Free Fear Drive My Feet by Peter Ryan

beginning to
make some headway, I still found it hard to understand more than a fraction of what
the natives were saying, because they spoke pidgin so rapidly.
    At nightfall Les announced that he felt quite fit again, so we summoned the luluai
and told him to have enough carriers ready in the morning to take our combined equipment
– about a dozen boy-loads in all.
    Before eight next morning we had packed our gear and were on the road. It was necessary
to cross the Erap for the last time just opposite the village. The water was not
running as swiftly as it had been two days before, and we got over easily enough.
Once across, we found that the river swung away to the north-west, while our path
lay in a north-easterly direction. We caught only one glimpse of the Erap after that.
    The track was good, though it climbed steadily and the kunai slopes gave way more
and more to areas of forest. The creeks were crystal clear and cold as they tumbled
through their rocky courses.
    A couple of hours’ steady walking brought us to Munkip, a tiny village on the way
to Gain. The ‘doctor-boy’ greeted us and we sat down for a few minutes in the shade
of the house-kiap to catch our breath and glance at the remarks in the village book.
    In peacetime, local government of the natives had been organized along the following
lines: Three natives in each community were appointed by the government officer to
be village officials. The luluai, or headman, was the senior, and would probably
have been a leader of his people in their primitive state. Being an older man, he
frequently had not learnt to speak pidgin English, the lingua franca of the Territory,
and so a somewhat younger assistant and interpreter was appointed, called a tultul. The tultul had usually been away for a period of employment on a mine or plantation,
and so had some slight acquaintance with the ways of the white man. The third village
official was the doctor-boy, who had received elementary training in hygiene at one
of the native hospitals and who also knew some of the principles of first aid. The
official insignia of these three dignitaries was a peaked cap, sometimes of incredible
dilapidation. It bore one broad red band, like a staff officer’s cap, for the luluai;
two narrow red bands for the tultul; and a white band with a red cross for the doctor-boy.
Wearing their caps, and a loincloth round their middles, it was the custom for them
to greet the kiap at the entrance to the village, each usually giving his own fantastic
version of the military salute.
    The village book contained the names of all people of the village, arranged in families.
Births, deaths, marriages, and migrations were recorded by each officer who made
the yearly census of the village, and at the back of the book were entered his comments
and general remarks, and hints for the next visiting officer. It was to these remarks
that we now turned, in search of any chance information about the country through
which we were passing.
    One interesting fact came to light: a company had sought the right to obtain kunai-grass
in the area for the purpose of manufacturing paper. It was news to Les and me that
the wretched stuff could be used for anything except thatching, but apparently it
can yield paper of a very good quality. However, no active steps had been taken to
put the project into operation.
    We were thirsty after the long climb up from the bottom of the Erap Valley, and asked
the doctor-boy for a drink of water. He shouted to one of the women, who presently
hurried along with a length of green bamboo full of clean, cool water from a nearby
creek.
    The use of these bamboos was another instance of the extraordinarily clever way in
which these so-called primitive people had adapted themselves to their surroundings.
The bamboos were cut in lengths up to five feet, and three or four inches in diameter.
The interstices, or ‘joints’, were then knocked out with a long pointed stick, and
the result was a