Dear Diary – what one could call an Interesting day out. The festivities being mostly over (as was the supply of cake, alas) we ventured out Southwards after breakfast, to Haio Village, where the German run general shop is. A useful landmark, and a pleasant place to meet up. We had only a few minutes to wait before the welcome sight of Jirry and his next-older brother Marti appeared, stepping out of the jungle that presses in around the village. 
    Whatever they had been doing in the past week, the brothers appear to have been working decidedly hard – it seems I am not the only one who will be needing to let out some working clothes. Happily, with the Native costume being what it is,  Jirry and his family will have no worries about tailor’s bills …
    A most pleasant stroll along the beach Westwards followed, past the site of the old crashed Forsstman Triplane, hidden in the jungle – indeed, Marti tells me the shopkeeper is one of the original crew, some sixteen of them having made the epic flight. Haio Village, it seems, is mostly occupied by Natives who work in the big hotels around the Northern bay, being a mere half an hour’s walk away.  In the off season, they revert to a “traditional” life, farming their garden-plots, digging for shells and such. We passed several groups digging diligently away,  appearing quite happy to exchange the pressures of serving boatloads of demanding tourists, for the simpler, more relaxed life of their Ancestors. 
    The South side of the island was perfectly sheltered – all the more so as we stopped to look at a strange feature, something like an abandoned cellar, a stone-walled structure set just inland from the beach.  Oddly, at its entrance there was a wreath of fresh flowers – and though obviously empty,  the place seems to be kept in good repair. Helen did ask about this – to be told it is a relic of the Gunboat Wars, some quarter of a century ago,  which seem to feature so largely in island folklore, just below the surface.
    Looking at the structure with my perusal of “Jane’s All The World’s Fighting Trenches” fresh in mind, I volunteered that it appeared to be pointing inland – hidden by a sand ridge from the coast, but looking across the obvious strategic gap at the “neck” of the island.  Jirry seemed quite taken aback – and joked that although I had told him my Father is a General, he had never heard the talent was inheritable! My guess seems to be decidedly on target.
    We passed the second village, which I discover is called Ranganoa Beach,  though my Tourist map leaves it nameless.  Climbing the long ridge, we looked down on the wholly uninhabited West Coast of the island – a rather tangled, but definitely unspoiled section, with just a few trails leading to the beach.  In Spring,  it should be a splendid place for picnics and the like.
    I asked Jirry why the area seemed so isolated, considering we were little over a mile from the nearest big hotels on the North Bay.  The answer was intriguing  - the Tourists mostly go to specific areas, written up as “must-see” in the guidebooks. True, there are guided tours into the wilds – but Jirry points out that those are carefully routed to similar areas. Very few people ask their guides to take them to particular points on the map – and Marti hinted that they generally get shown patches of quicksand or leech-infested swamps to discourage them doing so. Considering the  Hoele'toemi family earn much of their living as guides in season, they know whereof they speak, as the Reverend Bingham would say.
    We had a most enjoyable picnic luncheon, Helen having remembered to bring blankets to spread on the sand, and the Hoele'toemi brothers had a hamper filled with local delicacies – the breadfruit cakes were a definite treat.  Indeed, Helen seemed to be very appreciative, of both the food and the company – despite not having been socially Introduced,  she was showing her definitely affectionate side for Marti.  (She has mentioned having – experience – in these matters, having been instructed rather than chaperoned by her Aunt, a most forward-thinking lady by her account.) Although not taking things to Quite such an extreme as Helen, I had a most enjoyable afternoon.
    (Dear Diary. Now I know why Helen asked if my Survival kit was fully stocked. It turns out that the “Water Carrier, Emergency, Elastic” has more than one use. Gosh!)
 

December 28th, 1934

   After our adventures yesterday,  I had expected to be somewhat exhausted – but quite the reverse, we were both up well before Breakfast, and busily planning the day. The House Rules permit us to leave the island only in parties of four or more – fortunately, Erica, Conchita and Noota had mentioned last night they were hoping to get to Casino Island. As Seniors, we were glad to have their company and advice for the trip.
    Erica was most impressed at our explorations (the ones we told her of, at any rate) and mentioned having spoken with Herr Rassberg, the shop-keeper in Haio Village. It seems he is not unusual for these islands – many Europeans settle here and adopt Native traditions, giving rise to such odd social groups as “Hula Junkers”, exiles from her own East Prussia. 
    The water-taxi ride over was uneventful, and we split up for the day, arranging a rendezvous for three in the afternoon.  At last, some leisure time to wander around Casino Island – even though most of it does seem to be closed for the season. We passed the famous club on the southern side, “The Coconut Shell” – and stopped to watch, as rehearsals were taking place on one of the outdoor stages.  Quite a sight!  We recognised two of the dancers as tutors from our Native Dance Class, but they were far too busy to talk with us. 
    Certainly, the island seemed busy enough despite the lack of tourists. All the shops were open, except for obvious souvenir stalls and tour agencies – and at last,  we managed to purchase some new Futurist records.  The covers are fine and stark pieces of art in their own right, and by the instruments depicted, it should be a most exhilarating performance. Having been forced to take Violin lessons and hating it, I can quite sympathise with the brave musicians manning their batteries of squealers, hissers, throbbers and exploders, without a traditional instrument in sight. 
   Helen claims she can barely get a tune out of a player piano, but has a fair chance of fixing one.  While her education may have been a little short on Culture, one cannot doubt she has plenty of practical experience, and is never afraid to acquire more ! Thinking of which, we must re-stock our survival kits, Helen having used the entire stock of certain items in both. Not an item, however, that either of us feel like making public inquiry about.
    A morning of shopping was a rare treat,  only brought to a halt by the increasing weight of our valises. I managed to find an Oriental-run general tailors and dressmaker, where a veritable crowd of tailor mice swarmed over me with measuring-tapes, calling out the results to the back-room in what I assume was Chinese.  There are certainly quite a number of Orientals here - I recall hearing that in the world as a whole, every third child born is Chinese (though I rather doubt it - my dear friend Mabel was the third in her family, and is purest Barsetshire.)
    Anyway,  I left not forty minutes later with a very handsome oiled silk suit, waterproof and perfectly fitting in a vaguely military cut, perfect for Winter explorations in these islands. The chief tailor assured me that the fabric would blend in with any background imaginable, providing it was green.  Certainly, my enlarged Allowance is proving very handy,  especially since we have had very few opportunities to shop – one must make the most of one’s chances.
    Luncheon was an excellent fish dish at “The Absent Coconut”, opposite our Native Dance classes – whose door has a sign, “Closed till New Year”.  In perhaps three weekends, we expect to be back there – until then, we shall just have to take our exercises in other ways to stay in condition. Looking over to Moon Island, just across the water scarcely half a mile away,  we spotted a big Caproni ca60 bis, making its approach from the direction of Tillamook. Fascinating! The four sets of wings were flashing in the sunlight, as it seemed to drift in and touch down effortlessly,  its comfortable houseboat-like hull making a swan-graceful landing.  Quite a contrast with the strange arrowhead-like monoplanes that our Aeronautical lecturer Herr Bussmann displays on his desk as the shape of future flight – according to him, there will be no future in firms supplying struts and bracing wires. And yet the Capronis are making Trans-ocean voyages, with sixty passengers apiece.  The moral of it seems to be, as aircraft demonstrably need wings, the more the better. 
    Having dined well, we continued exploring the North-East side of Casino island - obviously the oldest docks and warehouses are over here, some of them in need of a Spring cleaning (and in some cases, many Springs have passed between painting.) Certainly, this seems a place catering less to tourists - even at this time of year, the docks are very busy unloading crates, logs and less identifiable items.  One presumes that the Tanoaho family business is somewhere around here, supplying scrap iron and zinc for the peaceful Japanese economy.
    One thing we have seen very little of on Spontoon, is Authority - but we did notice a fair number of Police in the neighborhood of the Old China Dock, keeping a watchful eye on things. Possibly this is the part of town where those less advantaged than ourselves live (though as Helen points out rather acidly, that describes most people.) Still, what entertainments there are seem well-supported, mostly small taverns and cinemas.  To judge from the posters, they show a lot of Native Culture films, to judge by the minimal quantity of costume involved. No wonder the tailors here are so eager to see a customer, considering how much less demand there is for their wares than in the climate (both social and weather-wise)  back Home.
    Three o'clock was on us almost before we noticed, and we hurried back across the Park where V-Gerat had played so marvelously Starkly, and down to meet with the Seniors at the water-taxi dock. Another uneventful boat-ride back, and a dash up the road to the Spontari Guest House, just as the rain arrived for the evening. A splendid trip all round!
    (Evening).  A long talk indeed with Helen, before setting up the radio and contacting Jirry.  Helen pointed out that these islands are an excellent opportunity for Adventure, in various forms, in that nobody is keeping a close watch on us and reporting home. Even the teachers at Songmark certainly seem to encourage resourceful exploration, if tempered with carefully planned Discretion – as Helen says, “Folks don’t go a-tellin’ you what to do, but how to get away with it.”. 
    On contacting Jirry,  I confess I felt somewhat daunted – after all, we have only known each other two months – but Helen has been telling me tales of life in the oilfield towns, compared to which, anything I might be planning seems utterly discreet and decorous.  The Natives here do seem – relaxed – about such encounters, and indeed, when in Rome, do as the Romans, as our The Very Reverend “Loony” Pontephright used to say back home (before the Bishop had Words with him about conducting services clad in a toga. The Bishop had to concede that they were very well-attended sermons, though.)
    (Later). I am writing this by torch-light, unable to sleep properly. Fortunately, Helen is a sound sleeper – and more fortunately still,  she does not snore like Maria. I should have purchased some books today, as all I have to read is my one copy of the “Barsetshire Chronicle”,  and all the interesting scandals I have read through twice already.  Still, it is a definite reminder of Home,  even the market-day and local elections.  One wonders how the Islanders here run such things – back home it is a quite cheerful occasion,  all the candidates plying the voters with complementary beer and cider while they publicly harangue and insult each other.  My Family normally reserve an upstairs room overlooking the market square and watch the process of Government in action – ever so many broken heads and bloody noses, and everyone as drunk as can be!
    Still – one cannot expect much in the way of amenities out here – Casino Island apart,  we are very far from “Civilization”.  Despite it all, one must admit there are some fascinating local customs – and I am definitely looking forward to discovering more Native traditions…

December 29th, 1934

   A day of torrential rain indeed – not one for venturing outside in.  All eleven of us were thrown definitely on our own devices, which proved interesting. We had asked Erica, Noota and Conchita about constructing Native costumes, as they were wearing them in some of the photographs they had shown us of Yap Island. Mrs. Tanoaho took a motherly interest and provided some supplies – and with a brief dash out into the streaming jungle with a machete for fresh raw materials, we were well provided for the day’s construction. 
    Nine costumes later, (“Soppy” Forsythe and Methyl refused to take part) we looked like a genuine Native band. Or so I thought – until Mrs. Tanoaho smilingly started to point out errors of style. At least, I had the satisfaction of knowing I was  right not to attempt it as a disguise earlier, as even our more evolved costumes were blatant imitations that any true Spontoonie could spot fifty paces off. However, in the afternoon, we were taken through the finer points of native “tailoring” – until even our hostess grudgingly admitted we should pass muster.
    My own “costume” is one of the more conservative variations on the theme. Above my briefest bathing costume is a knee-length grass skirt, with a liana fibre “belt” holding it up – the waist section of the skirt is plaited, but the lower section hangs in separate strips, ensuring modesty. Some of the other girls are using coconut shells (provided by Mrs. Tanoaho from stock) as brassiere – alas, my figure hardly fills such, and I am making do with a plaited palm-leaf top, again held up by a liana fibre cord behind the neck. To be authentic of course, one would not have the bathing suit underneath, but presumably genuine Native girls either are assured their costumes will not suffer “catastrophic structural failure” (like my poor Flying Flea #1 endured in mid-flight), or are less concerned with retaining their modesty should it take place.
    Just before sunset the rain stopped, and the sun appeared from under the clearing clouds.  The party of us gathered outside decorating our costumes with what flowers and such we could find, much to “Soppy"’s  despair, as there are few enough around at this time of year for her to botanise.  I must confess, one feels really quite different dressed in Native style: doubly so knowing that the costume is at least half-way convincing. Any casual visitor from Home would look at me and see a daughter of the Islands, and not the daughter of General Bourne-Phipps! 
    Helen looks quite dashing in her own woven cape, with her stripes showing underneath – still quite covered-up by full Native standard.  She points out that the local costume may need replacing every few days,  but that it certainly saves on washing, with the daily rains doing quite as much refreshing as one might want.  Certainly, looking at myself in the mirror, I feel a very long way from Home – but with more to look forward to, I confess that it bothers me less all the time.
    Thinking of Home, this evening “Soppy” donated to us an eagerly-grabbed pile of newspapers from her native Lancashire.  Though a month old, they were handed round and discussed well into the night. Actually, compared with my own treasured “Barsetshire Chronicle” I found the whole collection rather lacking -  the scandals were very so-so, and the murders very uninspiring. Having been brought up on proper Country-house crimes, one expects a certain colour and flair to the business – the case at Lord Fforbesby’s estate last year involving the specially imported Peshwari assassin, the trained jackdaw and the bacon-slicer should give people the right sort of idea.
 

December 30th, 1934

   A day of exploration, Dear Diary.  While our Native costumes were still fresh, Helen and I  raced out after Breakfast, up over the col barefoot, picking our way over the softer grasses and mud – equipped with binoculars, but little else save some fruit in a bark pouch. I had been mentioning the exploits of my Uncle Gerald in the Bolshevist Revolution, and his escape across the Russian Steppe disguised as a peasant – when Helen was fired with a similar idea. In our regular guises,  we can be identified as non-Natives a mile away – and if anything interesting is happening over the hill,  folk will have plenty of time to cover up evidence. Hopefully anybody tracing our bare pawprints will not notice our starting to limp after a mile, not being used to doing without shoes.
    Once on the downhill side, we went cautiously, as silently as we could manage, towards the area we had heard the concrete-mixers at work. By the time we were half-way down, they had started again – and the next hour we spent inching nearer,  watching out carefully as we neared the site. At last, Helen spotted movement, and we took to the trees. Being of a feline persuasion is sometimes very handy – and I was glad that it was not Maria with me, staunch friend though she is.

    From the top of a large tree, we had an unbroken view of the excavations in full swing – easily fifty or sixty Natives hard at work, with a junior-sized steam shovel and two large concrete mixers.  I must say, they were much tidier than the workmen putting in new gas-mains and such at home – one could see them piling up the topsoil tidily, bucket-chains of other workers carefully scattering the excavated soil in the jungle while their comrades carefully “made good” the finished excavation with topsoil and saplings.  The main work seemed to be a big reservoir or pumping-station – at least,  a large and solid concrete structure, where the two pipes led into, and other pipes led out towards the sea. Helen was quite right – the hole is actually twice as deep as it appears, with two levels of pipes stacked one above the other.  A very strange arrangement – and surely a rather expensive one, considering this side of the Island is uninhabited ?
    At one point we thought we had been discovered – there were cries of alarm, and most of the workforce vanished into the trees, having thrown netting over the steam-shovel. But a minute later, we could breathe again, as an aircraft appeared overhead (a very strange-looking floatplane, one of those tubby GeeBee racers made yet more improbable by putting it on floats. The design idea appears to be to purchase the biggest radial engine available, and hide the smallest possible aircraft behind it.) Ten minutes later, evidently the “all clear” was given, and work resumed.
    Not wishing to spend all day watching concrete being poured, we cautiously descended our tree and made our way Southwards, to the less developed area of the pipeline. This took us an hour, as we hardly dared make noise cutting trails and such, and had to work our way through quite dense woods. Still, by lunchtime we were on the section that had been only surveyed and marked out – bamboo stakes indicating a big round structure, like the pumping-station now being cast.
    Very curious. Though all the engineering I have done has been of the aeronautical variety, I would have thought that pumping stations would be on the bottoms of hills, while this one is definitely on the top – and with an excellent view out over the beaches. Checking with my map, it overlooks the only decent-sized break in the reef on this side of the island – one could put quite fair-sized boats ashore here,  though there is no commercial reason to do such a thing.
    Helen was busily sketching up her recollections, having had no opportunity to wield pen and notebook while clinging to a branch at our last vantage-point.  She, at least, has had a passing acquaintance with a lot of industrial structures, oil tanks and pipelines (not all of them on fire at the time. It seems her late Father was often called upon to give his opinion as to their general safety, having seen so many unsafe models).
    From our treetop vantage point, we had been able to look at the concrete shuttering from above – and Helen pointed out a very strange feature.  Either the builders are most slovenly in putting their structures together, or the pumping stations are supposed to have concrete twice as thick on one side as the other – the side facing seawards, as it happens.
    We looked at the plans, and then at each other – having little other literature to read at the Spontari Guest House, Helen too has dug her way through all 300 illustrated pages of “Jane’s All The World’s Fighting Trenches”.  There is a cut-away diagram of one of the Maginot Line casemates in the centre of the book, with carefully described varying  thicknesses of concrete facing expected threats – and we have seen what looks like a baby version of the same thing, right here on Spontoon! Helen had argued with Madelene X last term about the publication, pointing out that it should be kept secret if it is to be of any use. (In theory it is, but since the French are employing the cheapest available engineers, many of whom happen to be German, the secrecy involved is about as watertight as a sieve in a typhoon.)
    I confess that the idea somewhat alarmed us – we had seen various references to Spontoon being a base for “Anti-Pirate Patrols”, which is all well and good and no doubt reassuring for the tourist trade.  This development, however, puts quite a different slant on the whole place. There is an awful lot that the Spontoonies are not telling us, it seems.
    Helen suggested we head out of the area as fast as we could without attracting attention, and I heartily agreed. We had not forgotten to pack Native sandals, so we made better speed when we reached the road on the coast to Haio Village – remembering to wear them as soon as we reached a hard surface where our unshod paw-prints will appear to have simply vanished. Not that anyone appeared to be observing us, but there could be half a tribe hiding in the jungle without us spotting them.
    In half an hour, we were back on familiar territory, stopping at Herr Rassberg’s shop for a much-needed bottle of the Nootnops Blue to calm our rather strained nerves. Certainly, the beverage seems to work well for the purpose, being (as the label honestly states), being made from all Natural herbal ingredients.  Indeed, we were quite collapsing in giggles, after finishing the bottle – nervous reaction, no doubt.  Helen suggested a relaxing afternoon on the beach, the sun having come out and the South side of the island quite sheltered from the wind.  I seconded the motion, and soon we were comfortably watching the waves, Helen having reduced her costume still further, to quite show off her figure. I hesitated to do so, till she pointed out that the Natives dress in this style without a thought – and any passing Europeans would think us to be locals, with nothing shocking about the idea.
    (Memo to myself.  Sun and fresh air on the fur are actually quite pleasant, and presumably will be still better in Summer time. I confess that the Songmark shirt and blazer were quite sweltering, even in late September. Still, one must make the most of the opportunity to get so much fresh air, as in two weeks we shall be back in class.)
    On returning to the Spontari Guest House (our costumes restored to their original modesty), we found a postcard from Maria. The lucky girl found that as soon as she set foot in Rome, her Uncle arranged her to immediately head out for a holiday in a far corner of the Alps, where she is having a fine time!  Evidently she has a warm and caring Family, who are keen that she should expand her education with a lot of  travelling. While we are hacking through wet jungle, she is enjoying many of the local Winter Sports, evidently “shilly-shallying in chilly chalets”, as my Father would have put it.  She writes that she is “Putting Miss Devinski’s advice to good use” – which is odd, as our Tutor never mentioned skiing as far as I recall…
    Helen seems highly amused at this,  breaking down into another fit of giggling. Poor girl, evidently the strain on her nerves today has been considerable.

December 31st, 1934

   An eventful day to finish an eventful year.  We made ready our best clothes, while the rain came down in complete sheets – then listened to the Radio LONO forecasts on our crystal sets, which promised better conditions for the evening. Mrs. Tanoaho had agreed that we could all attend the Casino Island festivities – in fact, she and her husband would be going as well, and shutting up the house completely.  Even “Soppy” Forsythe seems quite animated at the prospect.
    I confess I am looking forward to next year, with plenty of flying and exploring the islands – and to the various good company, both at Songmark and amongst the Islanders that I have found. Helen quite agrees, and voted that we contact the Hoele’toemis to arrange a meeting on Casino Island – and another informal one tomorrow, which she seems very keen on. Our radios did their trick, and we were soon all set. The afternoon seemed to just vanish in a whirl of preparation. Since the cooks are going as well tonight, they are getting the evening off, and we made do with a light meal of fruits to tide us over till the evening. Still, we felt rather empty,  which should at least help Helen on the water taxi, who is as poor a sailor as anyone I have met. Oddly enough, she not only tolerates, but tells me she greatly enjoys flying through rough air – having been brought up “Bustin’ Dust-Devils” through hot Texan summers.
    After dark, we put on our oilskins over our festive clothes, and trooped down by lantern-light along the jungle trail to the beach. Quite a band – the eleven of us, the Tanoahos,  and Obaio and Uleria, two of the native cooks along for the occasion. Our hosts had thoughtfully phoned ahead to book water taxis, as tonight of all nights they are in huge demand. A smooth  trip across the bay, Casino Island sheltering us from the waves and throwing up a great display of lights as we approached the main quay, alighting next to “The Coconut Grove”.
    Not having seen the islands in true Tourist season, I can hardly imagine how more crowded the place can possibly be – the streets were quite simply packed with revellers,  all intent on having a good and rather noisy time. We had booked a meal first at “The Hot Tub Hotel”, right on top of the island, looking over the park next to where we saw V-Gerat play.  Quite a fine meal, with more of the breadfruit cakes that the Natives seem to keep for special occasions.
    From our seat by the window (a rare treat with just the two of us, as dear Molly has a positive phobia about sitting by windows or with her back to any doors) we could see the Water Taxis arriving, lanterns lit as they converged from all the other islands in the group. One rather odd vessel caught my attention – a low, barge-like boat coming in from Meeting Island, where we saw the meeting-place of the “Thing” that rules the Islands. By the end of our meal it had arrived – we had thought it might be local dignitaries, arriving on a State Barge – but Spontoon scarcely has any “Dignitaries” in the proper sense, having about the total population of a good-sized county town back home.  Our interest was piqued further when we saw it drawing up on an otherwise deserted dock, and a small fleet of what looked like ambulances assembled to meet it.  We had heard that there was a “sanatorium” on Meeting Island, but surely the patients are not hauled out of bed for these celebrations ? Sadly, we were too far off to see exactly who was getting out of the boat, and the ambulances soon vanished below the curve of the hill.
    Having finished the meal with a toast to the New Year (in palm wine, which the Tanoahos allowed us for the occasion, “Soppy” drinking bootlegged saspirilla instead), we assembled and headed out to the main park, where a good nine hundred people must have been gathered around a bonfire ready to be lit.  I noticed that some of them were throwing palm-leaf effigies of various things on the pyre – some were of animals such as sharks, and some seemed to be of various people.
    Our cook, Obaio, had brought along what looked like a green-painted book, made of newspaper with currency symbols sketched on it as if it was some huge sheaf of banknotes. She added it to the pyre, with a look of great satisfaction. Fascinating!
    On inquiring, Obaio  told me this was a local superstition (though “tradition” was the term she used.)  At the end of the year, the Natives have a bonfire and burn effigies of whatever has been causing them problems in the old year, to ward it off from the New one just beginning. She had cast away imitation money, having had financial difficulties – I imagine the sharks were the worries of fishermen and such,  and that the people being burned in effigy were enemies. Quite a charming, colourful tradition, I suppose – though I doubt it is as effective as the good old-fashioned Wicker figures still burned in the remoter woods of dear old Barsetshire, exactly as they have always been.
    Helen whispered that if half the films are true, all these Pacific Islanders make a habit of throwing folk into live volcanoes. Having not seen any signs of eruption around Spontoon, I suppose this is a case of “make-do”, for overcoming local volcanic deficiencies. (Thinking of films, I had heard Ethyl mention her disappointment when she had arrived at Spontoon and discovered the nature of the “Thing” that rules it. The poor girl evidently lives on quite unladylike trashy pulp Science-Fiction comics, and had expected something more on the Giant Invertebrate lines as its overlord. According to one book-cover I noticed in her room, one only has to poke around any ancient ruin to be surprised by entities quite resembling twenty-foot sea anemones, but much more so.)
    At five minutes to Midnight, torches were passed around the crowd, and a Native band struck up a stirring tune. Helen had sneaked out a menu from the restaurant as a souvenir, but evidently found a better use for it. Writing “Mathematical Fundamentals of Flight” on the cover, she pushed forward and tossed it onto the pyre, just as the torches were lit! Just in time, as Obaio told me later, as according to Tradition, anyone left carrying an image after Midnight is stuck with double the problem for the whole coming year.

    Quite a sight indeed,  Dear Diary! To judge from the quantity of effigies going up, one would suspect these Islanders have rather more to worry about than the tourist brochures mention. I was fairly sure I saw well-crafted ships, one of which resembled an aircraft-carrier, exposed deep in the pyre as the outer layers burned away.  A very fine bonfire, which could surely be seen from the whole island group. Indeed, looking around, one could observe several fires on what must be hilltops all around us – except for Sacred Island, which stood out dark against the rising moon.
    In such a crowd, I had almost despaired of finding Jirry – but Helen spotted one of his brothers, Jonni I believe, and waved them over.  Jirry was certainly there, dressed in his best (that is, his best Native costume, which is decidedly Not his church-going clothes) and most pleased to see me, as ever. A very fine hour we spent, watching the pyre burning away, as 1935 arrived.  I met his sisters, Saimmi and  Moeli for only the second time – the older sister, Saimmi, a tall and stately girl indeed, who I hear is studying to be a local Priestess.  Moeli, the youngest of the family, is a lively and highly mischievous-looking young lady,  I  can tell! Both of them were dressed in a formally decorated, but somewhat … minimalist Native costume, which I would have felt decidedly chilly in outside the range of the bonfire. I must say, it did seem to suit them, their fur appearing to quite sparkle in the firelight. Fresh air and sunlight certainly seem to improve one’s fur condition, and indeed the Hoele’toemi girls have more exposed to sunlight than most.
    Far too soon, we were shepherded up by the senior Songmark girls, some of whom were making good-byes of their own to evidently local gentlemen. On reflection, the other two years of Songmark seem to be around the Guest House very little – one assumes they have local contacts and are learning healthy pastimes such as Native dances and the like.
    Another choppy ride back to South Island, a tired march up the hill, and a weary good-night, the first of 1935!

© 2002 Simon Barber