The First Historic Encounter of a Russian Scholar with the Indigenous People of the Northeastern Coast of New Guinea

In 1871, N. N. Miklouho-Maclay arrived at the northeastern coast of New Guinea (the Maclay Coast) aboard the Russian corvette Vityaz. On 20 September the young scholar landed on the New Guinean shore destined to enter world and Russian science as the “Maclay Coast.” A few days later, having finally settled in a hut on Cape Garagassi, he decided to walk to the nearest village to get to know its inhabitants.

“Waking before dawn, I decided to go to one of the villages—I very much want to become better acquainted with the natives. As I set out, I faced a dilemma: should I take a revolver or not? I, of course, did not know what sort of reception awaited me there, but after thinking it over I concluded that such an instrument could hardly be of any real use to my enterprise. Even if I had to use it in what appeared the utmost necessity—and even with complete ‘success,’ that is, even if I felled six men on the spot—fear might protect me for a time; but for how long? The desire for revenge and the sheer number of the natives would in the end overcome fear of a revolver. Other reflections strengthened my decision to go to the village unarmed. It seems to me that a person cannot know in advance how he will act in a situation he has never before experienced. I am not sure that, with a revolver at my belt, I would remain perfectly calm and indifferent today if the villagers began to treat me in an improper manner; whether I could stay utterly composed in the face of all the Papuans’ ‘attentions.’ But I am convinced that a bullet loosed at the wrong moment could make winning their trust impossible—in other words, utterly destroy any chance of success. The more I thought over my position, the clearer it became that my strength must lie in calm and patience. I left the revolver at home, but did not forget my notebook and pencil,”
—he wrote in his field diary on 5 October 1871.

Miklouho-Maclay’s hut stood near forest paths leading to several Papuan villages—Gorendu, Bongu, and Gumbu. The first walk took him to Bongu. He vividly described the first encounter with the people of Bongu in his diary:

“I was so absorbed in thoughts about the natives—whom I scarcely knew—and about the coming meeting that I was startled to find myself at last near a village, though I had no idea which one. I heard a few men’s and women’s voices. I stopped to gather my bearings and consider what might happen next. As I stood thinking, a boy of about fourteen or fifteen appeared a few paces away. We silently looked at each other in puzzlement for a second… I did not know how to speak; approaching him would only frighten him more. I stayed where I was. The boy dashed back into the village. There were a few loud cries, a woman’s shriek, and then complete silence.

I stepped onto the village green. A group of men armed with spears stood in the middle, speaking animatedly but in low voices among themselves. Others, all armed, stood farther off; there were no women or children—they had likely hidden. Seeing me, several spears were raised, and some of the men struck very warlike poses as if ready to cast. After a few exclamations and short phrases from different parts of the square, the spears were lowered. Tired and somewhat unpleasantly surprised by the reception, I continued to move forward slowly, looking around and hoping to see a familiar face. There was none. I stopped by the barla, and several men came up to me. Suddenly two arrows flew past, one after the other, very close to me—I do not know whether on purpose or not. Those standing near me began speaking loudly, addressing, I suppose, the ones who had shot, and then, turning to me, they pointed to a tree as if to explain that the arrows had been aimed at a bird. But there was no bird there, and it occurred to me they wanted to see how I would react to such a ‘surprise’ as arrows flying so near. I noticed that as soon as the first arrow whizzed by, many eyes turned toward me, as if studying my face. But apart from an expression of fatigue and perhaps some curiosity, they likely found nothing in it. I, for my part, looked around: gloomy, tense, dissatisfied faces and glances, as if to say, why have you come to disturb our quiet life? I myself felt awkward—what right had I to trouble these people? No one laid down his weapon except two or three elders. The number of men was growing; it seemed another village was nearby and my arrival had alarmed them as well. A small crowd surrounded me; two or three spoke very loudly, looking at me in a hostile way. To reinforce their words they brandished the spears they held. One of them was so brazen that, with a phrase I of course did not understand, he swung his spear and almost struck me in the eye or nose. The movement was remarkably quick, and it was certainly not by my doing that I was not injured—I had not managed to move from where I stood—but by the man’s skill and sure hand, stopping the spear’s point a few centimeters from my face. I stepped two paces aside and could make out a few voices that, it seemed to me, disapproved of this incivility. At that moment I was glad I had left the revolver at home, unsure whether I would have remained as cool had my opponent tried the experiment a second time.

My position was absurd: unable to speak, it would have been better to leave; yet I was overcome by a great desire to sleep. Home was far away. Why not sleep here? After all, I could not talk with the natives, and they could not understand me.

Without much thought I picked a place in the shade, dragged over a new mat (its very sight, I think, first suggested the idea of sleeping there), and stretched out on it with immense pleasure. Closing my eyes, strained by the sun’s glare, was delightful. I had to half open them, though, to untie my shoe laces, loosen my boots, unbuckle my belt, and find something to put under my head. I saw the men had formed a semicircle a short distance away, no doubt wondering and making guesses about what would happen next.

One figure I noticed before closing my eyes again was the very man who had almost injured me. He stood nearby, examining my shoes.

I recalled all that had happened and thought how serious it might have ended, and at the same time it flashed through my mind that this might only be the beginning, and the end still lay ahead. But if it was fated for me to be killed, it would make little difference whether it happened standing, sitting, lying comfortably on a mat, or asleep. I further reflected that, if I had to die, the knowledge that two, three, or even six natives had also lost their lives would be poor consolation. Again I was pleased I had not brought the revolver.

As I drifted off, the birds’ voices occupied me; the sharp calls of swift-flying lorikeets woke me several times; the plaintive, peculiar song of the ‘koki’ … on the contrary, induced sleep. The cicadas’ rasping did not hinder but rather helped it.

I think I fell asleep quickly, for I had risen very early and, after walking for about two hours mostly in the sun, felt very tired—especially my eyes from the bright daylight.

I woke feeling greatly refreshed. Judging by the sun’s position, it must have been at least the third hour; so I had slept for more than two hours. Opening my eyes, I saw several men sitting around the mat, about two paces away; they spoke in low voices, were unarmed, and looked at me far less grimly. I greatly regretted that I could not yet speak with them and decided to go home after putting my clothes in order—an operation that greatly occupied the Papuans around me. Then I stood up, nodded my head in various directions, and set off back along the same path, which now seemed shorter than it had in the morning.”

This astonishing episode may sound like a legend, but the Papuans of the Maclay Coast—especially those of Bongu—remember it to this day. New Guineans recounted it to Russian scholars during expeditions to the Maclay Coast in 1971, 1977, 2017, and 2019.

The scholar at work, recording his research

During his expeditions to the north-east of New Guinea (1871–1872, 1876–1877, and 1883), Nikolai Nikolaevich made numerous discoveries across a range of scientific fields. Of fundamental importance was his anthropological study of the Papuans—the chief reason he had set out for New Guinea in the first place. With particular care he sought the very traits that many leading authorities of the time claimed were “specific features” of the Papuan “race.” Scholars who had never actually seen Indigenous New Guineans—or had only observed them from a ship’s deck—asserted that Papuans possessed a number of “ape-like” characteristics: that the hair on their heads grew in tufts, that their skin had a special roughness, and so on. The Russian scholar considered it his duty to test these claims—and ultimately refuted them.

Having examined the hair of the residents of Bongu, he wrote in his diary: “The hair of the Papuans does not grow in groups or tufts, as one can read in many anthropology textbooks, but exactly as ours does. This, though it may seem to many a very minor observation, chased away my drowsiness and put me in a cheerful frame of mind.” He measured heads, described physiological features, collected hair samples, and determined skin color using a special scale. Step by step he established that the locals did not differ essentially from Europeans in their physical organization. More important still, perhaps, was his finding of great similarity between Papuans and Europeans in mental qualities. In his diaries and articles Miklouho-Maclay calls Papuan faces kind, gentle, and intelligent; he delights in their diligence, honesty, and quick wits, and he emphasizes how readily they adopt new things. “All their ornaments and carving they must make with a stone worked into the shape of an axe, with bones similarly shaped, with shell fragments or flint,” he noted—and one can only marvel that with such primitive tools they built solid huts and canoes, sometimes adorned with rather handsome ornament.

“I was granted the rare good fortune to observe a population still living entirely outside contact with other peoples, and at a stage of civilization in which all tools and weapons are made of stone, bone, and wood. Back in Europe I chose the east coast of New Guinea for my future stay as the least known and where the Papuan race had been preserved in its purest form. This assumption proved correct: I found no admixture of foreign blood among the natives; therefore, the observations I was able to make of my neighbors may be of value in studying the Papuan race as a whole.”

He made full use of this opportunity. In his diaries and articles he described in meticulous detail the economy and material culture of his dark-skinned friends, their daily life, customs, and mores, devoting much attention to their distinctive art. Despite the imperfections of his methods, these materials remain to this day an important source on the ethnography of New Guinea—a unique example of fieldwork in the tropics among a people living with Stone-Age technology.

Miklouho-Maclay also compiled careful glossaries of key words from the dialects spoken along the Maclay Coast. In the north-east of New Guinea he encountered numerous language barriers, for in the Astrolabe Bay region the Papuans used at least fifteen languages, often sharply different from one another. “The inhabitants of villages an hour’s walk apart sometimes speak dialects so different that they can hardly understand one another,” he wrote in his field diaries.

His works also contain many interesting observations about Papuan social organization. He found that the inhabitants of each village formed a community governed by principles of collectivism, in which there were neither rich nor poor. “In this community there were no chiefs, no rich and poor, and therefore no envy, no theft, no violence. The ease of obtaining the means of subsistence did not force them to work much, so expressions of spite, bitterness, or vexation had no place. The name I gave the entire archipelago—‘the Archipelago of Contented People’—bears witness to the impression … that the peaceful life of the islanders made upon me.” As Miklouho-Maclay’s notes show, the locals had neither hereditary nor elected chiefs. Rather, “big men” (tamo boro) stood out spontaneously from among the community, respected for their skill in war, their success in economic affairs, or their mastery of ritual. “People obey not their orders but their advice or opinion,” Nikolai Nikolaevich observed in his diaries.

Even so, the key role in Miklouho-Maclay’s entry into the Papuan world was played by his friendly, trusting relationship with Tui. The leader of Gorendu came to Garagassi almost daily. As the scholar reports, he took lessons from Tui in “the Papuan language spoken in Bongu, Gorendu, and Gumbu.” From his friend Maclay learned the names of many streams, headlands, and villages and marked their locations on a sketch map made with Tui’s help. In turn, using the few local words he had heard and learned, Miklouho-Maclay tried gradually to broaden his friend’s horizons. “Tui seems to be taking a great interest in geography,” he wrote in February 1872. “He repeated after me the names of parts of the world and countries that I showed him on the map; though it is very likely that he considers Russia a little larger than Bongu or Bili-Bili.” Soon Tui, and then other residents of nearby villages, began calling the traveler tamo russ—“the man from Russia.”

While on the Maclay Coast the researcher devoted much attention to the natural sciences as well—above all to meteorological observations, which before him had never been conducted on a stationary basis in New Guinea. Describing his workday in October 1871, he shares his research routine: “Around seven o’clock I record the air temperature, the temperature of the water in the stream and in the sea, the height of the tide, the barometer reading, the wind direction and force, the amount of water evaporated in the evaporimeter; I take from the ground the thermometer buried at a depth of one meter and record its reading. Having finished the meteorological observations, I go either to the coral reef for marine animals or into the forest for insects. With my catch I sit down at the microscope or place the collected insects in alcohol, or else set to some other task until eleven. <…> At eight o’clock I go into the room and, lighting my small lamp (more like a night-light than a lamp), I enter the day’s events in my diary. At eight to nine o’clock—more meteorological observations.” Despite all difficulties, he kept and recorded these observations throughout his stay on the shores of Astrolabe Bay.

On the Maclay Coast the researcher suffered constant bouts of malaria. In spite of the treacherous weakness in his arms and legs, the dizziness and collapse that followed each attack, he would stagger down to the stream for water, gather dry branches for the hearth to make tea and cook beans or rice, and he never stopped his meteorological work. Once again he showed his remarkable ability to master himself, to mobilize under extreme conditions the hidden reserves of his body so that, at the price of maximum effort, he could not only meet daily needs but continue scientific research.

Miklouho-Maclay also laid the groundwork for the study of New Guinea’s animal world. His diaries contain many interesting observations on marsupials (tree kangaroos, bandicoots, and others), birds, crocodiles, lizards, fishes, and calcareous sponges. Whenever possible he collected material to pursue his comparative-anatomical studies: he prepared skulls and skeletons, preserved brains and whole animal specimens in conserving fluids. At low tide he would wander the reef, searching crevices for calcareous sponges, and on the sea’s surface he would net jellyfish, siphonophores, small crustaceans, and other simple marine creatures.

Life and Daily Practices of the Indigenous People of the Maclay Coast: Preparing Food

While on the north-eastern coast of New Guinea, N. N. Miklouho-Maclay genuinely sought to help his friends in the local villages. To diversify their diet and alleviate chronic undernourishment, in 1876 he brought to Bongu several domestic animals, as well as seeds and seedlings of crops unknown there—among them breadfruit, mango, orange, lemon, and pineapple. A new plot was cleared in the bush for a kitchen garden, and Miklouho-Maclay tried to explain to the people of Bongu how to cultivate and eat these plants. He also brought coffee beans, which grow better in a drier, cooler climate. He gave this valuable gift to his old acquaintance Saul, the tamo boro (a “big man”) of Bongu, and advised him to use the beans in barter with the inhabitants of mountain villages—asking that the highlanders be told Saul had received them from tamo russ Maclay (“the man from Russia”). Most of the crops he introduced took root and enriched the New Guineans’ diet.

As for meat, Papuans kept the so-called “Oceanian trio” of domestic animals—pigs, dogs, and chickens—whose meat they ate. Hunting supplied part of the diet as well: wild pig, cassowary, cuscus, crocodile, and hornbill. Large lizards, snakes, various insects, and their larvae were also eaten. Fish and shellfish were everyday foods. Miklouho-Maclay’s diary shows that the people of Bongu prepared many dishes and used a variety of techniques (boiling, smoking, baking, frying). His notes let us picture their cooking even 150 years later: “After lunch I went to Gorendu and found the Papuans preparing [originally: ‘boiled’] supper. Tui was sitting on a table peeling potatoes. In front of him, on the fire, stood two pots propped with stones—one large (about 1½ feet in diameter), the other smaller—both covered with leaves, and on top of the leaves, forming a lid, lay coconut shell. Fish and potatoes were cooking in the pots. Each fish was wrapped in fresh leaves; the potatoes lay unwrapped; all of it cooked without water—steamed.”

Today on the Maclay Coast, plant foods still predominate over meat. The main staples are coconut palm, yam, taro, sweet potato, bananas, and sugarcane. The bananas are cooking varieties eaten after heat treatment. Of the plants introduced by Miklouho-Maclay, papaya and maize remain popular among the people of Bongu. Domestic pigs are no longer kept (they trampled garden plots), but wild pigs are hunted. Chickens are still raised, though chicken and pork are mostly festive foods. Wild birds are still hunted, but their meat is not part of the daily diet. Fish and shellfish remain the most common sources of animal protein. Insects and arachnids have disappeared from use. Besides water and coconut juice, the most common beverage is tea (purchased in Madang). Some families make juice from fresh papaya.

Miklouho-Maclay was not only brave, kind, and fair; he also brought the inhabitants of the Maclay Coast—then living with what Europeans called Stone-Age technology—their first steel axes and knives. “One could see how iron easily displaced shells and stone as tools. A small broken nail, carefully ground flat on a stone into a chisel shape, in the hands of a skilled native proved an excellent instrument for cutting straight-line ornament,” reads his field diary entry of 22 August 1872. The Papuans immediately appreciated the advantages of iron axes and knives, which they obtained from Maclay in exchange for wooden ancestor figures (telum), hand drums (okam), and large signaling gongs (barum). They tried fastening sharpened pieces of iron to traditional axe handles in place of worked stone. Pointed nails were used as awls; shards of bottle glass served for shaving, “polishing wood, and carving ornaments.” For the coastal villages, metal goods and bottles also became prestige items for barter with more remote settlements. Before Miklouho-Maclay’s arrival, the people of the north-east made all ornaments with stone shaped like an axe, with bone, shell fragments, or flint—yet even then they built sturdy huts and canoes and sometimes carved them with handsome designs.

In the twenty-first century, the life and daily practices of the Maclay Coast’s Indigenous people have not changed in any fundamental way. Despite the arrival of goods from the modern world, the Papuans of the north-east carefully preserve many traditions. Their distinctive culture, under the pressure of innovation, has not dissolved; it coexists harmoniously with novelties such as radio, mobile phones, solar panels, and modern cookware. Moreover, many local people cherish their ethnocultural identity and work hard to pass it on to the younger generation.

Encounter with Hunters and Warriors of New Guinea

A hundred and fifty years ago, during N. N. Miklouho-Maclay’s expeditions to the north-eastern coast of New Guinea, hunting held an important place in the lives of the Papuans of Gorendu, Bongu, Gumbu, and other villages. They hunted chiefly wild pigs and birds. In the twenty-first century the situation has changed somewhat, but hunting traditions on the Maclay Coast live on.

During his expeditions Miklouho-Maclay also hunted—both alone and together with Indigenous people. He turned to hunting because his daily rations (a cup of coffee in the morning with a small amount of taro, boiled or baked, and a little beans, taro, and a cup of tea for dinner) were insufficient for sustained research. According to his diary, hunting on the Maclay Coast “did not prove difficult, since the birds—still unfamiliar with firearms—were not shy” and let him approach very closely. He noted that hunting every day was impractical, so he tried to take two birds at a time, though this did not always work out.

The Indigenous residents of the Maclay Coast hunted by other means: with spears and with bows and arrows made from bamboo, cane, or areca. They also built baited traps specifically for hunting. Today the methods are much the same—except that spearheads are now iron; the bows and arrows, with their varied wooden and bamboo tips, are practically identical to items in Maclay’s nineteenth-century collection.

Miklouho-Maclay enjoyed high status and authority among the coastal villagers, and so he took part in a full-scale hunt with the people of Bongu. One such episode, on 13 July 1872, is vividly recorded in his field diary:

“It was not yet eleven o’clock, and I had no thought of setting out on a new kind of hunt for me, when suddenly I heard approaching voices and soon several residents of Bongu appeared in full war dress, with tightly strung bows and a great number of newly sharpened arrows of various kinds. Each man had two spears whose tips were rubbed with red earth, as if already stained with blood. Besides the feathers streaming from their heads, their hair was adorned with the scarlet blossoms of the Chinese hibiscus; in their sagu were stuck sprigs with red-yellowish leaves of species of Coleus or long dark-red leaves of Colodracon. At every step these ornaments fluttered, producing a brilliant, striking effect. The newcomers announced that the unan was already burning and that we must go at once. Throwing on my hunting gear and grabbing a little something for breakfast, I set off, accompanied by a motley retinue.

Following the nearest forest path and coming to the edge, I heard a noise like the roar of a waterfall, its volume waxing and waning. Leaving the forest, I saw, a hundred paces away at ground level, a band of fire moving away from us, leaving behind it the black, charred traces of the unan and heaps of light ash. Columns of smoke rose near Gorendu, far to the southwest, at the very edge near Bongu, and to the other side, east of Gumbu, by the Gabeneu River bank. The burn had only just begun, and we settled down in the shade by the forest’s edge. I set to breakfasting <…>. After three-quarters of an hour the fire had moved about half a mile from the edge, and thanks to a NW wind it drove the smoke away from us.

We walked out onto the burned clearing, which proved far less even than I had imagined. As far as the eye could see it was covered with hummocks about five feet high and roughly ten to twelve feet across at the base. These hummocks were of unequal size and were made of earth and small stones. They probably owe their origin to the earthworks of the Maleus. In the forest there are similar tumuli, but more rarely.

We came within about ten paces of the fire line, and each of us chose a hummock for observation. Thus, parallel to the fire line, a chain of hunters formed, watching the movement of the flames and ready to fall upon the quarry. The fire would grow and fade; at times a whole wall of brownish white smoke rose skyward and the flames, in great tongues, swept downwind; at others, the fire all but died, the veil of smoke tore open, revealing distant mountains and the nearer forest. Suddenly, a pillar of smoke would rise again, shift, settle, and the fire would curl in thin snakes over the blackened ground.

The natives, standing in warlike poses—bows and arrows in the left hand and, in the bent right, a spear held over the shoulder, point forward—watched the flames intently, each eager to be the first to spot the enemy. Several boys of ten or eleven, with miniature bows and a spear, also stood a little apart from their fathers—a living example of how the skills of Papuan life pass from generation to generation.

The dry unan crackled, flared, and fell; at times a SO gust drove a mass of smoke at us; the fine ash of the grass flew into our noses, making us sneeze and cough. Now and again the fire, as if hesitating, darted in various directions, drew back, and added stifling heat to the already scorching sun. Exhausted, I could have fallen asleep on my feet, had not the call of the nearest sentry, as the fire retreated, reminded me that we had to move forward. After a tedious two hours we reached the opposite side. Our line met the line advancing toward us. The natives’ eyes, scanning the blackened clearing, found nothing; and when the last stalks flared up and then drifted away as a fine rain of ash, I heard from the nearest hunter the disappointing ‘bul-arep’ (‘no pig’). We stepped down from our hummocks; several men of Gumbu, who had formed the opposing line, also reported that they had seen nothing.

I stopped one of them, who had tied to his spear an animal new to me, resembling a large rat. I set about examining it: the hair was interesting in that it resembled flat needles, though elastic. It was partly singed, as were the legs and muzzle, and the protruding tongue was slightly charred. The animal had likely suffocated from smoke. I was inspecting its sharp teeth when a cry from the natives who had moved off—‘Bul, bul!’—made me turn.

A hundred paces away, weaving between the many spears that were thrusting into the ground from all sides, a large pig was running. I snatched the double-barreled gun from the hands of the native who was holding it while I examined the new animal. Letting the pig come within about twenty paces, I fired. The bullet pierced its chest, but below the heart. The pig staggered, then veered aside and ran past me. I took aim again and shattered its hind leg. The pig stopped for a few seconds, but, seeing my advance, ran on a few more steps. Drawing my revolver, I began to approach. Lifting its upper lip and displaying formidable tusks, the animal emitted a dull growl. With each shot I drew closer and stopped about six paces away. The sow toppled to one side, yet from time to time still raised herself and showed her tusks. The natives who ran up gave me no time to fire: one pierced her side with a spear; another spear flew past; and of three arrows, one (palom—with a broad, flat bamboo tip) stuck in the neck. She still had strength enough to free herself with a few movements from the spear and the arrow, whose tip remained in the wound. Wishing to finish her, I came up from the other side—though the hunters shouted for me not to—and, choosing my moment, I drove my long knife up to the hilt into her side, a little behind the forepart. A stream of warm blood covered my hand, and the animal collapsed for good. Those around unanimously declared the pig mine and began praising my ‘tabu’ and me.

Distant cries announced that we could still hope for more game. I reloaded the gun. The hunters withdrew one by one, irritated by the initial failure. I, finding a convenient hummock, sat down to wait. From afar came cries of ‘Bul, bul, bul!’ Voices called to me from a distance. Then the natives returned and told me there had been two more pigs, but they got away because I—and my ‘tabu’—were not there. A party from Bongu came to say they had killed a pig, but that Saul, whom it had knocked down, was so badly bitten that his side, arm, head, and eye were all bloodied when they led him back to Bongu. In turn my companions told of our exploits, of the ‘tabu,’ and of Maclay’s great bul. We went to our own kill, and when asked where to carry it, I said I would take the head and a hind leg for myself and give the rest to the people of Bongu [Gorendu]; that I would leave the gun at home and go to Bongu to dress Saul’s wounds; and that I invited everyone to my place <…>. All were satisfied, and we moved on <…>.”

Modern Russian researchers who reached the Maclay Coast in 2017 were likewise fortunate to join a hunt for wild pigs. The expedition’s ethnologist, I. V. Chininov, recalls:

“A hunter named Yalla took me with him one morning. He handed me a huge spear with a bamboo shaft and an iron tip; his own spear was made entirely of iron. Yalla told me that wild pigs are hunted only with spears. We were accompanied by his three hunting dogs, which locate the pigs in the dense thickets. This time we failed to find animals, but I am sure it was only because I chose too late an hour to set out. The hunt is usually carried out in the early morning.”

Fishing and Dugout Canoes

As in Miklouho-Maclay’s time, so too a century and a half later, dugout canoes remain traditional among the Indigenous people of the Maclay Coast. For stability the canoes are fitted with an outrigger and are used for fishing and for moving between the small islets off the New Guinea coast.

Fish are the chief source of protein for the Maclay Coast, and fishing is still carried out by traditional means. Since ancient times Papuans have caught fish with a small rod, baiting the hook with tiny crustaceans gathered from wet sand, or by striking fish in the water with specially made arrows and spears. At night they practice torchlight fishing (lamping), going out in small paddled outrigger canoes. Miklouho-Maclay’s field diary captures the scene:

“I watched for a long time as Tui’s son, a boy of about fifteen, shot at fish with a bow—very unsuccessfully; he did not hit a single one. The arrows vanished for a second in the water and then floated back to the surface, standing upright. The hunter gathered them up again. These arrows differ from ordinary ones in having several points instead of one—four, five, sometimes more; the points are made of hard wood and set into a long, slender cane.”
—Entry of 20 October 1871

Iron tools, introduced to the Maclay Coast thanks to the Russian scholar, quickly found their way into fishing: people began using iron tackle, including hooks, and spear and arrow tips were gradually made of iron as well.

A hallmark of Miklouho-Maclay’s second expedition (1876–1877) was his many journeys deep into the jungle and along the coast. Overland he traveled on foot; between islets he used small outrigger dugouts; for longer voyages he went aboard capacious Papuan sailing craft called vang. These boats, with cabins that sheltered passengers from downpours and tropical heat, were handled by the village leader Kain and other friends from Bili-Bili Island, who bartered clay pots made on the islet with communities along the Maclay Coast. Thanks to these voyages he visited more than twenty villages across the region. His diary preserves vivid notes on the Bili-Bili boats:

“These canoes … have a fairly roomy hut on a platform, so that in one of them I could not only stow all my belongings—even a hanging kerosene lamp—but also found space for a table and my small chair. In the hut of another canoe Sale stowed all the kitchen gear … Each vang was handled by two men: one managed the sail, the other the rudder. One vang belonged to my old friend Kain, the other to Kisyom, a very energetic—though alas overly talkative—resident of Bili-Bili. The people of this village, generation after generation, make several trips each year along the north-eastern coast as far as the village of Telyata; they have mastered the coastline, the prevailing winds and their cycles, the currents, and the most convenient landing places. It was only natural for me to leave all seamanship to my companions, agreeing only that we would stop in each village as long as I needed. Kain and Kisyom explained that all our legs along the shore would be made in the evening or at night, taking advantage of the land breeze that blows steadily every night, beginning an hour or two after sunset and lasting until dawn.”

In the early twentieth century the inhabitants of Bili-Bili rose against the German colonial authorities and were forcibly resettled on the New Guinea mainland. Today the village of Bili-Bili lies not far from Gorendu, Bongu, and Gumbu. Their descendants have preserved the craft of making clay pottery, but the remarkable vang described and sketched by Miklouho-Maclay long ago ceased to be part of everyday culture. They have been supplanted by outrigger dugouts, prized for how quickly and lightly they can be built. Even so, making a dugout requires skill, and a few specialist craftsmen on the Maclay Coast still do the work. Modern dugouts, hollowed from a single log, vary in length, but the largest carry no more than four people. They are kept right on the beach and painted bright colors—yellow, green, light blue. In Miklouho-Maclay’s day, the boats were left the natural color of the wood. From the veranda of his hut he often watched the locals out in their canoes, fishing by day and by night.