The Hoodoo Skull

Auckland Star, Volume LXX, Issue 303, 23 December 1939, Page 5 (Supplement)

The Hoodoo Skull

r[Y it should be thought possible for a bit of stone or wood to be an influence for good or evil is one of those problems of life which prove how near we still are to the primitive. No doubt the long arm of coincidence goes far to sustain such superstitions. One fine summer's morning during the New Year holidays I was routing about among the sandhills at a certain rugged New Zealand coastal resort—at one time densely populated by Maoris, scene of many bloody battles and savage massacres. I came upon a numl>er of bleachcd bones. Scraping nway in the sand, I finallv unearthed a skull. It was in a good state 0 { preservation, though weathered by years of exposure, for the great sand dunes are forever shifting, concealing and revealing n miscellany of relics. This skull I decided to take back with me to the city. My holiday companion as it happened was * Cornishman—this race are notoriously superstitious. No exception to this rule, my friend was averse to my taking the skull away. If he had had his way T should have relnried it and left it to go back to Mother Earth, but I laughed his prejudices to scorn, wrapped it up carefully in my photographic "dark cloth,'' and strapped it to the camera.

By--Tupapaku

Rather than take the regular boat from the coast, we decided to walk to the first little hamlet where it called and pick it up there. The walk through the valley and over the hills would break the monotony of the long, slow trip. All went well until we were within sight of the wharf, [t had been a hot walk for me, with my heavy, cumbersome, old half-plate camera slung over my shoulder. Just as we came in sight of the wharf the boat pulled out. Regardless of our shouts and yells the captain-owner—never noted for his amiability—let go and chugged off up harbour. The delay was a matter of indifference to me, but my companion had to be at work next morning, having a considerable staff to supervise. Our curses relieved our feelings but took us no nearer home. We learnt that, by walking a couple of miles around the'

we be able to hire a launch which would take ua to town—at a price— that night. After a hot slog—none the better for being in a state of exasperation— we located the launch owner. He agreed to take us to the port—at his own figure. He said the tide would just allow him to get the boat off; he would be ready in a few minutes. We waded through the mud to a dinghy and pulled from there to the launch. It is under such circumstances that launches invariably become everything that is porcine. This one was no exception. When the engine eventually began to revolve the boat had decided she would rather not move from home that night. She wad well glued to the mud. Nothing for it but to sleep there the night and make a start at dawn. On terra (much) firma again, as we wished the mud off our legs, Cornishman Jack had something to say about the so-and-so skull. He wanted it dumped then and there. At dawn we made an early start in pertect weather; away up the harbour we chugged. All went well for four miles or so. Then, after a series of wheezes, sputters and obscene protests, the engine phutted out. By now a fresh breeze was blowing against us. The owner disappeared into the bowels of the craft, from whence came the usual mysterious sounds of obstinate machinery and annoyed humanity. For half an hour or more we continued to drift until I suggested, as we were going west again, it might be wise, to drop the "hook.' Admitting he had never thought of it, the owner dropped anchor. We were a good three miles from shore. After another half hour the boss discovered h® had forgotten to fill the tank! My Cornishman was cursing wind, boat, skull, myself and everything else he could think of. No alternative offering, we had to tumble into the dinghy and row to a remote bay. There our sea Jehu took but a portion of the stipulated fare, with bad grace, and directed us how we might foot the rest of the way to the nearest place a conveyance might be met. Seven miles of foot slogging under a hot sun—finally a friendly lorry driver landed us in reach of a uam. The last four miles of my journey were by bus. But the "hoodoo" was still active. Going down a hill we hit a rut and my camera—on the carrier—bumped on to the road, the skull still strapped to it. The fall broke the ground glass and did other damage. My relic did not appeal to my friends at all. They want the thing in the house. When, in a few weeks, the baby of the house fell and broke his arm, 1 had to surrender to superstitious prejudice and take the "hoodoo" away. A famous anthropologist was pleased to give it a home, and, I presume, tne vindictive spirit was pacified by finding itself duly tabulated ou a shelf among its kith and kinl