Travels

I came to recommend a sort of travelogue today, and found that it won't be the only one this week. The book, recommended to me as so often by my Project Gutenberg toils, is "A Yankee Doctor in Paradise," and chronicles the work of a lone doctor among the French missionaries and British colonizers of the South Pacific in the early 20th century. This morning's pages start the young doctor off in New Guinea, after he describes the unlikely beginnings of a world traveler from among American stick-in-the-muds:

No, the hereditary Lambert is not a geographer. We are a homebody family, and I often wonder how the colonial Lamberts ever found courage to cross over from England to seventeenth-century New Jersey. They certainly stayed put when they got here; nothing but hunger and Indian raids could budge them. My father, who was a tanner and often used his best leather trying to teach me civility, was looked upon as something of a sea rover because he once drove mules along the Delaware and Hudson Canal towpath. Relatives in Ellenville, New York, where I was born, paled when they learned that Father was moving us to Little Falls.

Our pious Methodists always regarded Father as a freethinker; and wasn't it like him to want Sylvester to be a doctor? Mr. Babcock, head of our Free Academy in West Winfield, was even more radical. A boy ought to have a college education before he started studying medicine. I had worked with the tannery gang long enough, and had learned too many of the rich, brown oaths they spat out with their chewing tobacco. Hamilton College was the place to smooth me out for medical school. Hamilton College! My mother's hands went up at the spectral idea of a place so remote that Sylvester would have to go overnight, by train.

Once grown and trained, Dr. Lambert tromps through New Guinean jungles and up and down mountainsides to offer medical treatment to remote people. The priests he encounters always seem to include at least one expert cobbler to replace his hobnails or even whole soles. The Europeans absorb to some extent the South Pacific spiritualism:

Archie said thoughtfully, "Yes, and there was the woman dressed in white. I couldn't sleep one night, and there she was in the garden, bending over picking flowers. I spoke to her, but she didn't look up. She was the Englishwoman who married that chap from Cairns. She made a little English garden, but it never suited her. Always wanted to go home; you know how the English are. Her man thought Papua was good enough for her, until she died. Then he shot himself."

"Do you ever see his ghost?" I asked.

"No. He's too deep in hell, I fancy, to get out."

They believed earnestly in the horseman who rode over the bluff. They believed that lights appeared in the deserted house from which another woman had run away with her baby.

We were riding along silently when our horses stopped, snorted and sat on their tails. At first I thought it was a fallen vine, then I saw it wiggle. I slid off and threw a handy stone at eight black feet of snake; which was a diplomatic blunder, for the thing made straight at me. Sefton broke its back with a whip. "Venomous?" I asked. I hate snakes. "Rather," Sefton said, and poked the poison sacks.

We rode on. Ghosts were real, snakes only a nuisance in a country where anything could happen.

The life could take its toll on Europeans:

If I were a sentimentalist I would think of Father Fastre with a smile and a tear. He was the giant priest who presided over Popolo Mission; he was all brawn, with the great red beard of a bush frontiersman. Sometimes a fey look would come into his eyes; for here is tremendous loneliness for a white man, which neither work nor prayer can quite banish from a mind that consorts with spirits and grows more morbid year by year. But Father Fastre had a sense of humor which saved him, I hope.

* * *

Father Fastre could smile at evil spells, but Papua was getting him. One night he stood in front of his mission and looked down over a veil of moonlight. He seemed to be talking to himself. "Ten years ago I could count ten thousand people along those hills. They are gone. Sometimes I hear their voices."

He told me that he often heard voices. The Bishop had better send him home for a while, I thought.