hi.”
“Good morning.” She smiled self-consciously. Her breasts pressed against the faded denim of her dress as she breathed heavily from her exertions.
“Oh, I am sorry, David,” said Father James. “Jan Harper, this is David Stark. He’s staying with us a few days. Salvaging the plane that crash-landed on Mt Wilhelm.”
“Oh yes,” she said, stooping to loosen the laces of her green canvas jungle boots. “I’ve just spent two days high on the mountain, near Pindaunde Lakes.”
Jan was facing me now. I couldn’t help wondering what she was doing here, isolated from civilisation in the middle of these mountainous jungles. I decided to try the obvious line.
“And what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like Tepsugl. Are you a missionary?”
She laughed. “Good Heavens no. I’m on annual vacation, that’s all. I’m a part-time anthropologist and dabble in botany and geology too. The Pindaunde Lakes are perfect on all counts.”
Father James, who had gone off to deliver some mail to the villagers, appeared beside me again.
“Yes, David, Jan is an international travel adviser from Sydney. She’s staying here a few weeks in the Kiap’s hut. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
I let him go without a qualm. “Do you take an interest in local cults and legends then?” I asked Jan.
“You mean the Digendi cargo cult?” She smiled, exposing perfect teeth.
“As a matter of fact yes. What’s your opinion of it?”
“A legend, as you said. I haven’t come across any tambu areas yet.”
Jan and I lunched together on the front verandah of the Mission annexe and talked of the Chimbu region and Tepsugl. The conversation eventually changed to our mutual hometown of Sydney. We were sippi
ng drinks when villagers yelled that a truck was coming up the hill.
“Excuse me, Jan,” I said, getting up. “But that will be my mate from Goroka.”
The bright yellow Chevy Blitzwagon laboured up the grade, heavy bullbars disfiguring the front of the already ugly vehicle. The mud-bespattered table-top truck came to a halt in the midst of a large crowd of onlookers. I couldn’t see Fang through the huddled mass, but could hear him. “C’mon, piss off, what d’ya think this is, the second comin’ of Christ or somthin’?” He pushed his way out of the throng, saw me and his bearded face lit up. “G’day Blossom. Bit cooler here than in Prinzberg, eh?” He looked like a refugee from a spaghetti western, grey and white poncho, jeans and his trademark Stetson curled cowboy style. He had brought Jake along—a wise move.
Fang studied the Digendi populace with obvious distaste. “Answer me two questions, Blossom. Who are the best looking people here and why are we?”
I ignored the question. “What went wrong with the 402?”
His eyes looked past me—he’d seen Jan. “Tarangau had only one spare engine, even for a ferry flight, so they need parts of Lance’s 206. Other than that it’s ready to go.” He nodded toward the verandah. “Who’s the gorgeous bird?”
“Her name’s Jan, a spare-time anthropologist from Australia staying at the Mission a few weeks.”
“Well, things are looking better all the time. C’mon, introduce me.”
Within an hour, Fang had drawn on his knowledge of all Jan’s favourite subjects. They had also organised to go on a bush hike back to the lakes, while I was up at the crash site with the helicopter. Fang had a new pair of bush boots, Canadian Kodiaks, and wanted to break them in.
“Sounds ideal,” he said, “Only way to break in new boots—walk through a river and then keep walking till they dry on your feet. They’ll be comfortable forever more.”
Later that afternoon Fang and I wandered around Tepsugl, exploring the mission-influenced village. I pointed out the native with the gold ‘N’ pendant and explained the Digendi legend. Once again, gold lust lit up in Fang’s eyes; he approached the native and attempted to barter for the pendant. The proud and stubborn warrior wouldn’t relent, even when Fang offered a straight swap for his Puma Whitehunter sheath-knife.
The unsuccessful exchange attempt left Fang in an ugly mood, but later he recounted how he had procured some golden guilders at Prinzberg. He had invited some of the Prinzberg villagers into camp and offered them beer. Finally, in a drunken stupor, one of them elected to take Fang’s Zeiss sunglasses in exchange for his guilder necklace. Under heavy pressure from Fang, the drunk said he had traded the coin necklace off a stranger, who told him the valuable, magic coins came from high in the mountains, near Bundi. “The same area Bill mentioned in respect of the gold dust?” I said.
Fang pulled a piece of paper from his wallet. “I asked a pilot to take the guilders to the coin store in Lae and he sent back this information.” Fang continued reading off the form. “‘Koningin Wilhelmina’ and ‘God Zij Met Ons’ means ‘Queen Wilhelmina’ and ‘God Be With Us.’ Also the Dutch discontinued solid gold currency in 1933. There’s more of that impossibly pure gold turning up, both in powder form and now, in small nuggets. So I had a good talk to the assayer in Goroka. He said the raw alluvial gold is usually a layer of granules through conglomerate rock, and generally contaminated by quartz, feldspar and magnetite. But he says this stuff from the Ramu is as pure as after the elaborate mercury separation process.”
For a moment there was silence, each of us in a private gilded dream. “Unusual that the gold is so pure in the raw. Something strange going on here, Fang.” I rolled the shiny gold coins around in my hand. “And I wonder where these originated. It’s too isolated from the old Dutch New Guinea colony here. If the Dutch discontinued solid gold currency before World War Two, then it’s odd they should start appearing now.”
Father James La Rossa was elated at the number of people for dinner at the Mission. As well as Fang, Jake and I, he had invited Jan. She looked elegant in a long floral tropical shift and prettier than ever with a light touch of make-up.
Jan was already sitting adjacent to the head of the table and I deliberately avoided the end seat and sat opposite her. Fang seized his opportunity and grabbed the chair at the head of the table between us.
Father James sat beside Jan. I waited for the obvious question. “Chris, as you are at the head of the table, would you mind saying grace?”
Fang was stunned and gave me a murderous look. In return I smiled, closed my eyes and bowed my head. There was a long silence and I knew the others were peeping at Fang and waiting. All of a sudden, Fang burst out in a voice full of fire and brimstone.
“Almighty God our Father, from whom we come and unto whom our spirits return, thou hast been our dwelling place in all generations. Thou art our refuge and our strength, an ever- present help in trouble. Lift our eyes beyond the shadow of earth and help us to see the light of eternity. So may we find grace and strength for this and every time of need, through Jesus Christ our Lord. We thank Thee O Lord for the blessing we are about to receive. Amen.”
It was my turn to be amazed. I couldn’t imagine Fang being so religious. He winked at me as I stared open-mouthed, and whispered, “How’d you like that, Blossom?”
Father James gave Fang a quizzical look. “Very good, Chris, but somewhat out of context, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but it’s readily adaptable, isn’t it?” Fang replied.
Father James elected not to comment and began breaking bread. Fang and Father James were getting on quite well, considering Fang was an agnostic and had hated most Americans ever since Vietnam. Conversely, Father James regarded sarcasm as the lowest form of wit.
After finishing dinner, Father James looked around the table. “This is the largest gathering I’ve had at the dinner table since 1942. I had eight when the war refugees started trickling through from Madang and the north coast.”
I took up the subject. “You’ve been here a long time. Your Mission must have been a blessing to the refugees from Madang in the path of the advancing Japanese.”
Father James didn’t seem to hear my comment and his thoughts were searching back through the decades as he continued. “Yes, it was a cold night just like this and about this time. Myself, my assistant and four Sacred Heart nuns were sitting here, as we are now. The nuns had spent nine days trekking through jungles and over mountains to escape the Japanese. They were escorted by Australian Coastwatchers who immediately returned to Madang. The nuns were in a terrible condition and suffering from malaria. It took two weeks before they were strong enough to trek onwards to Mt Hagen, where they were later flown out to Australia.”
Father James seemed to have concluded his story midstream. “Who were the other two?” I enquired.
“Oh yes, I seem to have missed the whole point of the story. We were about to start dinner, when the door burst open and some of the villagers reported that two bedraggled refugees had collapsed outside. One of them was an East-Indian, now called Indonesian, in Army uniform. The other was a Dutch Naval Captain judging by the tattered remains of his uniform. He had a badly injured foot and a nasty gash on his forehead. The poor fellow was incoherent and babbled like a madman.”
Our intense silence prompted Father James to continue. “The Indonesian spoke a little English, but was reluctant to do so. When I queried if their ship had been wrecked on the north coast, he just nodded agreement and said no more. I sent them on later to Mt Hagen with the nuns and never saw them again.”
Fang and I were suddenly alert and pressed Father James for further details of the two men and their ship, but Father James had told us everything he knew. He reiterated that the Indonesian had told him precious little, but remembered that the Dutch Naval officer seemed to be in constant fear of attacking Japanese aircraft.
In our room after dinner, Fang rolled out his sleeping bag and opened a bottle of Rhum Negrita. We mixed in s
ome Cola and began discussing gold, Dutch coins and wrecked ships.
“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” he said.
“I think so.” I was cautious. “Somewhere on the north coast or up the Ramu River there’s a bombed-out Dutch ship that was transporting Dutch money and gold.”
Fang smiled. “It all pieces together nicely—attacked by Jap aircraft, abandoned, and some of the crew escape the Jap advance by walking overland to Tepsugl. The natives of the area later discover the wreck and this accounts for the gold dust, guilders and the Digendi ‘ark’ legend.”
I nodded agreement. “Right, we’ve got a bit of extra investigating to do when we return to Goroka.” We clinked our glasses together in a mock toast.
Fang changed the subject and informed me that in Goroka, Pete had contacted the Aviation Historical Society in regard to our Zero, which had now been safely barged to Madang. “Japanese Aviation correspondents reported that our Zero was used in the attack on Pearl Harbour. The pilot’s name was Yoshiro Naguro. He’s still alive and is now the manager of a Japanese hotel in Honolulu.” Fang went on to say he had written to Yoshiro, offering him his old Zero for sale.
I smiled. “Strange, isn’t it, that a man who once bombed the hell out of a place, would decades later be the manager of a hotel there?”
We talked about what price we might get for the Zero, then about the next day’s procedures for salvaging Lance’s 206. We heard Father James saying goodnight to Jan back at the dining room. As she passed our verandah, Fang stepped out and asked if she would like to have a rum with us. She declined.
“Thanks anyway, Chris, but I’ve recently had hepatitis and don’t forget we have an early start in the morning.”
Disappointed, he stepped back inside.
“Nice try, Fang, better luck tomorrow,” I said. “By the way, where did you learn to say grace like that?”
Fang took a long drink and laughed. “That was a slightly modified version of the Burial Service I learned in Vietnam.”