Ashley Sterne A Christmas Island Christmas

This is an Ashley Sterne Christmas column from World-Radio, December 22, 1933.



A Christmas Island Christmas


Of all the far-flung outputs of the British Empire there is none which should be nearer our thoughts at this joyous juncture of the rolling seasons than that charming little chunk of volcanic mud and rock known as Christmas Island, which I must ask the reader not to confuse with the Christhmus of Panama.  Upon its visiting-cards Christmas Island’s address is pithily, though perhaps a little obscurely, given as latitude 1deg 57min N and longitude 157deg 27min W.  But for those who don’t understand algebra it is perhaps as well to add that the island lies in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, somewhat less that half-way between Honolulu and the Tropic of Capricorn, and rather more than half-way between the Tropic of Capricorn and Honolulu.  This is a very curious phenomenon when you reflect that, whichever way they are measured, Honolulu and the Tropic of Capricorn are precisely the same distance apart.  However — Christmas Island is, of course, coloured red upon the map, partly because it is a British Possession, and partly because it has got turned that colour owing to its proximity to the Equator and its consequent exposure to so much sun.

With the exception of myself (as will transpire later) nobody seems to know very much about Christmas Island, save that it was discovered on Christmas Day, and , by that same token, received its name — much after the fashion of the Isle of Dogs, which was discovered during the first dog-watch on the first of the dog-days by that famous pre-Raphaelite navigator, Sir Dandie Dinmont, who also discovered the island of Terrier del Fuego.

The credit for the discovery of Christmas Island, however, has not yet been allotted.  Some geographers incline to the belief that the cachet belongs to redoubtable Captain Cook, who made quite a little hobby of discovering Pacific islands until that unfortunate day when he had the bad luck to discover a cannibal island whose inhabitants clung tenaciously to the theory that one more Cook improved the broth.

An Unknown Hero

Others, again, attribute the exploit to Vasco da Gama, the adventurous Portuguese navigator who first doubled the Cape, and subsequently negotiated so many other doubles that he invented grand-circle sailing of Safety Thirst principles.  But the most popularly accepted theory is that Christmas Island was discovered by one of those inevitable and ubiquitous Scotsmen who are always to be found prowling about in the most unexpected corners of the globe, seeking some uncompetitive spot wherein to open a new branch-bank.  As, however, he omitted to sign the hotel register, his identity must remain a mystery.

But be these things as they may, Christmas Island undoubtedly “stands today where then it stood” — it hasn’t moved a yard — foursquare to whichever of the winds of Heaven happens to be functioning for the time being.

So much by way of prelude.

It was in the autumn of last year that the BBC approached me with the suggestion that I should undertake a trip to Christmas Island, and secure a gramophone record of the Yuletide festivities held there with the idea of making an Empire Broadcast of it this coming Christmas.  Normally this task would have been undertaken by the BBC’s Outside Broadcast Staff; but, as all these gentlemen were engaged elsewhere, I (who had been threatening the BBC to write another radio review) was invited, for some reason I have been unable to fathom, to undertake the job.

On the very threshold of my Odyssey, however, I encountered misfortune. I left the whole of the recording apparatus behind me in the railway cloak-room of my hometown, Thames Ditton — an omission of which I was entirely unaware until I was actually going through the Customs of Christmas Island, when, asked specifically whether I had any brandy, silk underwear, tobacco, saccharine, or gramophones to declare, I suddenly remember that I had omitted to retrieve the vital impedimenta from the custody of the Southern Railway on my departure.

For this lamentable lapse of memory I found it hard to account, as the cloak-room at Thames Ditton is practically next-door to the refreshment buffet.  However, it was no use crying over spilt beans, as you might say, and to make the best of a bad job I took voluminous notes of all that transpired during my stay on the island.

I was most hospitably received on landing by the native chief, who was an Old Etonian (in fact, he was wearing a loin-cloth in the Old Etonian colours), and he accorded me every facility for observing the manner in which his subjects celebrated Christmas.  Thanks to his own English education he had succeeded in instilling into their benighted minds much of the Christmas spirit which we strive to cultivate here at home, even to the extent of asking the wife’s people to share the Christmas cheer.

Beware of the Cactus

The equatorial climate is naturally all against such seasonal decor as snow and robins; but, with the help of whitewash and a troupe of specially trained hummingbirds, the natives succeeded in producing a mise-en-scene worthy of Mr. C. B. Cochran himself.  Holly and mistletoe likewise do not form part of the indigenous flora of the island; but, nevertheless, the inhabitants make effective play with the discarded skins of moulted rattlesnakes and with the various species of cactus with which the interior of the island, to say nothing of the exterior of the islanders, is liberally punctuated.

One might think that osculating beneath a mass of cactus would not be a very romantic substitute for that fine old English custom of kissing under the mistletoe; but despite the earnest endeavours of Chief Nujiwaja Sidney B. Oojabooja, M.A (Cantab.) to lead them to higher things, the natives stubbornly adhere to the old pagan custom of rubbing noses as a token of affection.  That being so, it seems of scant importance under what sort of vegetable matter they elect to perform this repellent rite.  Carolling parties are organised for Christmas Eve, and it says much for the advanced state of musical culture attained by the natives when I add that the efforts of the carollers meet with precisely the same reception there as they do here: to wit, profanity through the letter-box and lumps of coal from the bedroom windows.

The giving and receiving of presents, too, is a recognised Christmas custom of the islanders, though obviously the character of the gifts is different, as the cigarette coupon system has not yet penetrated so far, nor is there a Woolworth’s nearer than San Francisco.  Hence that pretty English custom of the husband’s presenting his wife with an expensive new dress on Christmas morning cannot be followed on Christmas Island, as the native women never wear anything more than a somewhat exiguous ballet-skirt made of hay.  Instead, the Christmas Island husband adds an entirely new and elaborate tattoo-design upon whatever portion of his wife’s cuticle has not been already decorated in this manner.

Similarly, the native wife does not present her husband with the usual vivid hand-knitted tie.  She give him a little bundle of porcupine-quills to stick through his nose, and possibly a couple of old bloater-paste tines to insert in the pendant lobes of his enormous ears.

 Joyful Dawn

The children, too, clearly cannot hang up their stocking on the bedrail overnight, as stocking and bedrails are both unknown quantities on the island.  Failing this, however, they go to sleep on Christmas Eve with their mouths at full-cock, and it’s a very, very unlucky child who wakes on Christmas morning to find the cavity unfilled with one or other of the native sweetmeats; e.g., n’gz, which is a kind of toffee made of ants’ eggs mixed with caoutchouc; or m’bg, a sort of liquorice-stick made of bamboo soaked in the sepia of the cuttle-fish and fried in wart-hop’s dripping.

Special Christmas fare also appears upon the festive boards (or, rather, filthy mud floors) of even the humblest homes in the island.  The familiar turkey-and-sausages is, however, replaced by roast albatross garnished with small fried snakes, while, in lieu of Christmas pudding blazing in brandy, a boiled sea-urchin is served blazing in train-oil.

I had the honour of being invited by the Chief to eat my Christmas dinner beneath his hospitable punkah, and enjoyed a menu of the most select dishes the island could provide, including filleted iguana and roast python (which was served on a windlass).  The piece de resistance, however, was some very savoury vols-au-vents, of which I ate several with great gusto, though I should probably have chewed less and eschewed more had I known at the time of ingurgitation that the staple ingredient of these tasty patties was forequarter of my host’s great-aunt Louisa.  The Chief’s delightful quip to the effect that it was always Aunt Louisa’s way to have a finger in every pie did little if anything to relieve the acute dyspepsia with which I was subsequently afflicted; and my Christmas Island adventure ended with my cordially wishing myself a Happy Bismuth.