Land of Afternoon

Hawera Star, Volume L, 7 March 1931, Page 9

Land of Afternoon

4 4 LAND where it is always afternoon,” /jft where time simply does not exist in terms of value, and where lazy days are passed in constant sunshine, while in the distance thunders the eternal surf beyond the reef—that is the Isle des Pines, just off the coast of New Caledonia, as described by Miss D. Miller, who has returned from a holiday there. “The day I left New Caledonia for the island,” said Miss Miller, “I travelled in an old two-masted scow, and the captain might have stepped straight from the pages of a pirate story. I asked how long the journey would take —we left in the morning—and the answer he gave was just indicative of the value time has in the eyes of that little forgotten, out-of-the-way place. He replied, with a vague way of his hand, that it would take all day. The little craft ran a spasmodic service between the main island and the Isle of Pines, and though the people on the island depended on the vessel for their supplies, the captain just sailed when it pleased him. His methods, and the whole life of the place, were delightfully casual.

The Kanaka crew wore no superfluity of clothing. One of the two was the proud possessor of a pair of trousers. When they arrived in port, he, as the most suitably dressed, was deputed to go to the post office to see if there was any mail. On this occasion the scow carried the meat supply for the island in an open enamel dish, and bread, which was to last for days, was without covering. Three sheep ran round the scow, baa-ing in fright. Two priests bound for the mission on the island were feeling ill on the dock. Stores were scattered here and there. The owner’s family lived on board, in the one cabin. There were two Kanakas to act as the crew; one Tongkingese boy alone could stand the evil-smelling engines, and last, but not least, Miss Miller surveyed the scene from the coign of vantage, and she had this much in common with the two priests. She also felt ill. The New Caledonian group is about 13 years younger than New Zealand, and, as with this Dominion, it was a race between France and Britain as to who should have the islands. In this case France won. At one time it was a convict settlement, and traces of it are still abundantly evident. But it is many years since convicts were sent there, and the jungle growth has crept onward and has softened the ugliness of stone piles. Many of them are half hidden by trees and bush creepers. In some cases they have been utilised by later settlers. The great prison yard is now used as another sort of yard. It is a prison for fowls, and in the cells where

Holiday in New Caledonia

Early Convict Settlement

once prisoners were herded, eliiekens peek a curious way about. One man, an army onieer in tne war, who lias tired, oi civilisation, lias gone there to live, and the table where lie dines nightly m solitary state used once to be the mess hoard. Witn him at one end ,it stretches a longway into the shadows at the other end of the room.

The pier at which the little scow landed was built by prison labour. The stone blocks forming- the piles are still as sound as ever, but there are gaps in the wooden planus joining/ them. The whole island breathes the said of genteel decay. The roads have been well planned. There was plenty of labour then; but now weeds have grown up between the stones, and the way has been covered with creepers. Palm trees tower in the centre of courtyards which once were tilled with men in prison garb. There has grown up among the inhabitants of the place a naive, but delightful community spirit. The whole settlements goes to help in a fishing- expedition. One man rows out into the bay and pays out the length of a great 70-yard fishing net. Other natives gather and help to puli it in to the beach. Then the harvest is divided up. Mr X takes the largest fish because it was his net. Mr Y. takes the next, because he is the brother or friend of Mr X., and so on. What remains is taken by the natives because they were there and witnessed the whole thing. Away back in the centre of the island is a Roman Catholic mission. It used to be in the north oi New Caledonia, but the natives were blood-thirsty cannibals, and the handful of missionaries were driven out and down to the refuge of the Isle des Pines. The Cathedral shows signs of care and the station is surrounded by cultivated fields.

In another part of the island are limestone grottos which have never been explored. Native legend has it that they go right out to the coast, and one of them is commonly supposed to be an underground river. Miss Miller says that they are beautiful and resemble those at Waitomo.

Ideas as to holidays certainly differ; but few would deliberately choose to go to a lonely little sun-baked island tucked away in vast Oceania. There are no means of communication; and if the scow should not come, there are no stores. It being a Freeh possession all the people speak French; but as Miss Miller is in the department of languages at the Auckland University this presents no difficulty. They are a homely folk, and she was sorry to leave what might easily be the last home of the beachcombers.— *‘ Auckland Star. ’ ’