Having parachuted into Jurassic Park and ran the gauntlet of armed crazed cannibal eating locals and malaria bearing mosquitoes the size of pterodactyls, climbed my way out of ten meter sunken pot holes, survived a continent sinking earthquake and accessed the guarded, alarmed and prison like fences surrounding our compound - I fell asleep wondering if taking this contract to come to Lae, Papua New Guinea for two years may not quite be the international experience that I was looking for.
The next day I awoke to heat that is Papua New Guinea and breathed in about two cups of water from the humidity. Of course the trip from Nazab to Lae was not quite as exotic and Indiana Jones like as I was led to believe from those that provided me with initial preparation training in Brisbane, nor was it quite as described as written above. Although in comparison with trips from airports in Australia to the various share houses and apartments I had lived in over the years, I had definitely entered the looking glass.
It was during the six week induction / hand over with the current manager that I was replacing that I was asked if I would be interested in going on a walk to see a crashed world war two US bomber that apparently was largely intact on the side of a mountain. Having spent six days a week either holed up in a dusty, smelly office (which eventually burned down a year later – another story) learning the ins and outs of ships agency and international logistics PNG style or coming back to the compound (the part about the compound being like a prison was true!) and de-stressing to mindless Simpsons on the Asian cable television, a walk to see some history and a look at some of the landscape of this place I would call home for two and a half years was well in order.
I had thought things through a little bit before leaving Australia and upon reading the Lonely Planet guide to Papua New Guinea I learned that there were many interesting walks and great snorkeling and diving locations. So, having read the preface of the Lonely plant Guide and now being completely prepared for my new cultural experience I went out shopping for some walking boots and a snorkel set. It was whilst I was packing my new walking boots on the morning that we were leaving to go on the walk that I decided to see if there was any comment in the guide about the walk we were actually going on. I skimmed the pages until I found the section on Wau and looked up the walks section of the area. I can still remember the sinking dread as I read the description that is forever etched into my memory - “do not attempt this walk unless you are a masochist or an Israeli paratrooper”.
I showed this article to my colleagues whom I just then noticed were trim, muscular and had been “in – country for two years” and was greeted with a smile and a slap on the back and a “you’ll be right mate”. As I lit up a cigarette and contemplated the South Pacific Lager(s) and huge MSG laden Mark’s Kitchen Chinese meal I had the night before I realized that this may be a little bit out of my league. Up till this point my idea of a good walk was up Main Street in Kangaroo Point from my apartment to the Storey Bridge hotel for Sunday jazz – about 70 meters (uphill mind you!!!...well up a bit of a slope). I have never really been the fit type – although at times I have embarked on the notion with good intentions, something sweet or alcoholic seems to deter me at a critical point. But I digress.
We embark on our adventure in a white Toyota Land cruiser – the car of choice for expat’s in Papua New Guinea. I am relegated to my rear seat whilst our driver, a coffee buyer who is war mad and spends his weekends in the jungle looking for war related debris (and a genuine top bloke), tells us stories of his time in Papua New Guinea. As we enter the jungle proper and are careening around blind corners on dirt roads in between villages and cliffs I am told that if we hit a pig or a human (in that order) then we should head straight for Nazab and fly out as news will reach Lae before we do and the villages will be there for blood. Comforting…….at this point I suggest that maybe we should slow down a little....at this I am told “we don’t want to make a slow moving target for the rascals”. I retreat into my mind, mentally counting off those who will miss me and wondering if three weeks in Papua New Guinea is long enough to qualify as a martyr for adventure.
After about two hours (I think it was, hard to contemplate the concept of time when one is in a state of awe inspired foreboding), we arrive at our set off point. In the middle of absolutely nowhere there is a little sidling off the dirt road that has a little path that leads off into mountainous tropical grasslands. You can’t see much as there is a cloud covering most of the mountain in front of us. We check our boots, stretch a bit (I have a smoke) and then start to walk. The phrase “fit for Israeli paratroopers” is like a continuously feed loop through my brain and echoes warnings like the old school bell ringing three times for fire drill practice. After the first hill (it was really just a hump) I make a mental decision that I am going to look like a goose throwing up and whining the whole way and state to my climbing crew that I am nowhere near fit enough to do this and I will retire to the car to await news of their triumphant endeavor. Whilst a look of “slack white newbie” was plastered across their faces, they looked at my red face and on hearing my heartbeat echoing off the mountains decided that this might be a good idea. So as they walked up, I sighed and walked down.
When I got to the car and went to open the door I realized that perhaps I hadn’t thought this through thoroughly. Locked. Whilst sitting down on the bonnet of a bright white land cruiser in a place where people lived that I had read ate people not that long ago, I lit a smoke and began to contemplate the thought that the walk was three hours there and three hours back, I didn’t speak the language of the population of the country I was in, I had no shelter, I was sitting on what would equate to a lifetime salary to a local, the bugs in this country could kill you and………at that point about eight Papua New Guineans came over the crest of the hill, Deliverance style, with bows and arrows and machetes…..I kid you not.
Whilst for the second time that day contemplating “who is going to miss me” I wondered how the hell I was going to get out this fine pickle. The guys with the weapons made a bee line straight to me and made a semi circle around me. These guys were not from my world. They had muscles on muscles no doubt crafted from probably hand to hand combat with giant reptiles that still lived in the mysterious valleys of these parts, they had bows and arrows crafted out of bamboo and sticks as well as machetes that looked sharp. Tribal tattoos and mouths and teeth completely red (obviously from the last white man they had just finished with down the road ). What to do in such a situation. In about a nanosecond my mind created scenarios where I leapt from the car and grabbed the first guy with the bow and arrow and took out everyone with machinegun like speed and exacting precision, or diving off the car and doing a perfect ground landing somersault and sprinting up the mountain in search of my companions, or perfecting a handstand and circle kicking each guy in a Bruce Lee type motion that made my potential attackers flee in shock and create stories for their village that would last forever and implant a continuing generational respect for unfit, overweight, white folk that find themselves alone in ……well perhaps it was longer than a nanosecond. In reality, the only thing that popped into my very Australian mind at that point was the time old (now pretty much defunct) tradition of offering someone a smoke.
In about three seconds I had made friends with eight Papua New Guineans. I couldn’t speak a word of their language; they couldn’t speak or understand a word of mine; but the offering of a cigarette broke the barriers completely. Through hand signals I learned that they were hunting tree kangaroos with their bows and arrows. By drawing in the sand I explained I was very new to their country. They showed me their bows and arrows and had a great time laughing with each other about something or other (maybe they laughed at the fact that if they were going to eat me then they would have a hard time putting me in the pot). But with this simple gesture I was completely at ease with their company and thoroughly enjoyed our communication process. At some point a small boy appeared from the road and one of the guys roared something to him in his local language (I did learn Pigeon English when I was up there and know that he wasn’t speaking that), the boy took off and the guys had another laugh and explained to me the theory of relativity in relation to its effect on the gravitational pull of Saturn’s second planet and thus the small but important contribution to the pull on Earths tides…..or maybe not, I don’t know.
About half an hour later the boy wandered up the hill in the company of what to me looked like a middle aged Papua New Guinean man. This was when I met Yabbie. Yabbie was one of the older men of the village. I am not sure if he was an “elder” or held any position of importance or if that concept even existed in this place. Yabbie could speak English. The group of guys had sent the boy down to the village to fetch the only English speaker for miles around to come and meet me and talk with me. With the guy’s jobs done, they wandered off in search of tree kangaroos with a happy wave and even a few skips, their encounter with a white man something that obviously does not happen often and may have been an experience that they themselves talk about from time to time. Yabbie explained to me that they eat the tree kangaroos and that the guys were in fact getting food for the village. I offered Yabbie a smoke, but he declined with much thanks. I felt I should not smoke around Yabbie, so I put my smokes away.
At this point it started to rain. Now, if you have ever been to the tropics you would know what I am talking about. “Rain drops are falling on my head” is not a song that is sung dreamily and merrily because the size of the raindrops may cause brain damage. This is not the misty foggy umbrella walking through City Park in Tasmania rain that I actually enjoy these days. Nup. Remember that I do not have the car keys (they are currently about five hours away in the pocket of some fit guy strolling up a mountain), nor is there any house or shop to “pop” into until the rail clears. Not that that worries Yabbie any. Yabbie points down into a bit of jungle about thirty meters away and I follow him down a path into what looks roughly like a paddock. At the side of the paddock is a lean too made of sticks and bark. Inside the lean too is a readymade fire that Yabbie quickly starts (no rubbing of sticks, I lend him my lighter). The rain is pouring down outside our entrance whilst we are sitting on dry logs in the lean too around a fire. And then we talk.
Yabbie told me stories about his life and what it entailed. I don’t remember all of his stories, but the ones that stand out are tattooed on my mind. Yabbie told me of a cave up in the mountains where his grandfather had shown him where the village treasure was kept – a complete Japanese fighter aircraft along with guns, trucks, uniforms and ammunition (can you imagine a war historian coming across those in a hundred years time). He told me stories how his Grandfather was a cannibal, but how the missionaries saved them from following that path. He told me things about village life and what they eat. I distinctly remember him throwing some coconut husks onto the fire and telling me that it keeps the mosquitoes away and pointed out the mosquitoes that carry malaria and those that were safe (of course that didn’t stop me from applying about three layers of industrial tropical strength aero guard over every piece of exposed skin I could find….stopped them that time, but they got me eventually, malaria three times). At one point Yabbie sent the young boy down to the river with a couple of huge leaves and he came back with some water to quench our thirst. I in turned told him stories of trains, buildings higher than two stories, television, supermarkets full of food and other things that most of us just take for granted but brought smiles of wonder to Yabbie’s face.
After what must have been about five hours (although it felt much less) we heard the yells (more like grunts) of the walking party making their way down the mountain. Yabbie smiled and stood up and shook my hand and said his goodbyes, his young friend looked up and gave me a smile and they walked off down the road before the others arrived.
Sitting on the bonnet of the land cruiser as my companions staggered out of the bush, soaking wet, scratched from head to toe, mentally and physically exhausted, I was greeted with a comment from the smartarse of the group “How was the rain?” I just smiled to myself. We climbed into the land cruiser and turned around and headed back down the road. As we drove past Yabbie someone in the car made a derogatory remark about how the locals were “bloody useless”. I asked one of the walkers how the plane was and his comment was “alright”. I copped the occasional tease about how unfit I was and how I had missed an amazing opportunity (two years later when a company visitor from France came to visit our port I arranged for a helicopter to take us up to the place crash site….didn’t get wet, no scratches, and didn’t even raise the pulse getting to it – big fan of helicopters – even sent a photo of an aerial shot to the guy who asked how the rain was).
If I was fit, and I was given the choice to either walk up a mountain to see a remains of a crashed plane or sit for five hours with someone from a different culture who could give me his story, Yabbie would be my first option any day. Sadly just before I left Papua New Guinea I heard that Yabbie had died. I like to think though that the young boy who was with us that day remembers Yabbie and my conversation and one day, when he is older, when some unfit white man decides to stay back from the Israeli paratrooper inspired crashed plane walk, he may mention a version of this story in the same lean too around a fire of coconut husks and malaria bearing mosquitoes.
