Free Fear Drive My Feet by Peter Ryan Page B

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half a dozen chattering grass-skirted women carrying large bilums, or string bags,
walked across the clearing towards the house-kiap. They carried their bilums by putting
them over their backs and suspending them by a string that passed across their foreheads.
If the strain became too great the women would walk with hands clasped behind their
heads to relieve the backward drag. In this fashion, loads that would almost have
broken a mule’s heart were carried. Often you could hardly see the woman who carried
the load, which consisted of perhaps forty pounds of sweet potatoes, the next day’s
stack of firewood, a cooking-pot or two, and sometimes a child to top the pile. But
no doubt they were used to it, and they seemed remarkably cheerful as they spread
their wares on the grass, each standing by her pile waiting for me to buy.
    The tultul translated my question into ‘talk-place’, or the local dialect, for the
women did not speak pidgin. ‘Do you want salt, money, newspaper, or tobacco?’ I asked.
    Without exception each chose a handful or so of coarse salt, and carefully parcelled
it up in a leaf tied with vine. They were obviously delighted with their bargain,
which astonished me when I looked at what I had received in exchange. There were
piles of cabbages, sweet potatoes, English potatoes, tomatoes, papaws, bananas, sweet
corn, and pineapples. The German Lutheran Mission, which had been established in
the area for many years, was mainly responsible for the presence of these imported
plants, and one could buy fine-quality English potatoes almost anywhere in the mountains
of the Huon Peninsula, though they did not thrive in the low-lying coastal areas.
    With a confidential wink, the luluai sidled up and handed me a small bundle tied
up in a filthy rag. I opened it gingerly, to find six eggs. The old man’s grin spread
from one black ear to the other as I called out delightedly to Les, ‘Hey, look at
this! Eggs for breakfast!’
    ‘Good-oh – they’ll go well! Buy ’em and don’t break ’em!’ Les said enthusiastically.
    I was about to give the old boy a shilling and a smoke when Kari stepped quickly
between us. ‘Master, you no can buyim! Me tryim first time suppose ’em ’e stink!’
    Kari had been told to look after me, and he was taking it seriously. He called for
a dish of water, but since none of the eggs floated we reckoned they were good, and
handed over the payment. We also asked the luluai and tultul to come up to the house
later in the evening, so that we could have a chat.
    ‘Wash-wash’ was the next item of camp routine. Two buckets of water were heated over
the fire in the ‘house-cook’ – a small shelter attached to the house-kiap – and a
couple of banana-leaves were spread on the ground for a bath-mat. With a mug we poured
hot water from the bucket over ourselves, lathered up, and rinsed the soap off with
more hot water from the mug. All this was watched by an interested throng of natives
of both sexes and all sizes. It was the only way in which I took a bath in the next
year or so, for to bathe in the icy streams of these mountains was to invite an attack
of malaria.
    Though Les had a couple of natives as servants and camp usefuls, we had no cook,
so I prepared dinner myself. The menu comprised fried tinned sausages, cabbage, potato-chips,
and fried tomatoes, and fruit salad, followed by several pints of very strong and
excellent coffee made from coffee-beans grown in Wau – I had taken care to scrounge
a big tin before setting out for the Markham.
    Les sighed with delicious anticipation as I put his meal in front of him. ‘By God,
that looks good!’ Settling the plate firmly on his knee, he ate ravenously.
    Except for the sausages our meal was all of local produce. In this country the only
rations we had to carry were the typically European foods – tea and sugar, tinned
milk and meat, jam, biscuits, and flour. Fresh meat could sometimes be bought from
the natives –