An Encounler Wilh Ihe
Mon-Eoling Savages of
Moloilo
•
An Out-of-the-Industry Feature
by
Lieut. Harry E. Rieseberg
Internationally recogn ized as the lore most authority on sunken
treasure ships and world·record retainer lor depth salvage in an
all-metal deep-sea diving robot.
A nose-punctured cannibal warrior Irom the hill country
01 Malaita. where l ew white men have ever explored
or penetrated.
heard me coming
A s up the the Englishman
steps to his verandah he put
down his book and pulled the battered
stem of his pipe from between his teeth.
"All set, Lieutenant?" he asked.
" Yes," I replied, "we're leaving. I don' t
know when I'll be back in Papua again,
Masters - maybe never - so I thought I'd
better stop in and say farewell to you."
"Glad you did, old man. Here, sit down
a minute and we'll have a little chat."
I eased myself into a creaking wicker
chair while my friend shouted for his
houseboy. Then Masters turned back to
me. "So you're off for Brougham Shoals,
eh?"
"Yes, Masters," I said, "we're headed
that way."
"Well, I wish you success, Lieutenant."
His eyes narrowed as he looked off across
the Coral Sea in the direction of the far
distant Solomon Islands. "Bad country
down that way," he said.
"Hurricanes?" I suggested.
"Not that so much - it's the natives
I'm thinking of. Damned wild lot in parts
of the Solomons - cannibals in some
places. Brougham Shoals is all right. You
won't have any trouble there, but stay
away from Bauro or Malaita - unless you
haven't any choice."
Masters had been British Deputy Com·
missioner in charge of the Solomons for
several years so he knew what he was talk·
in g about, but I just grinned at his warn-
ing. "Don't worry about me," I told him,
"I ca n take care of myself."
"I suppose so." His eyes ranged along
my six foot two frame that t ipped the
scales at two hundred and ten pounds.
"You' d make damned good 'long-pig' for
a ~a nnibal f,east," he .laug~~d.
.
Not me, I told him.
When It comes
to ca nnibal parties, you can count me out."
A week later I was to recall those words
with a shudder that was more than super-
stitious.
•
•
•
My small schooner had pushed its blunt
nose through the strait that lies between
Guadalcanal and Bauro Islands when Rom,
my native boy, came hurrying up with the
unpleasant news .that our last cask of
drinking water had sprung a leak. There
was only one answer to that - we had to
have fresh water without delay.
Before us, off the port bow, loomed the
serrated creat of a volcanic range. "We'll
pu t in there," I told Rom, pointing ahead.
"Malaita?" he asked.
"Yes, we ought to find water there," I
replied.
Shortly we slipped into a small cove and
dropped anchor. All six of us, my five
native crew boys and myself, set out from
the schooner in the dinghy and two canoes.
We had strapped on our revolvers and
loaded our small boats with empty water
barrels. Thus equipped we headed for
shore.
Malaita doesn't look like much of a place
on the ordinary' maps, yet actually it's a
hundred miles long by thirty wide - and
no white man has ever crossed the jagged
mountains that run lengthwise like a giant
backbone through the center of the island.
Any number of savage tribes inhab it the
place, and there must be c1os~ to a hu n-
dred and fifty thousand black men who
call this home. We'd heara enough tales
•
BELOW LEFT: Priest 01 the Cannibal Tribes
01 Malaita in C eremon ial regalia. CENTER :
Preparing their primitive meal. RIGHT: These
three belles 01 Malaita were girls taken on
raids by t he cannibal tribes Irom the inner
hill country. Th ei, clothing problems are
exceptionally simple.
about it to know that Mala ita was not a
healthy spot for outsiders.
As we neared shore, we came to the
mouth of what happened to be a good sized
stream with low lying banks on either
side, instead of the usual abrupt head-
lands. We could see occasional patches
of mangrove swamp, and beyond a sinister
and impenetrable forest that ranged from
palms near tidewater to ebony and sandal-
wood on the upper slopes of the hills. We
went slowly up the narrow stream.
An air of mysterious menace hung over
the silent land, and one had a sense of
some veiled threat behind this quiet scenp,.
Instinctively we rowed without noise or
splashing. Suddenly Rom held up his
hand. "Listen!" he said gesturing off to
the right.
We cocked our ears in that direction.
Presently we were rewarded by a whisper-
ing sound that permeated the mute jungle
and brought to us a subdued murmuring '
like the breaking of surf at a great dis·
tance. I had heard waterfalls before -
there was no mistak ing it.
"Far away?" I asked Rom.
"Not far," he answered. We went on ,
quietly as before.
Around the next bend we discovered a
feeder stream. Rom poin ted to this tribu-
tary branching off to the right and indi-
cated that our most likely passage lay in
that direction. The dark wall of the jungle
looked anything but hospitable. I leaned
over the side of the dinghy and tasted the
water of the feeder stream. It had a foul,
brackish flavor. We just had to have fr.esh
water before we could sail again.
"All right," I said, "let's go on."
But Rom didn' t move. Impatiently
turned to h im, and caught a puzzled frown
on his face. He was half crouched, leaning
forward intently, listening: Then I got it
- a deep, undulating rhythm of sound that
Ct:>/N
MACHINE
REVIEW
11
FOR
DECEMBER
1941