After the celebrations, a late start – the cooks only arrived in mid-morning, evidently having carried on till long after we were back. Helen seemed quite amused, and whispered “If you’re not in bed by one, go home” – a baffling piece of advice, I must say. Still, things had returned to normality after luncheon,  when Helen and I dressed ourselves in our own Native costume, freshly garlanded, and slipped out into the jungle. A narrow trail headed South of the Guest House, aiming almost straight toward Haio Village, where we had arranged a New Year’s Day meeting.
    As before, we met at Herr Rassberg’s shop, to find Jirry already coming out, with his brother Marti. The old shopkeeper looked at us and at the brothers, and gave us a most peculiar stare, though I could hardly see why. Certainly, they seemed none the worse for wear after whatever celebrations carried on into this morning – in fact, they seemed most energetic indeed.  Their good humour proved quite contagious, and at Helen’s suggestion we removed to the beach, for a bracing dip (no colder than a May day on Brighton beach, and with far more sand.)
    A brisk toweling-off later, we headed back inland, along a narrow trail to the East of Haio village, crossing the road and heading uphill. In a clearing, there was a freshly thatched Native longhouse, scented quite wonderfully of new-cut palm fronds - which Jirry tells us is one of his family's Summer homes! A fascinating place indeed - he and his brother showed us around, not that it took very long. It seems that several members of the Haio'Toemi clan work along North Bay here, with the tourist hotels, and use this one as a seasonal home.  There was everything there that we had seen in the Tourist books – the long fire-pit with the iron spits over the ash bed, the quaint carven wooden head-rests, the decorated main beams with marine life symbols – the original and authentic collection!
    The weather outside improved quite markedly while we were exploring their domestic arrangements.  I confess that had I seen the place four months earlier,  I would have thought it a fine example of staunch yet primitive Native peoples, just ripe to be taken into the fold of our (or someone’s) Empire, and in severe need of being put into the 1930’s and not the 1330’s.  And yet, clad wholly in their own garb and knowing exactly how well suited every feature is to their lives –  certainly, I could hardly offer any suggestions as how to better the place.
    Marti had offered to show Helen the source of their domestic water and bathing – and Helen waved for me and Jirry to follow.  Not fifty yards in through the jungle, was an absolutely perfect waterfall and pool, with a small and secluded sand beach looking back over a foaming fifty-foot fall that drowned out all conversation. Though Helen soon made very obvious that conversation was the very last thing she had in mind, having found such a spot and such company …
    (Dear Diary. My old House Mistress at St. Winifred’s, Mrs. Claidh-Mhore,  always impressed upon us the value of keeping New Year Resolutions. “Begin as ye mean to go on, gels”, was an exhortation that I still recall her ringing tones in my ears. Well! Once clad in the garments of Nature, in such surroundings and with such – Natural companions, I can quite see what she might have meant. I am sure that our dear tutor Miss Devinski would not have given us such sound and practical advice had she not expected us to put it to good use. And indeed, after a morning of Explorations across half the island, the afternoon passed in explorations still more Interesting, but covering quite different Territory.)
    I believe I shall endeavour to follow our old House Mistress’s advice as well as that of our Tutor’s.  New Year is an excellent time to acquire new Interests, and in such good company, too!
 

January 2nd, 1935

   A decidedly windy day, with the branches leaning right over to tap at the eaves and windows of the Guest-House.  The whole forest seems to be roaring with wind – we spotted “Soppy” giving chase to an escaping Botany book,  which had decided to make a break for freedom.
    We took a stroll down to the North Bay, watching the breakers roaring up the beach, just angling in through the gap between the islands – my new oiled silk suit stood up to the conditions perfectly, and was a great success in the few rain-squalls that blew over. In the “service town” behind the hotels, we ran into Erica and Noota, out on their own errands. Having been three years on Spontoon, they showed us some fine shops, many of which are tucked away and clearly not intended for casual tourists. 
    Erica has news indeed from her friends on Casino Island – the big Russian bomber is to attempt to fly out tomorrow!  Their Government has sent out a working team to modify it, and the idea is that another aircraft will fly out meeting it half-way and attempt to refuel it in mid-air. A silly idea, which will never catch on – surely they would be better off putting floats on it and landing by a seaplane tender, if they cannot get landing rights within range of home.  There is news of the Pilot too – he has requested Political Asylum here, rather than face the music at home. (Helen says the music would be whatever Russians play for court-martials and firing squads.)
    A postcard from Molly! Her Family has expanded their investments into foods as well as beverages – she says her Father is putting money into some pressed-ham like product, that she says is sure to be all the rage.  No mention of her having a particularly Eventful Christmas – but she is on home territory, and is well-known to be her Father’s daughter.  Possibly this makes socialising a little tense at times.
    Erica is definitely a good sort, and treated us to a fine “Bockwurst” sandwich at a small café that seems to be just open for the passing trade. The proprietor seemed to know her well, and there was a poster on the wall for “Friends of German Opera”, a Society that appears to meet on Casino Island. From what my Father said, German Operas all last at least a week, and the more Dark and Brooding the plotlines are, the better. 
    Alas, Jirry and his family were busy elsewhere on the island, repairing another of the clan houses ready for Spring. It seems to be quite a busy schedule – winter for repairs, Spring to plant the garden-plots and fish, Summer the tourist season, then harvest-time again. Still, absence makes the heart grow fonder – though we only have one more week until we are back under the watchful eye of our Tutors, so we must make the most of it. “Carpe Diem”, as the Romans said, - seize the carp while you can. 
    After lunch, we parted from Noota and Erica, and spread out our maps in a sheltered grove to look at the baby Maginot-line that is running round the island. From what we can see, it appears to start somewhere near here at North Bay, and run right around the island with the aim of linking up again. We sketched on the map what we had seen, and started making detailed notes from memory. Fascinating!  I am wondering whether I should write and tell Father of this – it should be quite his “thing.”
    Helen suggested that we try and find where the system starts – so we casually began to look around for signs. But there was nothing at all visible – several years’ plant growth in this climate had entirely concealed the line of the trenches.  After searching minutely, we gave up and retired to the shelter of a beachside cafe, having at least had some fresh air. Oddly enough, my suit, though a perfect fit and of quite splendid fabric, felt somewhat confining after yesterday’s adventures in Native dress. One can quite imagine that the Missionaries had a difficult time in persuading the locals that cotton frocks were the right thing to wear.
    Our first success came while looking at the long ridge forming the West coast of the  island, where Helen spotted definite water tanks (and they were indeed water tanks, we could see inside through a grating.) Following the pipelines down, we noticed them vanish into the ground, next to a suspicious area of new concrete. Once hot on the trail, we could start tracking it under the back gardens of the settlement, surveying the route carefully in my notebook. Dressed in our more modest Native costume, from a distance we should attract little attention. Only when we open our mouths are we likely to give ourselves away –  the native language is one that was definitely not on the timetable at St. Winifreds, or even at Songmark so far. I suppose that our course here is geared towards a truly world-wide qualification, and the Spontoon dialect is scarcely likely to be found much outside these islands. 
    Interestingly, the tourist map has the main road junctions and villages at least a hundred yards from their real site – and yet the tourist hotels are perfectly positioned. One wonders if there was a proper Ordnance Survey map made of the islands, when it was still nominally a part of the Empire ? Though villages and roads would have moved and expanded a little in the time, surely the main landscape can have changed little. (All the glaring errors, we are drawing in on our map. Refining it will make a nice class project when we start with aerial camera work next term.) 
    Just as we were discussing our flying ambitions, right overhead came a very sleek-looking Caproni mail carrier, heading for Eastern Island and the seaplane base.  Postcards from Maria, quite possibly – and indeed she must be finishing up her skiing about now, if she is to arrive here for the start of term. Quite a lot we shall have to tell her, indeed!
    (Later). A somewhat drenching downpour called a halt to our detective-work, and we retreated to the Guest House.  Although Mrs. Tanoaho is usually informative about most aspects of Island life,  we will not be asking her any pointed questions about the “waterworks project” as we are calling it – she might learn more of our intentions, than we of the Natives’ own. 
    A somewhat dull evening – I was reduced to re-reading my cherished (but now rather tatty) copy of the Barsetshire Chronicle, even the small adverts. It is amazing what people will buy – right at the back amongst the farming implements, was an offer, “Your old millstones bought for cash! Condition immaterial!” What anyone would want with half a tonne of gritstone when the Pennine hills are made of it, is quite beyond me.

January 3rd, 1935

   The morning dawning bright and cheerful, we were in excellent spirits for another day’s Adventures.  Putting on Native costume has become quite habitual this holiday – Methyl comments acidly that we will be wearing bones through our ears and necklaces of shrunken heads next, though I have not observed any Spontoonies wearing that style so far.  Still, once over the initial embarrassment,  it is comfortable and very well-suited for the climate! 
    We took the trail through the jungle, using the fine brass compass Helen gave me for Christmas – though we could scarcely see five yards ahead at any time, the trail was well-used, heading along the feet of Tamboabo, which Jirry told me is the local name for what we were calling South Peak.  The distance must have been two miles or so as the path winds: it took us most of an hour to arrive at the scatter of longhouses owned by the Hoele’toemi clan, near the waterfall of such delightful memories. 
    Hearing voices, we knocked – the door was of modern corrugated iron, at least – and found the two sisters there, Moeli and Saimmi. Moeli did most of the talking – it seems that Saimmi speaks very little English by choice, though it is a standard subject at the islands’ schools. All the menfolk are away at work on one of the other houses – but Saimmi volunteered to find Jirry and Marti for us, the work not being urgent.
    We had a fascinating talk with Moeli, while she wove rattan matting – and happily accepted our help, though Helen is better with a socket wrench than a weaving-hook.  She was dressed as we had seen her before in a definitely breezy costume, in full postcard tradition – although I fear the Royal Mail would think it rather indecorous to deliver a view of so much healthy fur. 
    Helen did ask if she found it cold at this time of year, especially considering the drenching rains that seem to hit at least twice a day. Moeli simply laughed, and pointed to a large pot of evidently local manufacture, something like a Roman amphora.  Seeing our mystification, she opened the stopper and dipped her paw in a clear and rather glutinous oil, proceeding to rub it into her fur. The aroma was sweetish, something like brazil-nuts, and one I had noticed before on several of the Natives.
    Well! Nothing ventured, nothing gained –  Helen asked if she could try a sample,  having a need for waterproofing almost as great as Moeli’s. Not wishing to use up what might be a valuable product of the jungle, I offered to buy the jar and try some myself – when in Rome, and et cetera.
    It was quite an experience, certainly – sitting in a Native longhouse, entirely “dishabille” while Moeli poured the local waterproofing over us, combing it right to our fur roots, head-fur and all.  It seems that the oil is indeed a local product, from some plant called the Tulupas Palm, a grove of which was pointed out behind the house (the nuts, though sweet-smelling, taste awful, and are far better for making soap than eating.) Certainly, we gleamed like a pair of seals in the sunshine by the time she had finished – though indeed we dripped rather in places.
    Grinning, Moeli asked us if we wished to complete the treatment in the traditional manner – of course we agreed, at which she made up a paste of salt and wood-ashes and gave us a further wash-down, rinsing us clean afterwards.  One can see the point – it somehow changes the oil, leaving it still glossy but no longer sticky, something like candle-wax. With a comb, Moeli finished our coiffure, brushing “traditional patterns” in our fur before the oil cured. She suggested that I can leave off wearing my bathing costume underneath, and I laid it aside without complaint, now feeling very strange indeed – as if giving up for the time being my last link with Home. Helen agrees that if a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing well – although she has been “authentic” in that way for the past two days.

    We just had time to dress again in our jungle-made costumes, when there was a friendly hail from outside, Jirry and his brother having arrived. Moeli giggled, and vanished out of the opposite door into the jungle – leaving us to a very pleasant afternoon. Jirry was very surprised indeed to see and scent our new fur styling, even though we explained that Moeli had organised it. He did admit it made an excellent waterproofing, and that a few of the islanders used it as a regular feature, especially those more active in local Religions.
    As I had hoped, we are certainly finding out about local customs and traditions, one way or another. The newly thatched hut smelt very pleasant, and the traditional wooden head-rests are surprisingly comfortable, as it turned out.
    (Later).  Indeed, my impressions of Moeli were quite right! While bathing in the waterfall pool, we noticed the waterproofing was exceedingly effective – it simply does not wash off! Jirry asked if Moeli had told us the oil’s other property, of staining clothes and fabrics for two or three days after application. Oh dear. It is fortunate that we are getting accustomed to Native dress, as we will have little choice in the matter for the next few days. Marti also pointed out that although the patterns brushed into our fur do indeed have traditional meanings, Moeli should have asked us if we really meant to say that to all passers-by. (He explained the meanings, and we hurriedly combed our fur before it entirely set. After all, one does not walk around with slogans on one’s shirt,  uniforms excepted.)
    After a lingering farewell, we hurried back to the Guest House just in time for tea, feeling rather self-conscious (though waterproof.) Mrs. Tanoaho tutted and clucked over our condition,  though she seemed more amused than annoyed. Certainly,  it exposed us to some more Traditional customs, of which we have had quite a lot today. The standard bed sheets were removed, and soft pandanus palm coverings substituted, which will not show oil-stains.  Quite comfortable really, and as Helen points out, we have already tried such out once today, so we should be used to them. 
    “Soppy” is quite scandalised by our appearance, and is threatening to write home about us. Definitely not the Done thing here – both Ethyl and Methyl agreed for a change with each other on hearing her, and grimly promise she will receive a bath in sump-oil if she tells on us. (A very good thing we only told folk of a tenth of our milder Experiences today!)
    Erica tells us that she watched the huge Kalinin K-7 head out today, after waiting for a suitable tail-wind to help it home. There was no mistaking it, as 7-engined bombers are hardly inconspicuous – even with all the length of the Eastern Island runway and a stiff head wind on takeoff, it only just made it off the ground with the fuel load needed to get it even half-way home. One assumes that the radio will inform us of its fate, though Erica has doubts about that. She claims that the Russians would rather see it at the bottom of the Pacific than stranded in full view of cameramen over here - while it was on the ground on Spontoon, it was a security leak big enough to be visible for miles. 
    A postcard from Maria, hurrah! She tells us she has had an enjoyable time with many of the local Sports, by which I presume she means skiing, bob-sleigh and such. Helen has other interpretations - though in little more than a week, we can ask her ourselves. Time certainly does fly when one is having fun.
 
 

January 4th, 1935

   Quite an experience, indeed, Dear Diary – waking up in Native sheets, without a night-dress or such like, and scarcely recognising one’s own scent! I confess that by a matter of association, I awoke and looked around – for a second or two, feeling quite disappointed that it was Helen asleep in the room with me.
    Having dressed again in Costume (our first time to Breakfast wearing such, as it is strictly speaking against the House rules) we received some more friendly Advice from Mrs. Tanoaho, regarding local customs.  Decidedly few tourists are shown actual family houses and customs – but as honorary residents, we are expected to respect the local privacy and keep close-mouthed about what we may see. She mentioned a craze last year for tourists buying hats with woven slogans in the native language – it would only have taken one native-speaker to have exposed the joke that the slogans were saying rather uncomplimentary things about their buyers (anyone using the words “quaint” or “how Darling!” was a sure candidate to be offered a special hat.)
    Certainly, the Tulupas oil makes us look very different – it darkens the fur a shade or two, which Mrs. Tanoaho assures us will wear off. And our scent is quite transformed – I doubt that anyone would recognise us now, even at quite close quarters. Still, it is a fascinating and Healthy tradition by all accounts – and explains how some of the locals manage with such lightweight costumes, without feeling like a drowned rat two or three times a day.
    Indeed, we put it to a thorough test after Breakfast, when we headed out again. Not fifty yards into the jungle, we were almost swamped by a downpour, quite deafeningly hissing off the vegetation around us, a sudden squall tossing the leaves around us quite wildly. Not pleasant weather to be navigating a small boat or aircraft in, definitely. In fact, while keeping our heads down in the rain, we quite missed the direct trail to Haio Village, and ended up some distance to the East, in dense and quite unexplored forest. Spotting a structure through the trees, we made a run for it and arrived, shaking ourselves dry as we had seen some of the canine residents do on the beaches.

    Looking around, we saw a small, round one-roomed hut – open to one side, and exquisitely constructed with carving on every beam and post. Definitely a temple, unless small altars and offerings of fruit are a regular feature in local garden designs.  We disturbed nothing, waited till the worst of the squall had past and left quietly – possibly this is where Saimmi attends whatever rituals the locals have. The jungle of course streams with water for half an hour and more after actual rainfall has stopped – though oiled fur sheds it quite effectively, and retains its good looks.
    Another half hour brought us to the main road, if a ten-foot ribbon of crushed coral can really bear such a title. Still, it was rather faster going than along jungle trails to Haio village, where we halted as before at Herr Rassberg’s general store.  The old gentleman looked quite disapproving at us, even though we bought a big bottle apiece of Nootnops red – though outside, Helen whispered that she could probably work out why. Having seen us first in recognisable Songmark shirts and skirts (the shirts are well-made and very comfortable, even for holiday wear) he next saw us over the days in ever more extreme versions of Native dress – and had Herr Rassberg at all approved of Going Native, he would presumably have done so by now. Further, he has seen us heading off with the Hoele’toemi brothers, after they have just made Certain small Purchases at his shop.  We shall definitely have to practice our Discretion around here!
    Though usually quite ruthlessly practical, Helen did daydream somewhat as we sat on the verandah looking at the waves breaking over the reef, regarding the attractions of “Going Native”. Though of course she is perfectly keen on the Songmark course and looking forward to leaving at the end of three years with such a prestigious qualification, she pointed out that anyone desiring a more relaxing life can certainly find it here. There is as much Civilisation as would prevent one missing it, to be found on the occasional trip to Casino Island, and for anyone without a family at Home to answer to, submerging oneself in local Custom would be quite an adventure in itself. Quite an idyllic picture indeed – for an instant I too imagined myself happily bare-pawed in the jungle, contentedly filling up a long-house with kittens. I dismissed the idea, a trifle regretfully – although as dear Mrs.  Creighton-Ward warned us in the Moral Turpitude tutorials back home – a mind stretched by a new idea, never wholly regains its original form.
    I confess, I had never considered such a possibility, as it would be rather a waste right now - anyone without our talents and advantages might do such a thing  – it is far more a vision to retire to, than to make a career out of.  Plus, before jumping into the deep end, it is as well to test what may be lurking in the depths (as my poor friend Maude found out in the inter-schools high dive championships against St. Caligula’s Academy for the Gifted Insane.) Considering what we have found out so far about the sides of Spontoon not mentioned in the tour guides, what else might be happening that only the Natives know of – and would one really wish to be a part of it?
   Our conversation was brought to an abrupt end by the appearance of Jirry and Marti, who appeared from out of the jungle.  A most affectionate meeting indeed – we shall definitely miss them when we return to Songmark next week, under the watchful eyes of our Tutors (and the even sharper eyes of our senior classes, who also outnumber us.) Things will become decidedly more difficult, and we might need every resource of wit and skill to beat the curfew. (Tunnels have been used by previous classes, so something else will probably be needed.)
   We explored the whole West coast of the island, looking out across the narrows to the great cliffs of Main Island, rising up above the jungles. Certainly, some of the peaks there look practicable climbs, as Jirry confirmed – although only a few tourists ever climb them, mostly due to the exertions needed to climb six thousand feet in the full heat of Tourist Season.  After a swim looking out over the narrow point, little over half a mile across, we retired to the beach and the shade of the forest for a most pleasant afternoon. Certainly, we seem to be getting far healthier the longer we stay here, as our morning of hiking and swimming seemed not to have tired any of us in the slightest.
   And then – Disaster!
   While packing our bags this morning, I had used the same bark bag as the day before,  when we had been engaged in our Survey work. Reaching in to retrieve my comb, the notebook fell out flat on the blanket – and at a most unfortunate page. It would HAVE to be the page with our recognisable survey notes, sketched-in with my speculations such as “Casemate #5?”, “Landing beach” and “Stop line” pencilled over the new constructions. Having been brought up with such diagrams covering the walls of Father’s study, naturally the ideas occurred to me having seen them here in the field for the first time.
   Unfortunately, Jirry saw them too – he leaned down to retrieve my book, and his tail fluffed right out like a bottle-brush – evidently he spotted the object of our Researches immediately. For a few seconds he was speechless – then showed the notebook to Marti, and they conversed in the Native language for some time.
   The day broke up rather uncomfortably, the Hoele’toemi brothers escorting us back to the village and leaving us, feeling definitely downcast. I can quite see their problem – for all the evidence they have, they might think themselves involved with a couple of Spies! Which has never been a part of my background, except of course for Aunt Beatrice and her side of the family.  Helen seems decidedly worried – and mentions tales from the oilfield towns, of the fate of individuals who have stumbled on secrets such as new “fields” that the Greater Powers have interests in protecting.  I pointed out that they have not asked us who we have told about this – and that if she is worried about our safety, there are steps we can take. Even if we were actual Spies and Agents, it would not be Jirry we would have to worry about, but the people he tells, and whatever Authorities they may report to. Certainly, works such as these defences must have a lot of organisation behind them, whether planned in longhouses or Government offices.
   Dear Diary – farewell for now, I am at the Post Office on South Island. There is a cover letter going with you and my notebooks, which I hope to be retrieving and tearing up fairly soon. Till then, adieu!

© 2002 Simon Barber