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10 Must Stop Photo Spots of North Queensland

2011-10-02T15:06:00.001+11:00

Ok, first up, this is not a definitive, researched, ultimate bucket-list thingo. This is just me thinking out loud and thinking about 10 locations or features one should check out whilst touring around between Cairns and Townsville. So if your favourite bit is not here, then leave a comment.

But a fcbk friend is heading this way shortly and I thought I'd blog a repsonse. So here goes, and in more a geographical order here are 10 reasons why you should carry a camera in North Queensland.

1. The Great Barrier Reef and the best place to get out there is from Port Douglas. One can either jump aboard one of the big Party Ships that heads out and join the 300 other rubber neckers for a day of sunburn, seasickness and stinger suits, or you could get onboard a 60ft sailing Catamaran which has a limited number of people on board and cruises out to the reef at a pleasant 10kts. Here is a shot of the Synergy which was such a relaxing way to waste the day out on the water!

2. Rainforests. While there ain't as many trees left in the rainforest as maybe there was some 300 years ago, there are still some great spots in North Queensland to get in and amongst the tropical jungle. And some are really easy to get into, like Mossman Gorge and the Daintree, whereas others require some more serious bushwalking like the areas around Tully and mountains like Bartle Frere. However, the most photographed tree in the Rainforest is up at Yungaburra and is the Curtain Fig Tree. This tree is estimated to be at least 700 years old.

3. Birdwatching is fun, taking photos of birds can be a challenge, it can also be time consuming. However, the easy way is to go to one of the wildlife parks and take photos of captive birds in aviaries! How easy is that! Now sure, the Cairns Casino is not the first place you would think about wildlife, but up on top the dome is a wildlife park complete with Crocodile and if you don't mind the damp smellyness of the joint, is is a cool place to get up close and personal with some of the more elusive birds of the tropics. And you don't have to tell your friends the truth... you can say you sat out in a mosquito infested swamp as the sun rose just to get a shot of the rare and endangered!

4. Waterfalls. North Queensland has got a million of them, and you can spend days driving around the Atherton Tablelands visiting simply waterfalls. The prettiest and most visited and most photographed would be Millaa Millaa Falls, and getting a moment to get the perfect shot without some tourist swimming and fouling your nature photography is pretty tough. I guess the option would be to get a waterproof housing for your camera and join in the watery fun!

5. Recently when Queensland turned 150, a bucket list came out with the 150 things you must-see in the state, and topping that list voted by the good people of Queensland was Paronella Park, and what a very groovy old dilapidated castle it is! José Paronella is a legend in North Queensland and just outside of Innisfail next to the delightful Mena Creek Hotel is José's dream! Unfortunately at the moment I hear this year's Dry Season has been very dry for Paronella Park but when it is wet and lush and green, this place is quite enchanting!

6. Further south from Innisfail surprisingly enough, there are more Waterfalls to encounter, from Murray Falls, to the hard to get to Blencoe Falls and even Jourama Falls, but the cracker is the mighty Wallaman Falls just inland from Ingham. A cool drive through some cow farms and then up a mountain jungle pass. Wallaman Falls is Australia's longest single drop waterfall. During the dry season, it is magnificent, and during the wet, if you can get there, it is truly spectacular! Added bonus is the opportunity to see Cassowaries.

7. Now if you cannot make it to the reef or you do not have an underwater camera, then the world's largest indoor coral reef is for you. Reef HQ is such a cool place to go when the weather gets toasty and you get to see sharks, turtles, fishies and other wonders of the deep. It's edumacational too! And the glass is crystal clear, so that when you show your friends your shots, you can convince them that you dive as well as Jacques Cousteau! Easily the best time you will ever have underwater without getting wet! Hey, I should be getting paid to write this shit!

8. Everyone wants to see a crocodile when they go to the tropics and seeing one in the wild is a mind blowing experience, however, they are pretty elusive and shy, so there are numerous wildlife parks where you can hang out and watch these guys being fed by trained professionals. The best display of these prehistoric beasts I have seen is in Townsville and is called the Billabong Sanctuary. And a great place to get some more bird shots, and a place to cuddle a wombat! What more could you ask for?

9. When in Townsville, before you go see the fish and the lizards, you must get to the top of Castle Hill which is perfect for getting a bird's eye view on town and its surrounds. Great for a bit of exercise or even drive your car up the 3km road, Castle Hill is a popular spot. And you can get to see some cool views of Magnetic Island and The Strand and the cemetery!!!

10. And lastly, and most probably the hardest one to get to, as it is well-inland in the Burdekin Dam! Completed in 1987, this monster wide dam with its 500m spillway is amazing to see dry as well as wet, often the water going over the spillway is 3-4m above the wall height and is a noisy cacophony of roaring water! Currently at 15cm below the spillway, it means you can drive across the base of the dam and onto the desert beyond! Why not stop at Ravenswood and look for a ghost?

Not an exhaustive list but just some of my highlights up in this part of the planet.

Donahue and Plenty Highways

2011-07-30T19:08:00.001+10:00

Camping out at the Boulia Caravan Park was great fun, all of the fellow travellers camped there were great fun and full of good info about the road ahead. I was unsure about the Donahue Highway, in fact, I had heard some pretty ordinary stories about it. I was told that the Plenty Highway was in good nick and in typical Queensland style, the Donahue section was a nightmare. Deep ruts, and stony ground, I was guaranteed a flat tyre or several. I had also heard that there was rumours that the Donahue section was graded and to be sealed so that the Road Trains could have a better run at it.

Anyway, I feared the worst. I went out and purchased brand new boots for my little 4WD and I figured that new shoes should get me across the desert. Sheesh, if one wheel was doomed then how could 2 spare wheels cover the remaining 3??? So I went with no puncture kit, no air compressor and just the spare.

I decided to interrogate those travellers who had successfully completed the "highway" and they talked of broken leaf-springs in their trailers and punctured tyres. They told me that the last 200kms from Jervois to Gem Tree was a corrugated nightmare and that was the Plenty Highway! They said enjoy the first 400kms, pull over, camp, buy expensive fuel and just rest at Jervois, because the next stretch would test me and my little 4WD.

Hey I got a little 4WD, sure its not a Hilux, a Landcruiser, a Patrol or any of those big monsters, but its got a proper low range, its a gutsy diesel and it just bombs along! What could go wrong?

The big monsters told me that they were letting their tyre pressures down so that they could survive the corrugations!

So I didn't sleep very well. Boulia has a problem with native Rats and they were climbing all over my tent, in between the fly and the screen. They were pretty cute really, little black eyes, pointy little nose, soft and brown... but they were active. I drank some whisky, I got some sleep.

The next morning, I slowly packed up my tent, had some breakfast, procrastinated a little longer and then finally sucked it in and decided to go see what this Hell of the North was like.

I left Boulia at 9:30am expecting an easy 400km run to Jervois and then a well earned rest. Well, like I said, my little 4WD bombs along and on roads like in the picture, 100kph is money for jam. Ripping along, I was thinking maybe the big monsters had taken a different road?

I got to the NT border, changed my clock back and thought "you beauty, and extra half hour" and continued. It was a great road, lovely, some trees every now and then, a few emus and soon, I hit Jervois. It was 2:00pm. With the time difference, 4 hours and 30 minutes of motoring for 400kms. The lady who sold me fuel at $2.15 per litre was well impressed that my little 4WD had covered the ground so quickly. In fact, she thought it was one of the quickest runs across the highway.

So I figured, how can I rest at only 2:00pm? So I kept going, hey lets get the horrible corrugated section out of the way. Why rest and sleep and wait for it tomorrow? So off I went. Yeah well, it was corrugated, and there were some wash outs and I passed a few big monsters with punctured tyres but I didn't think it was so bad; just bounced around and got on with it.

2 and a half hours later I pulled into Gem Tree and sadly the dirt finishes there and it becomes a sealed road. And there are no Gems hanging off the Trees. There are gems but you got to dig for them and "fossick". But what a beautiful campground, sleeping with Dingoes.

Winton to Boulia

2011-07-28T14:49:00.000+10:00

What to do when in Dinosaur country? How about go look for signs that perhaps dinosaurs once roamed this part of the planet? At Lark Quarry around 95million years ago, a bunch of emu and chicken sized dinosaurs where drinking at the edge of what is now referred to as the Great Inland Sea. Along came a Theropod who at 4tonnes in weight was a bit bigger then the little guys and was looking for a feed. As he went in for the kill, the little guys all exited stage left and the good news for us, is that the mud they stampeded across has been fossilised and 3,300 dinosaur footprints have been preserved in stone for us to go back in time and check it all out.

These dinosaur prints were discovered quite some time ago underneath one of the many Mesas that cover this amazing landscape. This is gorgeous spinifex country and standing on top of one of the mesas, it feels like you can see forever. It is a dramatic difference to what many would see as typical Queensland, being the beaches or rainforest, but this is spectacular country and I really enjoyed the journey.

When you do travel to Lark Quarry, allow some time to wander the 3.5km track around the park, you'll see Spinifex Pigeons and Bearded Dragons and you'll see a whole range of different rock of varying colours. Oh yeah and there's always the Dinosaur prints in the big shed!

Yet another fantastic view in Dinosaur country!

And remember during the wet season (Dec - Mar) many of the roads in this area get flooded and even in July I came across some fairly boggy stretches of road, especially around the great Diamantina River.

Winton, on the edge of the Outback.

2011-07-27T12:01:00.002+10:00

Recently I decided to drive around Australia. I will exclude Tasmania and Western Australia on this journey but I will get to the rest. There is a great deal of things I have not seen in this massive country so it was time to go and see some of them.

My car is great, it gets me to where I want to be in comfort, yet it has never left the state. I have also never driven a car with Qbilly plates on it outside of this, my adopted state so I had some things to do. And seeing as I know Winton quite well, I decided day one would be to get there. So I had a comfortable start to my adventure.

Winton is on the edge of the outback, well some say it is the outback but who am I to judge? Out here the water is pumped up (often under natural pressure) from the great Artesian Basin and is rich in Sulphur, smells like that little creek in Madang where they filmed Robinson Crusoe. It is tasty water, just a little stinky... give it time to settle.

Along the way, these windmills provide water for communities and livestock. This windmill was photographed at a little town called Prairie about halfway to Winton from the coast.

The land out here is flat, can often be very dry and can also get very wet. During times of rain, the road is often underwater and can mean small towns like Prairie and Winton can be isolated for days and days, sometimes weeks and months. But at this time of year, the roads are in fantastic condition. It was however, impressive to see just how much water was hanging around at this time of year, it was an excellent wet season just gone and the landscape is so much greener for the better.

My journey to Winton was un-eventful, everything went according to plan and the town was abuzz with the Grey Nomads who head this way every July to see blue skies and warm sunshine. And with the extra water and flowers in the region, there were some pretty birds around the place. Like I have said in previous blogs, I went to PNG a bushwalker and returned a bird-nerd.

A White Plumed Honeyeater.

A Yellow Throated Miner

And a Black Faced Woodswallow.

It's time.

2011-07-27T11:42:00.000+10:00

It's about time I blogged again. It's about time I dropped the PNG style from my title as I now reside in Australia. PNG was over 2 years ago, and it's time I moved on. So from today, you will read about my travels again. During my time in PNG, I visited all of its Provinces, something I have not yet done in my home country. Maybe I should.

Cheers and beers,
SB.

For Eunie.

2010-09-09T22:05:00.001+10:00

This is my Madang.

I once walked from Mt Wilhelm to Madang; the mountains in this photos are not the ones I clambered down from, but the mountains that rise from any coast in PNG up into its spine are similar. This shot was taken from Madang looking back towards the Highlands yet to the Sou'west of Madang itself. A sunrise on yet another beautiful day in paradise.

This is what others know of when you say Madang.

On my last trip to Madang I ventured out to Jais Aben. I visited the graves at Alexshafen. I have spent my life dedicated to many of whom I never met and it is only the living that know of the dead. From my vantage point of Jais Aben, I could see the young children on this tiny island running carefree up and down the sandy beach blissfully unaware.

This is the Madang which provides a source of life.

Despite a morning storm over Krangket Island, these locals find a moment to cease fishing and admire the sunrise. Human touch in front of the extremes that Mother Nature can dish out can often be the softest.

I offer flowers. If I were to pick a posie of Madang's finest, then I would select the simple blooms from the following.

This is my Madang.

Early morning, despite the nat-nats, a photographer must capture the first moment, it is the cleanest light, the purest light.

With the warmth of the sun, often comes the storms.

And it was a heavy heart that I left Madang for the very last time. This was to be my last flight in PNG.

Looking back towards Madang, these photos were taken with my wondering if I would ever return.

SP Lager; Who serves it?

2010-09-05T07:12:00.000+10:00

Okay, final SP post, and I still have not had anybody from the brewery contact me to say that the pallet of SP lager is on its way. I'm still waiting...

Back to why I came here... who serves SP Lager? Good question, we know who drinks it and we know how to buy it and we also know that it is available in Australia. Now say this like you have a plum in your mouth; "it is an imported lager and carries the price tag not dissimilar to other fine lagers from around the globe". I reckon' it even tastes worthy of competing with other fine lagers from around the globe. Hey I like it but we all knew that!

My experience tells me that serving SP lager is almost as much fun as drinking SP lager, but serving and drinking SP would be some kind of retail nirvana, and I have experienced that as well. And it was an historic moment in time, my wantoks still talk about that afternoon when I was in charge of the esky, and we had fun handing out the SP and we had fun drinking the SP. Good times... good times.

Here's Albert, he's working hard at the Rapopo Plantation Resort over on East New Britain, it is interesting to note that there ain't a huge supply of SP behind Albert in the SP fridge. That's because Albert and the team at Rapopo place all the day's supply of SP into a big esky on ice, because SP is best served cold, and ice is the best way to get beer to perfection. Albert, we salute you.

Even birds at the Windjammer Hotel, Wewak, East Sepik enjoy SP and here we see a Cockatoo standing at the end of this iconic bar found in this iconic establishment. The Windjammer is a must visit location to any trip to Wewak, and it has this bleedin' great big timber bar carved into a crocodile, known amongst locals as the puk-puk bar. The cockatoos here would have you believe that the local name is a misnomer and that it should be called the pek-pek bar. And drinker beware, do not get your fingers to close to their beaks!

Here is another large beak attached to another Cockatoo.

On a serious note, thanks to global warming, bars like the puk-puk bar in Wewak and many others like it in tropical locations around the Pacific are under threat by rising sea levels. If you and your friends still want to experience places like the Windjammer, not just now, but into the future, your kids future, then write to your local Member of Parliament and let them know of the plight of these drinking holes, that these places of refuge, where one can slake one's thirst are in danger of sliding back into the ocean, back into the primordial swamp from whence they came.

I digress, here are two kekeni animase serving patrons at the delightful Japanese restaurant called Daikoku in Port Moresby.

and just take a look at what it says on the serving tray... "good times, great mates... our beer". Just about sums it up. Now Daikoku is a fantastic venue for drinking and of course, serving SP. Great food, great service despite some of the kekeni animase being a little on the quiet side (speak up ladies, we don't bite) and great atmoshpere (I wonder if they still play that soaring soundtrack that reminded me of Gary Moore and did I really type atmoshpere????). Daikoku was great for business important type lunches and dinners but also for party time with "great mates". And the Cheesy Lobster? Exquisite!

Now, if you don't believe me that serving SP can be almost as much fun as drinking SP, then check out these two ladies over in Morobe Province serving SP from the tap at the Sportsman's Bar at the Lae International Hotel. Called the "Lae Inter" by all and sundry, the Inter can claim it's international status because it has five clocks hanging on the wall behind reception, all showing different time zones and not always working. But there was nothing "international" about their beers, it was SP, SP, SP or even more SP. Like the Rapopo Plantation, the Lae Inter also had a stash of stubbies in an esky full of ice. Refreshing? Hell yeah, and with great smiles and great service, why wouldn't you want to drink until closing? Glug glug glug.

And finally, I leave you with the most Australian looking pub interior you will see north of Saibai Island, the Bluff Inn, found at 17-mile, in the Central Province on the road to Sogeri. Found at the base of the mighty snake road, the Bluff Inn found ex-pats and Nationals drinking side by side, in a very very very dark interior with walls lined with beer coasters from around the globe and outside, the biggest beer garden ever! What a great venue, for drivers to pull over after the arduous task of getting down the hill and to stop and wet their whistle. For some time, it was also a good spot for raskols to stop ex-pats and have a chat about finances. But not in the years I lived in Moresby. The Bluff Inn, along the banks of the Laloki River, home of some tasty burgers and home to some fine cold beer (Author's note, in 2006, the Bluff Inn didn't realise that ex-pats weren't coming because the beer was warm. When they started to keep the fridges on, the dollars started to roll their way).

SP Lager; Who drinks it?

2010-07-03T07:47:00.000+10:00

Why of course everyone in PNG does. SP is the beer of PNG, sure they've smuggled in some Tiger and you can sometimes see some Aussie beers at Boroko Foodworld and more likely the red-card waving members of the diplomacy will often be spotted with an import or 2 or 3 or 9, but SP is the people's choice. In a country where monopoly rules, SP is one of the finest monopolies around. So let's raise our glasses and proclaim a toast to the people who drink SP. And here they be...

Let's start off with the men and women who work tirelessly at SP to slake my thirst. Here's one here, this guy became a good friend of mine; not because he could brew a decent amber drop but because he was a gentleman, a good bloke, a nice guy and here he was at one of my farewells to PNG relaxing with the tipple of choice: SP Export. And what finer place to enjoy this beverage then the Bluff Inn, halfway up the road to Sogeri, the Bluff Inn would often attract people to stop and rest under the boughs of the majestic Rain Trees and imbibe in some of PNG's finest.

Even Bukans like SP! Here are two of Bougainville's finest young men enjoying a green can or 2 or 3 or 30. These guys stopped to chat with me as one does at 06:30am while I was out walking. I don't think it was an early start to their drinking session but perhaps the tail end of what looks like a Herculean effort. I'm sure these two men were determined to fill the tray with their empties and most likely, they probably have forgotten about the time they met the whiteguy with the camera on that morning. But I have the photo as a keepsake. Cheers!

What can I say, SP goes well with sport, its a marriage made in heaven, here we find the Rabaul Gurias getting their arses well and truly kicked by the Marauding Mendi Muruks in the 2007 edition of the SP Cup Grand Final. The Muruks won the match 44-6 after the Gurias started off so sprightly... Ai ai ai. I was so disappointed when Bemobile took over the Sponsors naming rights for the National Rugby League Comprtition, to me it will always be the SP Cup... that's akin to no longer seeing Somare's face on the K50 note. A sad day indeed.

This little fella is starting off early! Honestly, he was just playing with an empty can, but the son of one of my friends looked like such a seasoned barfly, resting on his esky with green can in hand, that I just had to take his photo. I wonder if the internet will still be around when he grows up and if he'll ever stumble across this shot? Maybe he could leave a comment?

Anyone who is anyone drinks SP. Here are a couple of spent stubbies that were consumed during my last supper in PNG, a dozen of my good friends (including brewery staff) joined me at Moresby's finest Italian restaurant for good food, good beer and good cheer. Besides, like sport, beer goes so very well with good company. Cheers!

I mentioned before that SP is available on the Kokoda Track and that I made a conscious decision to not partake whilst trekking... but afterwards? At Kokoda? Oh yeah! The SP flowed. But on a sober note and no I am not going to start reflecting on the Diggers and what they endured on that ragged bloody track but I heard a rumour that the Asian born, PNG national who operated the Chinese Stoa down by the Madi River was on board the Airlines PNG Twin Otter that crashed into the Owen Stanley Ranges in 2009. I'm saddened by that, he once sold me some Diesel and some SP.

Even Ugly Dolls like SP, and no, I'm not talking about women who have been touched up with the ugly stick, but back in Moresby, at Andersons, they released this range of grumpy sour looking ugly plastic dolls and dressed them up in bilumwear and sold them off as "kids toys"!

Here's one enjoying an SP at Fort Shitscared during a legendary "go pinis" party for some diplomats, and I scored an invite! Anyways, there's a Ugly Doll.

Here's something that I am not sure of. Kind of a case of being damned if you did and damned if you didn't, but say you found a lump of wealth just under the ground and you wanted to move that lump of wealth (let's call it gas) to another location so that you could get the best of that gas and the lump was under lots and lots of people (let's call them Southern Highlanders) and you needed to talk to these people in regards to remuneration and compensation and the possiblity of getting some work, or even not getting some work but at least getting money, then negotiations would be required. Now negotiations won't work where the lump is, because every man and his hunting dog will be there and mob mentality won't work, but lets take a co-op of land owners to another part of PNG for some discussions. The Southern Highlands have often suffered under State of Emergencies and there's kinda a ban on the sale of alcohol in the Province so it seems that it is harder to get an SP up there as it would be elsewhere.

These discussions would take some time and all that talking helps to work up a thirst and I have said it before, SP slakes a thirst like no other. Here we find the average Southern Highlander negotiating a fair deal for his people that he is representing; now that's enough green cans to fill the tray of a Ute from Buka!

Just over half a carton to go for this young fella, and at only 08:00pm, the night is young and this man will do just fine! Drink up, the next round is yours!

SP Lager; where can you get it?

2010-06-12T09:07:00.003+10:00

One time, I'm cruising in a boat and we have had a good day fishing, but the SP supply is down, so we've dropped anchor at Porebada and waded ashore. A couple of courteous "Hadorai namona" to break the ice and we've soon discovered the little black market stall and we've bought our SP and wandered back out to the boat. In fact, some bartering took place as we didn't have any cash for the beer, so we swapped some fish. Everyone was happy, they got some good fish and we got some beer.

Another time I'm relaxing at the village of Menari, I've just walked up and cross the Maguli Range, and through Naoro and in a small aluminum tray with water are some SPs for sale. This time, I made not a purchase. Firstly, SP has to be cold, not chilled by water in the mountains, but cold. Secondly, I could survive until Kokoda before I chugged a beer and thirdly, there is common knowledge around the Porters and Guides of the Kokoda Track that us Aussies can't survive 8 days in the Jungle without getting on the piss. So while I love a good beer, I was out to prove to my Porter (and too myself) that I could do it tough in the Mountains of Papua.

But it was for sale for those who needed it.

On another occasion, this time in New Britain, I was with some hard working blokes, doing a bit of hard yakka and on the Sunday, we had run out of SP and they were keen on getting some more. They weren't so keen in paying resort prices for individual cans and were more interested in buying a carton from the stoa. These hard working Aussies (I might add) didn't realise that one wasn't meant to buy beer on the Sabbath, so while I took their money, I couldn't promise any return. I headed into town and met up with an old guy named George, he looked after a well known Snorkeling patch and I got into a casual conversation with him and then George asked me "You want a SP?" Hey, it was Sunday, the sun was shining and I had knocked off work for the week so yeah, lets get a beer.

George knew of a small black market where we could buy a SP or two, so off we went. George said, "go down here, turn left there, turn right here, back up back up, turn left again" and sure enough, in this little Tolai village we found some drunk boys who had exhausted the stoa supply of SP. Plan 2 for George "lets go over here, up there, around here and over there". So with plenty more "Boina malarnas" we discovered that yes again, the same drunk boys had beaten us to the SP supply. By this stage, I was ready to call it a miss, drive George home and then make my own way back to the resort and revert to drinking resort beer; it was a hot day and I was getting thirsty.

George says "One more try, go down here, turn left here, around the oval watch out for all the susumamas, turn right here and park by the fuel drum" We found ourselves again in a tiny village close to the Nonga Hospital and there was ash falling from the sky, and our little black market stoa sold Diesel and SP. I bought a carton for my hard working Aussies and George bought a 6-pack. We sat there for some time, telling stories and while I had one coolish SP, George was drinking a couple. Time to head back and George was feeling hungry "You want a scallop" and sure why not, so we ate a deep fried potato fritter (fried in vintage oil) and George and I parted ways. I returned to the team, handed over the black market beer and relaxed the rest of my afternoon.

The TST at 4-mile was regularly cheaper than other supermarkets in Moresby when it came to SP, so it was often that I would buy a box of beer here from time to time. The ladies behind the counter would giggle at my Tok Pisin attempts and even would let me in behind the counter to go and inspect the wine racks at my leisure. I was often dragged through to the front of the line if I ever made the mistake of making my purchase on Payday. I always felt really bad about queue jumping and I often thought it was because of my skin colour that I was served first, but there was more to it I noticed. I discovered that a PNGean with K100 to spend on alcohol takes a long long long long time to choose; do I buy 1 box of green cans and 1 bottle of trade winds whiskey and 3 bottles of live lava (the PNG made wine!!!) or do I buy 1 carton of export, 1 bottle of dark rum and some orchy??? Ai ai ai, at least the tall white guy knows what he wants, and he has correct money.

However the fridge at the TST was a let down, remember SP needs to be cold, I shouldn't have to put my purchase in the Freezer when I finally got home? So it was often that I would pay the extra Kina and make my purchase at Andersons, Koki (now known as SVS, Koki I think?). Boy was their fridge working well and the beers were still super cold upon my return home. That's all I ask.

Once I phoned up Betty from Betty's Lodge and I said "Hey Betty, I'm coming up to stay for a few days, I'm gonna go for a walk in the Mountains, make sure there's some SP in the fridge." Betty replied with "Don't worry brother, you don't need no fridge up here, it's cold enough off the shelf" Ai ai ai Betty, SP needs to be cold.

So I get there, and Betty has 4 brown bottles in her Kitchen. "Betty Betty Betty, wanim dispela? You gat sompela mo SP or nogut?" Betty says "Sori tru Brata, mi gat 4pela tasol ah!"

So the next day, I walk up and check out Lake Pindaunde (I think I blogged this somewhere) and I drink Betty's 4 beers. The day after I walk down to Gembogl and chat to a few locals; they point me in the direction of John, a man who sells SP. So I buy some SP from John, load up my backpack and walk back up to Betty's Lodge. There, I enjoy my well earned SP thinking "ain't too many people in PNG at the moment higher than me drinking SP"

I then walked to Madang.

On another occasion, I was staying at the Arawa Women's Training Centre and I was relaxing with some hard working guys from the PNG Internal Revenue dept and they were keen to get some drinking done. We had all knocked off work for the day; I had been chopping my way through the jungle with a Marist Priest and I had spent sometime with a Commander from the BRA who was glad the Bougainville Conflict was over but it was good times... good times. So I was up for a beer and the Tax guys had some with them. I figure if the Tax Dept is paying, then I'm up for a beer or three. I did remind myself that I was needing to be awake at 3am in order to catch my ride back to Buka, so I thought I'd go esi esi.

Well I had one white can and the Tax guys destroyed the rest. So I said "Hey Guys, I might go for a walk into Arawa and see if I can get some more beers?" and they said "Great idea!"

Well after stopping and chatting to the betel nut ladies again, I bought some more nuts for me Tax mates and for my Buka mates and for the crew back in Moresby. Hey what can I say, Buka betelnut is massive and the best in the whole of PNG! I continued on and had a chat to a "redskin" highlander who was hiding from his Missus and chose Bougainville to lay low for a few years, he felt some kind of kinship with me as my skin colour was closer to his then the "blackskins" of Bougainville. I continued on and found an empty shell of a wreck of a building destroyed during the Conflict and inside was a man selling SP but only black cans and at K8 a pop, they were not cheap. But like he said, these SP were made in Moresby, shipped to Buka, loaded onto a Land Cruiser and driven all the way down to Arawa. So I said "why does the redskin next door sell Cola for the same price I pay in Moresby?"

Anyway I bought the cans and went back to the Women's Training Centre. There they gave me a big plastic drum of crushed ice and I hid my cans inside; the Tax guys were gone (I would see them again still drinking at 3am the next morning), the sun was gloriously setting over Panguna and there was Chicken on the menu. I ate my tea, watched the glow of the sunset, drank my beers and relaxed. Good times.... good times.

My final tale. I went to the SP Cup Grand Final, 18,000 screaming Highlanders packed into a stadium built for 10,000. I was wearing the jersey of the Rabaul Gurias and we scored first! 6-0 to the Gurias. A pity the Muruks then scored the next 44 points. But, because I knew it was going to be impossible to get a cold beer, I had my tiny esky with 6 cans of icy cold SP ready for the afternoon. Then the unbelievable happened, 4 rows behind me were a couple of Guria supporters dressed just like I was; the chap I recognised as a pilot for Airlines PNG and every half hour or so, they would pass a can of SP down the 4 rows to be delivered to me. 4 PNGeans hands would take this cold beer from one stranger down to the crazy white guy wearing the enemies jersey. No-one challenged this exchange of beer, and no-one stole their offerings. My faith in mankind was restored, my faith in the Gurias was being challenged on the field though....

SP? Where would PNG be without you?

SP Lager

2010-05-29T18:35:00.011+10:00

The compact shape of the SP "stubby" is noticeable... many years ago in Australia a well known brewery changed its beer bottle size from 375ml to 335ml and then ran an advert in the paper saying how this was due to "Public Demand". What a crock! Public Demand would never call for a downsizing of beer. Ever! So when I got off the plane at Jackson's and headed to the Balus Bar at Airways for a cleansing ale, I noted the fact that SP is in a 335ml "hand-grenade". Oh well, when in Rome...

One time I was in Popondetta and there was a ban on the sale of all alcohol due to states of emergency and local elections so the whole Town was just hanging out for a bevvie or twelve, and then! The ban was lifted and it was on for young an old; empty SP bottles were being discarded from the windows of Police Vehicles on Main St with great vigour and the local Politicians were getting drunker and drunker at the Lamington Hotel that I had to seek refuge inside the dining room of the Hotel for some peace and solitude. No-one else was eating as the whole of Popondetta was on a liquid diet that day, so I found my spot, ordered a steak and sipped on some cool cool SP. See photo above.

Some time later after a few SPs had passed under the bridge, I noticed that SP had decided to sell their Export Beer no longer in a clear bottle but in the smarter green stubby... Looked flash. I can recall talking to a SP Brewer about how I didn't opt for the clear bottle in certain drinking establishments because of the UV lights in the fridge causing the beer to age prematurely... I wonder if I influenced the decision to go green? Surely not?

But the green stubby looked pretty flash in my beer fridge which remained clear of wasteful food scraps and old jars of whatever. A beer fridge is for beer, and gin occasionally and the tonic that goes with it... but only occasionally. So here's my beer fridge:

Also, one time I walked from Mt Wilhelm down to Madang... great stuff, just walking down the hills, chatting to the locals, enjoying a tea at one of the many kopi haus and not getting an SP. Needless to say, after a few days in the wilderness, the first port of call at Madang was the Madang Lodge, but an SP and enjoy watching the sun set over the water. I'm almost back there now... see photo:

I love the way you can see the Palm Tree shadow in the bottle.... classic!

And now, oh yes, I mentioned it before; SP is available in Australia. Here is a photo of it taken in my backyard; I have Sogeri Grass in my yard and this photo shows SP being right at home. Good times.... good times.

South Pacific Lager

2010-05-01T18:14:00.011+10:00

The photo in my last post about Kokoda and the lads sitting in front of Andrew's Stoa eating cucumbers is a fine segue onto my next post, and this one is all about Beer and the PNG fineart of Hospitality. You see the other day I was perusing my local beer merchants fine warehouse of alcohol and I noticed a very familiar beer on the shelves and it was one I had not tasted for some time but knew very intimately.

SP.
Well I just had to make a purchase.

But then I got to thinking about all the great times that SP had been with me over the years, all the laughs, all the tears, the good times... the good times. SP is a critical part of PNG culture and its dynamics; I'm sure those people who visit PNG and don't drink beer, miss out on something.

But lets talk about the beer itself... it's a hoppy beer and quite bitter, it does hint of its parent beer in Heineken especially the Export. Niugini Ice is pretty ordinary though, sweet and strong and designed for the PNG Nightclub market, Ice is pretty forgettable. But who could forget the Stout with Father Christmas on the label?

SP lager, has to be served cold, not room temperature nor "I have just turned the fridge on temperature" and some merchants got the temperature right when others failed.

The tale continues....

More from Kokoda Station, Oro

2010-04-04T09:09:00.012+10:00

It's been a while now since I left Kokoda; in fact its been 18months at least since I was there and while I keep an eye on how things are going, I am sure something is different and maybe nothing has changed...

These three photos again show three different expressions on three different groups of people with three potentially different dreams. The first shot of the three lads sitting outside Andrew's Stoa is one of my favourites from Kokoda. If you finish the Kokoda Track at Kokoda then the first point of call is the carved timber signage out front of the Hospital and then the second idea is to wander down to the Airfield or find a place to stay. Diagonally opposite the Hospital is Andrew's Stoa where you can buy some typical stoa goods in PNG; SP lager, and Maggi Kakaruk Seasoning both seen here in this image. Next to this Stoa is Little Priscella's Place run by Priscella and David and not to be confused with the bigger Priscella's Place (scene for shot 2).

In many parts of PNG one can find isolated Villages where the kids may not recall the last time they saw a white person apart from the local Missionary and this often leads to awe and amazement from the kids when you first show up to town. Kokoda however sees its fair share of white visitors (some are brown from the 96km mud track, and some are clean off another plane) so I excused the kids when they didn't show too much enthusiasm for a white guy with a camera. But this guy at the front of the shot is great; his total "I couldn't care less" attitude has given this shot a sense of realism and it offers his whole "where does the future for me lie?" imagery. He is eating a cucumber and he is sprinkling Maggi Kakaruk Seasoning on it before taking a bite; a very cheap snack and apart from the MSG in the Seasoning, it could almost come across as being "healthy"???

Interesting fact; at the time of this photo being taken, the Kokoda Local Level Government (LLG) were holding elections meaning that the sale of alcohol was prohibited, the cartons you see in shot are empties and are waiting for the big truck to come by, pick up all the dead ones and take them to Popondetta, and then to Buna and then back to Lae by boat. The bottles that survive this journey then get washed and refilled and end up at a similar Stoa just like this one. Earlier that morning, I met with a few Police Officers who had been sent from other Provinces to keep an eye on the election and the Prohibition. We spent some time chatting as they were all waking up for a brand new day; later on in the afternoon, I would find the Officers again washing and relaxing at the local stream drinking the SP they had confiscated during the day and they then offered me a beer. Now I don't mind a beer and it had been some time since I had last sipped on the golden ale, as I had spent some time in the mountains away from such luxuries but even I draw the line at warm SP; no electricity in town, no refrigeration.

Shot 2 was taken at Priscella's Place which has quite a sizeable guesthouse and dining room. Like everyone in Kokoda (Little Priscella included), you can arrange Porters and Guides through most of the Guesthouses and contacts you make at Kokoda Station itself. Priscella is very welcoming and knowledgable about the track and Kokoda and on this day, she had arranged for a local Oro-kaivan sing-sing group to perform and the kids in the photo are relatives of the Performers. Again I like their "another white guy with a camera" look and I hope that PNG does not adopt this philosophy nation-wide as I am sure, more and more tourists will seek out the potential of this wonderful country. The fantastic thing about this image is the true awe and amazement of the three youngest kids as they watch their Mums and Dads and Aunties and Uncles perform a traditional sing-sing; perhaps the traditional ways will continue to educate and en-rapt for generations to come?

And finally onto the last image from Kokoda Station and that of the older generation of women I met down at the Airport. The day waiting at the Airport for my flight was a fantastic day of fun and games. I met up with Cecily again and we once again greeted each other in the language of the Tolai, much to the mirth of some of the meris in shot. I sat down with these ladies behind the Airport Shelter and the women asked if I would like to play cards with them and I remembered back to the moment in the Southern Highlands on a wet day, walking into a Pool Hall and a Rasta man asked me "Do you want a game of pool?" to which I replied; "I'm no good at pool" and he said "You don't need to be good, you just need to have money!" so I replied to the card meris that no, I didn't understand their rules to which they said "Neither do we, but you just need some money!" and they all broke out in laughter.

Well I continued to watch the very confusing blend of Go-fish and Uno and Snap and decided my money would be best spent on a cold beer when I finally returned to Moresby. The meris were enjoying the conversation and enjoying the betelnut and they then asked why I wasn't spending time with the white trekkers at the front of the Airport shelter and I was out back here with the gambling meris? I must admit it did feel like having a cigarette behind the shelter shed back in High School and was obviously the place where the bad meris hung out, but it was also the most liveliest place. I knew none of the trekkers and they were all tired and dirty and wanting to get home whereas the local meris were laughing, chewing nut, gambling and we were all eating the really bad chocolate do-nuts that PNG makes soooo poorly.

I had a great day, sitting out underneath the Oil Palm in the shade just watching the coming and goings of a group of people who could have so much more but thanks to a few are left with what they have and it doesn't faze too many.

Kokoda Track, Naoro, Central Province

2010-03-11T12:16:00.003+11:00

I once walked the Kokoda Track with a wonderful group of people and I had such a fantastic experience. The majority of our Porters and Guides hailed from the Villages of Naoro 1 and Naoro 2; the first set atop a spectacular razorback ridge and the second in the valley below. As we left Naoro 1 and stood at the road junction to Naoro 2, a couple of the porters called out in the direction of Naoro 2 and someone responded. A conversation ensued and messages were passed. A point to think about is that Naoro 2 was a 20 minute walk from this junction!

I asked the Porter what it was he said down the valley towards Naoro 2 and he said he was passing a message onto his wife and family to say everything was okay and that he would be home soon.

One of the ladies who walked with me on the Track has now returned to Naoro 2 and has offered assistance to the local Porters in setting up a new Locally based Trekking Company. Please click on this link to visit their excellent website: Naoro Kokoda Treks

I wish them well in their attempt to enter a tough competitive market and I hope they find success.

Here is a picture of Lindy walking into Naoro 1.

Kokoda Station, Oro

2010-02-28T05:28:00.006+11:00

Well there I was, I had spent a week working with a crew down in Milne Bay and going for walks to Waterfalls and the plan was to fly Airniugini out of Gurney to Jackson's on the Tuesday afternoon and then catch the scheduled Airlines PNG flight from Jackson's to Kokoda on the Wednesday. Now I have travelled to Alotau on many occasions and I know the afternoon flight often gets re-scheduled to the morning after and it did so on this occasion. So this meant I had one hour on the ground in Moresby to race home to Town, empty my week of dirty laundry, pick up a new fresh batch of clothes and camping gear and get on a plane to Kokoda. Which I managed to do quite successfully.

But then I arrived at the Airlines PNG terminal to watch the Schedule flight come and go and come and go and come and go. Three Charters meant that the same plane would go to Kokoda, get some Trekkers, bring 'em back to Moresby, get some more trekkers, take them to Kokoda and so on. I and my companions and a few locals would have to wait, and wait, and wait. Eventually, late in the afternoon, it was our turn.

In a weird twist of fate as I see it, our pilot that afternoon was the late Jenny Moala and she was quite pleasant and chatty to us as we were preparing to taxi. Motoring down the runway, she seemed in constant communicae with the Tower. I noted to my fellow passengers that the clouds were hanging heavy over the Owen Stanleys and that it may be a rough flight. Well, Jenny then turned to us and said "Hey Guys, we're not going to Kokoda today, there is heavy rain at Kokoda and I don't want to take the risk"

While I was annoyed at yet another cancelled flight, I felt that if the pilot says it is too risky, then its too risky for me.

So, that one hour rush in the morning meant that in reality, I had 24 hours in Moresby to sort out my things.

The next morning we left Jacksons and flew into a sunny Kokoda, and after visiting the Chinese Store at the bottom of the plateau, me and the crew were walking/half running up the Kokoda Track to go and get some work done.

Well the work got done and it was time to leave the mountains and wander back to Kokoda. Here we discovered we had a few days to wait around for our flight, so I engaged in some work with the locals and made a few friends. One such lady is the reason for this blog entry; despite my crazy work schedule and missed flights and hard yakka work and walking up and down Mountains, this lady named Cecily was a shining light.

Cecily was a lady who I believe represents all that is beautiful about the land of PNG and the people of PNG, her work was volunteered and unheralded; she had travelled extensively throughout PNG and to other parts abroad yet knew where her heart called home and she operated at a grass roots level. Here's her story.

One afternoon, resting after a hard day's toil, I was sitting around on the edge of the road saying "Apinun" to all who would wander past when a group of young children left their primary school and wandered down the road past the Kokoda Hospital and down towards the Memorial site. I said "Apinun olgeta" and the kids laughed at the white guy. We then all broke out into conversation about their day at school and sports and stuff, when I spotted a Motuan amongst the children. I said "Hadorai namona" to the young girl and she giggled wildly and the other kids all slapped each other. Then I heard Cecily say "You say Hadorai Namona to the nice man, he's speaking your language" and the young kekeni said "Hadorai"

After an "Oi namo" exchange the kids all ran off laughing. Cecily stayed around and looked at me, she said "You speak Motu, not too many white guys speak Motu these days, you're not a trekker?" and I said no I wasn't and that I was working in Moresby and had many Motuan friends there, but this week I was in Kokoda. We talked about the work I did and also of the work that Cecily was involved in. I asked if she were the teacher for the children and she said sometimes. Cecily volunteered her time a few days a week to offer support to the education that the children were trying to get through the proper school by teaching the children English.

Cecily told me that when she was a young girl growing up, they taught her her tok ples first, Motu second and then English, and everyone would speak English, none of the brutish tok pisin that the Highlanders spoke. Cecily told me of her disgust at how she travelled the length and breadth of PNG and had visited countries overseas only to return to find all the children speaking pidgin. So she decided to rectify the problem and she spoke English and English only to the children of Kokoda, hoping to educate them in the language of the planet. I promised Cecily that I would too greet the children of the school in English.

The next afternoon as the children wandered past again, I spoke with them in English and they responded, some in English and some in Pidgin, so I said that Miss Cecily would not be happy unless they spoke in English and they agreed and spoke in only English. We all sat down and we talked stories about the work I did, my family and life in Australia. I asked them about their families, their parents, their brothers and sisters and what they wanted to do when they grew up.

Then Cecily walked around the corner and the children all looked up to her. Cecily had let it slip that she had once married a Tolai man and lived in Rabaul before the eruption, so I said "Boina rabian" and Cecily looked speechless, her jaw dropped, and she then responded in Tolai. The children too could not work out what was going on, so Cecily explained that I had spoken to her in the language known as Kuanua or the language of the Tolai people.

Once again, the kids all rain off laughing and Cecily stayed for a story or three. Some years ago, the people of Kokoda Station needed electricity so a brand new diesel generator was installed, you can see it behind its locked cage on the hillside near where this young fellow was sitting and unfortunately due to an argument about maintaining the generator, someone locked the cage and went bush. To this day, the generator has never turned over and Kokoda Station is without electricity, despite having powerlines (that are falling over); so story telling is the pastime of choice. Cecily and I talked of Rabaul and how it once was, and how it is now.

The next day, I wandered down to the airfield along with the rest of Kokoda Station and we watched the charters come and go. We watched the tired and exhausted trekkers get on their plane and head back to Moresby to electricity and running water and we watched a new batch arrive. Again, my flight was the last to leave but this day we did leave.

I met Cecily once again at the airport and we chatted amongst the gambling meris and we told more stories much to the laughter of the gambling meris. Cecily and I, our conversation was part Tolai, part Motu and mainly English, and this had the gambling meris laughing and slapping each other, but that is another Oro Province tale...

Kokoda Track, Oro

2010-02-27T16:00:00.003+11:00

How's this guy? This is one of those photos that is not meant to work, but somehow the content means so much more than "Did I get the right shutter speed for the light conditions?". To set this tale; I had just walked from Ower's Corner to Kokoda and here I am walking down the concrete path that leads from the Kokoda Plateau (Memorial Site) and down to the Chinese Store. This path used to be a road until a big Raintree fell across the path and in true Kokoda fashion, an argument has broken out as to whose responsibility it is to clear the road.

So I have walked for 8 days through the streams and through the Rivers and it is here that I have one creek crossing left and then a concrete bridge over the Mudi River, and then to the Kokoda Airstrip. I am merely steps away from finishing the Kokoda Track; the porters and guides have been wonderful, the Villagers on the track have been fantastic and I have had an emotional ride. Living in PNG and working alongside Koiari and Orokaivans, it took no time for the Villages to learn of my journey and I was met and greeted by many along the journey. I met Wives and Fathers, Children and Dogs of the men who I worked with in Moresby.

So, for the entire length of my walk, and the time I had spent previously in Kokoda, for a great deal of time I was thinking "What is the future for these people?"

And in this photo, I think this young boy is thinking the same thing... where does his future lay? In the old and aged Palm Oil Plantation? As a Guide on the Kokoda Track? As a Raskol in Popondetta?

This photo was taken as I was walking down the concrete path to the airport, I had carried my Digital SLR across the Track but this was taken with my little point and shoot, I have no idea what setting, I just grabbed the camera and still moving fired from the hip.

Popondetta Airport, Oro

2010-02-23T17:56:00.005+11:00

Like I mentioned before, one day while waiting for my plane to come in, a very popular pastime in Papua New Guinea, I was out chatting to the locals, and there were bag after bag after bag after bag of Betel Nut just sitting on the tarmac. Now I'm thinking, I sure do hope these bags are not getting on my flight because we are not going to get over the Owen Stanleys unless they send a Antonov.

So I am chatting to the locals and I discover that some very entrepreneurial kinda guys have chartered a plane to carry them and their Betel Nut to Moresby, they say it has cost them K23,000 for the plane but they reckon they got K40,000 to K50,000 worth of nut to sell. Now Betel Nut is a bit cyclical and it seems sometimes that it can be a bit seasonal (like a lot of produce) and my friends tell me that Oro Betel Nut is red-hot at the moment and the chewers of Moresby are just itching to get their teeth into some of Oro's finest.

So I left my Betel Nut Empire Kings and wandered around a bit more, and I found myself chatting to a man named Nathan whose Father Pol Toki owns and operates the Birdwing Butterfly Lodge, now I never stayed there, but I wished I had. I had a great time chatting to Nathan and his family and I kinda feel that his hospitality at the Birdwing may have been more pleasant than the Hotel Lamington, which is not the best of the Coral Seas chain of Hotels, and I think it may have slipped out of the Coral Seas group nowadays... but anyway, Nathan's daughter was sitting in the back of the ute eating the much loved PNG Cracker Biscuits, I think it may have been the Snax Chicken Cracker brand this time and Nathan asked if I could take her photo; which I did and later in Moresby, I printed the photo and sent it to Nathan. And he wrote a letter back to me which I still keep and is in my Lonely Planet guide, on the page of the Birdwing Butterfly Lodge, Oro.

Here is Nethalean.

Popondetta, Oro.

2010-02-23T11:50:00.007+11:00

Popondetta; the Provincial Capital of the Oro Province and just quietly, its kinda stuck between a rock and hard place. I mean, I liked the place but it has a tough life ahead of it.

Here's how I saw it. Popondetta is a tough neighbourhood; I did quite a bit of solo travelling in PNG and I wandered around freely in many towns with the locals all telling me that "Nah, there's no raskols here" but in Popondetta, all the locals were saying "Take Care, Popondetta is full of raskols". This didn't stop me though, I wandered around the town and had no dramas, so I don't know what the fuss is about.

Popondetta; it's not on the coast so it doesn't have a huge ex-pat community, it's not Kokoda, so it doesn't get a huge influx of tourists, Cyclone Guba smashed all the bridges in the Province so road travel is a bit hit and miss, the Oil Palm doesn't seem to be as fruitful as those in New Britain and it doesn't look like the LNG project is going to be of any benefit to this part of PNG. The only thing that looked like it was going well was Betel Nut. Boy did I see a heap of that going on board a chartered Airlines PNG flight to Moresby! Street value was between K40,000 to K50,000 worth! Whoo oooh!

There's a problem here and it stems from the management of this Province, while I was in Oro, the LLG at Kokoda were being stifled for funds from Big Brother Popondetta because of Jealousies; that evil which permeates PNG culture. Kokoda gets all the international fan fare because of the track and it gets all of the tourists, yet the PLG based in Pop are unlikely to help progress Kokoda yet there is little reason to develop the Provincial Capital. What is the future for Popondetta? And I haven't even mentioned the other big Tourist Drawcard for Oro and that is the spectacular Tufi fjords.

So these pictures represent the people I met and worked with, chatted to and enjoyed a few stories during my visits to Popondetta. Nicky was a chap who cleaned up the Popondetta Memorial, which comprised of a collection of Battlefield Memorial Plaques that honour the role and sacrifice made by the Australian Soldiers during WW2 in the Oro region. Nicky and his mate John Billy were happy go lucky blokes who sat and chatted with me for a while, when I chose to visit the Memorial site one afternoon.

The lady and her baby were sitting under a nearby raintree just telling stories and chewing Betelnut with her friends; and they enjoyed chatting to the white guy. It was someone in this group who explained to me that the way the police allegedly deal with raskols in Popondetta was to knee-cap them, often resulting in the loss of a leg below the knee. It was after hearing this that I then started to notice so many young men in Popondetta were on crutches and only having one and a half legs! Oh dear.

And they love to gamble in Popondetta, well they love to gamble all over PNG, but in Popondetta it was huge; Gambling was everywhere and the high/low games were the popular choice.

In fact, there was prohibition on the sale of alcohol in Popondetta, after the Guba Flooding and a PLG election; the prohibition was lifted on the very day I flew into town. By 9am that morning, everyone was drunk, I saw SP bottles being launched out of a Police Car, I saw the recently elected PLG staff dancing drunkly with each other at the Hotel Lamington and I saw home brew sales decrease dramatically. What a wild night that was!

The future of Popondetta? I don't know... but what a ride...

Oro

2010-02-17T09:04:00.005+11:00

The final Province on my blogging quest and although PNG has new Provinces today, they formed after I left and I had visited those areas on my tour of duty, so I come to the Oro Province or Northern province I think it was once called. Oro, Oro, Oro means welcome and it is quite often you will hear this greeting in this wide and varied Province.

I travelled to Oro a few times for both work and play and I got to see a fair part of the place, from the Coast to the Provincial Centre; Popondetta to the Mountains. I once walked to Oro, I landed there in Fokker 100s, in Twin Otters, Dash-8s and Helicopters, but never sailed there, and trying to recall what tales I should write about, I looked to my photographs for inspiration and what I saw was a collection of people who made the Oro Province special and I saw in their eyes an interesting question and that was "Where does the future lie for Oro and its people?"

The biggest drawcard for tourism in PNG in recent years is in no doubt, the Kokoda Track and thousands of Australians line up each trekking season (if Koiarian Barney Jack allows) and walk between Oro and Central Provinces. Some of these Aussies stay on to get a dive in somewhere, or visit other wartime locations but it seems to me that the real winner from the Kokoda Track is the NCD, but I digress. Some of my tales of Oro dwell around Kokoda and its path over the Owen Stanleys.

Photos and Blog notes to come...

Enga

2010-02-12T09:52:00.002+11:00

Now, I've always been an Outdoor Type, but I have always had a roof above me and I've always paid the rent... thanks go to The Lemonheads there. And I have always been curious as to what lives in our world, be they trees that grow majestically into the sky or little rock daisies growing in the rain clouds to the birds and lizards and rats that inhabit these environments and it was the drawcard of PNG's most rugged landscape of Enga that drew me into the Mountains. I met many Engans in my time in Moresby and they all wanted me to take them back so they could show me their Enga! But my girlfriend and I just wandered up there ourselves to take a look, and it was in Enga that I entered a "bushwalker" and left a "birdwatcher".

Enga amazes me how such a rugged, mountainous part of PNG where foot travel is difficult, yet it only has the one Tok Ples whereas the Sepik region where river travel is commonplace and trading is a daily way of life has many Tok Ples. Enga confused all logic for me on this subject. But Enga is a gorgeous environment and despite staying at Kumul Lodge for my duration, we did get a few bus trips into the heart of Enga. Kumul Lodge is right on the Engan Hagen border and it offers spectacular views of Mt Hagen, and it has a huge array of birdlife, right on the steps of the lodge itself.

I have decided that pictures of the birds there will say more than my words...

Mum feeding her young

Male Ribbon Tailed Astrapia

A Tiger Parrot

Female Brown Sicklebill

Crested Berrypecker

Common Smoky Honeyeater whose eye patch changes colour from yellow to red, depending on his mood.

Archbold's Bower Bird.

A gorgeous Crested Bird of Paradise, some say should no longer be a Bird of Paradise, but in the Cnemophilus group of its Scientific nomenclature...

Milne Bay

2010-01-30T08:20:00.010+11:00

The pointy end of PNG; and I am disappointed that I never made it out to the Islands. But I did get a reasonable look around the East Cape. It is interesting, I was always under the impression that the coastal people of PNG were taller and leaner then their Highland cousins, but Milne Bay was not the case; the size 28 girls were quite short in stature and petite to describe it at best. The young men of Milne Bay were similar in that I was reasonably tall amongst a crowd.

I once asked my host if there were any raskols in Alotau, and the answer was "No, no raskols, everyone peaceful and loving"

"Sounds good" I say, "I might take a walk down to the markets"

"No, no, no, I will come with you... for safety."

"But you say there are no raskols?" I ask.

"No, no, no raskols but someone might steal your backpack..." was the response.

Ok, so I had my guide for a stroll around town. Tall white guy stands out a bit amongst the locals, so I thought I'd err on the side of caution. On other occasions I have wandered around Alotau on my own and no-one has tried to pinch me backpack, they have tried to sell me all sorts of carvings and shell necklaces, but no raskols. I did buy a fish carving once and he sits above me on the shelf.

Alotau is made up of its various cultural groups, all the Trobiand Islanders live in one part of town, all those from Samurai live in another, all those from the East Cape live elsewhere and the people from Alotau live in the biggest grouping. I soon discovered that there was rivalry between the clans???

Walking through the town of Alotau one day with my friend Tom, I spotted a long waterfall cascading off the nearby mountain. Alotau is a harbour town surrounded by many, many peaks, some over 1,000metres tall, and it was off of one of these peaks that I spotted the waterfall. I asked Tom if he was up for a walk to the waterfall, and he replied that it was a very long walk. I asked "How long?" and he replied "One hour there and one hour back".

"Well let's go!" and off we did. We decided to shortcut through, past Tom's house and right through the middle of the Trobiand clan, but this was cool for Tom was from the Trobiands. He taught me a few phrases in his Tok Ples and I was a riot as we wandered through his village. We stopped and kicked a football around, we sat and told stories with Tom's wantoks and we then continued on our walk up the hill. As we left the Village, a group of young size 28 girls were all calling out and laughing, and slapping each other, and I didn't need to speak the language to understand that their calls were directed at the Tall White Guy. Tom was giggling, so I played along and said "Hey Tom, what are those girls saying about me?"

Tom, between giggles said "They are all saying 'Tom, where are you taking my white husband, why are you taking him up the river'". Tom and I had a good laugh as we continued our journey. Now the road we trod crossed a stream, which I thought was a good thing because waterfalls often end up in streams and we were heading in the right direction. I asked Tom if I should take my boots off, to keep them dry and he said "No point, we'll cross the river only once". I think he meant to say "Once we enter the stream, we will remain in the stream until we return to this point." because we crossed this stream maybe 30 or 40 times, to the extent, we just stayed in the water and waded up.

A fair way up the stream, we came across a group of men working on an inlet to a pipe, the catchment area had silted up during recent floods and these men were restoring the inlet so that the town of Alotau could have fresh water again. We stopped had a chat and said about the waterfall. The interesting thing here is... hardly anyone speaks Tok Pisin in Milne Bay, everyone speaks their Tok Ples and many will speak English. They say they do not want to speak the language of the Mountain people, and they will continue to learn English. The Cameron school has produced some fine and upstanding citizens of PNG, I used to work with a few of the graduates and the people of Milne Bay speak and understand English very well.

So we kept walking and soon afterwards, about one hour from our start including football and stories, we made it to the waterfall and what a poor display of a waterfall! There was this small cliff of rocks with a busted tree leaning up against it with a trickle of water cascading off the rocks. I said "Tom, this is not the same waterfall we saw from Town?"

Tom said "I'm sorry, but that waterfall goes through a clan that I do not trust and I cannot take you there on my own, if we had many friends with us, then it would be okay, but not today."

I replied "Hey that's cool Tom, I am glad you thought of your own safety as well as mine, and this waterfall is alright, besides its a nice spot for a rest and a story and some kaikai"

So we sat down enjoyed some PNG made Twisties, and a can of PNG made Coke and we rested and told stories.

And afterwards, we walked back down to town, through the Trobiand Clan and home again. Maybe one day I shall return, find Tom, organise a big posse and walk to the other waterfall?

Western Highlands Province

2010-01-09T07:14:00.006+11:00

80 years ago, tho opinion about PNG was that it was a large tropical Island in the Pacific with a scarce coastal population. Most of the other mountainous islands or countries around the world had the majority of their population living on the coast and why should the Land of the Unexpected be any different, and more likely it was too bloody cold for Melanesians up in the Mountains. Many of the early explorers to PNG were having a hard time of it, what with aggressive locals trying to run one out of town everytime an explorer set foot on their patch, so what was on top of PNG was unknown, until the Leahy Brothers showed up and decided they would fly up into the mountains.

What a brand new world they found, but this has been documented far more successfully by others and is not what my blog is about, my blog is about what I discovered in these mountains.

So there I am sitting in the passenger front seat of a Toyota PMV, the small version like a Hiace. My GF is sitting in the middle seat and Enga's answer to Ayrton Senna is in the Driver's Seat and her Sister is asleep in the back. Now we had already been raced across the Western Highlands with this driver before a few days earlier so we had tried to crawl into the back of the van and somewhere akin to the most central point of the vehicle, but our driver wouldn't have it. She had such a wonderful few days with us, that she decided the pair of us will sit up front with her at the very front of the vehicle. So we climbed in and held on.

On the descents which there were plenty of in the mountains, she would push the accelerator pedal all the way to the floor, to where it would stay, and the Van would screeeeeaaaammm down the road, and as the road then went up, she would keep the foot there on the gas and it would not budge until, due to the steepness of the incline, the Van was nearly at stalling point. At this moment she would then start to change down through the gears until she got to first and then the Toyota would screeeeeaaaaammm back into life. Cornering was the same, wait until the Van was nearly about to topple, then left off the gas and try a little braking, whilst looking for a more appropriate gear.

This was a rollercoaster.

To help set up the story, a few nights earlier, GF and I were sitting around a cosy fire in a well constructed timber lodge, we were drinking SP and chatting to the staff of the lodge about life in the Mountains and we were regaling them with stories of Moresby and of Australia. One of the young ladies was telling us about her life, and that she was the eldest of many siblings and it was the time in her life to decide would she continue her education (which she and her parents could not afford) or should she get a job and help out at home, so it was working in the lodge for the time being. Her plan was to save and head to the bright lights of Moresby one day. I thnk she was asking whether or not GF and I needed a hausmeri... but I digress...

Our driver was with us that night and she had travelled the world more than us, yet her stories were all about home and family and snakes. Boy did she not like snakes, and while telling these stories her skin would dry up and she would go all clammy, she went pale just talking about snakes. So 2 days later while driving through the Mountains at breakneck speed, what do you think happened when we saw the Snake?

This was no ordinary snake, this was easily a stunt double snake for that one in the movie Annaconda, you know the movie with JLo and that Ice guy. This was seriously the biggest snake I had seen, it looked like s speed hump! It was stetched out on the Highlands Highway from one side of the road to the other! This made me think it was dead, no snake slithers with a straight back, and there was a man standing alongside the snake, just looking at it. I think this man had put the snake there and was waiting for people to drive over the snake, and somebody already had, you could see two tyre tracks through the snake.

Now back to our driver, she was descending like I mentioned before, pedal through the firewall and she liked a chat, so she was yacking away going as fast as the car, and then she saw the Snake.

She Screeeeeaaaaammmmeeeeddddd! She covered both her eyes with both of her hands and she screamed some more. Each scream would exhaust her of breath so in between gasps of breath and trying to get some more oxygen, she would sob, and then she would scream once again, all the time her leg would be locked in place on that accelerator pedal and her hands would be over her eyes. Still screaming and the little Toyota was hurtling down the mountain road.

GF had grabbed the wheel and made sure we were heading in a straight line, but we could do little to wash any speed off. It was at this moment that I thought that once again in PNG I would die, I remembered swimming with sharks off Rabaul, I remembered being smashed and cut up on the reef in Bougainville, I remembered the forcewave that followed a massive boom from Tavuvur, I remembered the amazing energy from the lightning bolt in Moresby and I remembered not feeling too good climbing a mountain with pneumonia and it all felt like this one moment maybe my last. Here I am sitting in a passenger seat of a Toyota with a screaming crying Engan meri covering her eyes and hurtling towards a snake.

But then, oh yes, it gets worse...

The car hits the snake, the tyres hit the snake like a heart beat; da-dum. This triggers another wave of hysterics, screaming and crying and sobbing and screaming and crying and screaming! This wakes up her sister in the back and she says "Whassup?" Our driver screams "Snaaaaaaaaakkkkekeeeee" and the sister looks through the back window and sees the snake we have just run over.

Needless to say, the sister does not like snakes. So she screams and screams and screams and screams. This sets of the driver who screams again, which triggers off screams from her sister. By this stage I think GF wants to join in, but she is too busy trying to keep the car on the bitumen.

So there I am, about to die with not one, but two screaming Engan meris in a van in the Mountains... and seeing as I am here to retell the story, GF did a fantastic job keeping the bus on the road, everyone settled down and we continued our trip acrsoo the Western Highlands.

Oh yeah, later on while in Hagen, we stopped for the best coffee in PNG at the Airport Coffee Cafe and in a quiet moment I said to our driver "How big was that snake?" . The screams started again, the tears, I got punched by an Engan meri again and again (a sign of affection apparently)...

Simbu

2009-12-26T09:28:00.006+11:00

Call it what you like, Chimbu or Simbu, there is no doubt that Simbu is up there with Enga in regards to mountains and so it was here that we climbed. Go back and read my Madang entry to find an escape route from the highest point of PNG.

Our goal was not to reach the highest point of PNG, I am not a mountain climber, I'm a bushwalker so I had no real desire to get to the summit of Mt Wilhelm but I was keen on trekking at least up to Base Camp, so here goes...

Betty picked us up from Hagen, well from her coffee shop by the airport and after stopping at some markets and fording a broken river we left the Western Highlands and entered the mountainous region of Simbu, the air was cool, the grass were green and the locals friendly as we scooted along the Highlands Highway. At Kudiawa, we turned left and the road went up and up and up along a dirt track we drove. At one point I looked out of my window and looked down, just a bare few inches from the edge of our vehicle, the road disappeared and the edge of the valley just disappeared below. I could see clearly 170 metres down into the valley. I whispered to my girlfriend "I am not driving out of this mountain range, we're walking to Madang, it's safer".

We came to a bridge, or what was left of one; the timber was gone, but luckily for us, a small fee paid to some boys on the side of the road soon revealed that the lads had some timber tucked away that just so happened to fit the bridge we wanted to cross, so over we went. Thanks to the lads and their suitably sized timber! Road Tax anyone? But we finally made it to Betty's Lodge and her visitor's book made for fantastic reading as we looked for our friends who had trekked before us.

Now, the reason why we were there was to walk up to Base Camp and then wander down the road to neighbouring Madang, so up we got bright and early, got the fire going, warmed ourselves up and then off we went. Now the Governor General of PNG had walked to Base Camp only a few months before us and to make things easier for old Sir Paulius Matarne, they had cut timber legths into quarters and placed these wedges into the soft wet earth to make a sorta track through the forest. I don't know what was better, wet slippery mud or wet slippery timber? But once you learned how to place your foot on the high edge of the timber pieces, walking was a breeze, except that at 3,000 metres abover sea level, the air is a little thinner and it took us a few rest stops to get to Base Camp.

Base Camp is on the edge of Lake Pindaunde and the lake is part of a series of lakes joined by waterfalls all situated in a series of steps which leave the rainforest behind some few hundred metres below and make their way up to the rocky craggs of PNG's highest mountain. You step out of the rainforest onto a grass and heather covered plateau, tall Tree Ferns stand majestically and sway in the cold damp wind. Everything is wet, this is the cloud forest of PNG, where the heat from the coastal rim of this large island rises up into the mountains; it drags moisture from the seas and oceans that surround PNG and it is here at 3,400 m ASL that this moisture condenses and saturates all. The clouds would roll up the valley and completely cover the rocky craggs that surrounded us, the clouds would hug the mountain would enclose it and then would disappear and expose to us the formidable rock formations that seemd to be alive. They looked as if everytime the clouds would leave, the rocks would lean forward, almost spying on us only to retreat as the clouds would once again engulf the stone.

We sat at the edge of the lake and we listened, we could hear the crackle of a small fire that Dominic (our Guide and Security) was making for tea, we could hear the clouds moving in and out of the rocky crevices like ghosts, we could hear tiny finches calling to one another as they found a new yellow daisy to inspect, we could hear the waterfall on the other side of the lake roaring into the depths below, we could hear our own heartbeats as we tried to relax after the tough 3 hour walk to get there and most of all, we could hear peace.

But then we could hear a helicopter, mixmasta bilong jisas crais and this one was a blackhawk from the Australian Defence Force on route to Madang. We would see the same machine a week later when we relaxed with a beer on the waterfront of Madang. But that was the only modern disturbance; peace soon returned to our ears. Apart from the odd helicopter, the other things we could not hear were mobile phones, computers, alarms, cars, trucks and babies crying; all those dreadful noises that plague us in the western world.

It was perfect. The cup of tea was like no other cup of tea I have ever had, the colour had a rubiness to it, and there was no bitterness to it, it was tea as it should be.

Our moment of enlightenment passed, we then legged it back down the mountain to Betty's Lodge. We almost ran back as we were filled with a new purity, and it gave us motivation and speed in our legs. What was a trudging 3 hours to climb took just under an hour to get home. Our goal to see Base Camp was achieved, the next aim was to walk to the beach in Madang and follow the footsteps of a dear friend of ours. Vale.

West New Britain

2009-06-19T07:00:00.007+10:00

Rain, Rain, Rain was what we were told to expect as we landed at Hoskins and made our way to Kimbe the provincial heart of the West Britain Province. But luckily for us, our overnight delayed flight landed in fine weather and the sun almost appeared from behind the clouds. The weather was fine, but I will note that it started to bucket down as our plane left Hoskins some few days later.

Just a weekend away from Moresby and a popular choice for many Moresbians to escape to for a few days. I am disappointed not to have spent more time in WNB as this visit was rather short, again thanks to the delayed flight. And this trip had a very touristy feel, good accommodation, good local guides, well arranged trips and great food, what more could you ask for?

On one occasion we grabbed the dive boat and headed out to a local island and while I snorkeled with the little fish, the others dropped off the shore and had a dive in deeper water. During another moment, we jumped in some kayaks and headed out to a local reef, and spent an hour snorkeling. On another day we drove round and round and round an oil palm plantation until we found a small creek with hot rushing water that spewed forth from a Volcano, wading in the water was like nature's own spa bath.My only issue with the whole trip? The sun rose in the wrong spot; when will it learn to rise in the West and set in the East?

The Autonomous Region of Bougainville

2009-05-10T11:59:00.023+10:00

Bougainville is an amazing place and my exploration there back in 2008 has left me with warm memories. Everywhere else in PNG that I have wandered, I have had reasonable support and guidance, whereas in Bougainville, I was alone but with one exception in Marist Father Austin. Fr Austin helped out when it was necessary but he never intervened to the level of taking over and it did indeed feel as if his guardian approach was minimal.

The best way to get up and down the East Coast Road is via the convoy of Land Cruisers that operate as 10 seater PMVs, these leave Kokopau (right next to the water taxi depot on the Bougainville side of Buka Passage) just before lunch and return each morning leaving Arawa between 3 and 4am. Make sure you book your seat although this does not guarantee a seat, much to my frustration early on a Friday morning.

I booked my seat and was told that the driver would pick me up at 0330 the next morning… so at 0320 I closed the door to my room at the Arawa Women’s Training Centre and stood out in the balmy darkness next to Alfred the Security Man.

“Morning” I said to Alfred and Alfred responded.

“Morning, you know your driver has gone.”

“Gone where?” said I.

“Back to Buka, he picked up some sick people from the hospital and said that you would have to find another PMV.”

All of a sudden, I was feeling sick. How was I going to find another PMV at this time considering I had been told all the others were already booked? Alfred went back to playing the snake game on his mobile. Alfred assured me that a PMV would come by… And one did, it was a group of Tax consultants who were auditing the businesses in Arawa for non payment of GST. I had met them the evening before and we had shared a beer together. While the Women’s Training Centre was very comfortable and the hospitality warm and inviting, they were unable to sell a beer to their customers, but we could go and buy some from the local bottle shop. So in the afternoon I wandered into this shell of a supermarket which had been torched during the Crisis and was structurally very, very unsound, but inside was a little timber hut with a SP sign on the side. I walked up to the window and the chap inside asked what I wanted and I asked for a few green cans, but he said “’fraid not, only got black cans”.

So I bought some black cans and wandered back to the accommodation block buying a few more betel nuts for my new found Tax friends. My Tax friends were well chuffed and they chewed and drank into the evening. Seeing as I had plans to alight in the early hours of the next morning, I retired to my room early.

This brings me back to the car load of Tax consultants who appeared at 0345 in a PMV that they had hired for their business and obviously as a means to find more beer for they were well drunk including the driver. Arawa is a rare town in PNG for it has kerbing and no pot-holes, so as an example, a driver negotiating the streets in Lae would drive in a zig-zag manner avoiding the pot-holes and using the footpath area when necessary, but in Arawa you can drive as straight as an arrow. Unless it is 0345 in the morning and you have been drinking all night and you have a pretty solid 4wd which can handle the kerbs with ease. So this car came up the road and on the footpath and narrowly missed the stobie poles by a bare measure, and then stopped in front of Alfred and me.

“Steve!!!!” the driver cried with beer cans spilling from his car, the fumes from inside overpowered the diesel exhaust.

“You guys are doing well, aren’t you all heading back to Buka today?” I said, making pleasantries.

“Yeah, we’re leaving at 0800… where’s your ride?”

I told them the story about how my man had decided to take the sick and injured back to Buka and that I was just waiting on the off chance that a PMV would pass by. They said that if I wanted to, I could jump into their bus at 0800 and join in the fun.

“But you guys are all drunk; you won’t make it back to Buka?” I questioned.

“Nah, we’re gonna hit the bunks now and get a few hours to sleep off this beer… you want a lift or not?”

“Only if I can drive” I said.

With that comment, we passed farewells and the Land Cruiser launched off the kerb and up the road, turning around and then coming back to me kerbside… Another window opened with more alcohol spilling from within “We’re off to get some more beer!”

I shook my head with disbelief as the PMV swerved down the road and off across a paddock and again narrowly missing a stobie pole before returning to the bitumen. Alfred kept playing his snake game. A PMV then appeared on a road I could see across the paddock and roared along, Alfred said that was my PMV with the patients. I looked up at the stars and questioned whether I was going to see Buka again.

But then a PMV came up the road, Alfred said “You don’t want this one.” But I did, I just wanted to get moving, it was now 0410 and I had been waiting long enough. I attempted to wave it down but it ignored me and stopped a few houses away up the other street.

“Alfred, how do I stop that guy?”

“You don’t want that one Steve; we can wait a little longer.”

So we did and I made a second attempt to stop the PMV when it left the house and came back past us. Alfred said “You don’t want that one.”

“But if I can stop it then he might know of another PMV to swing by???”

We waited in the dark. Bougainvilleans or Bukans are also called Black Skins, as those from mainland PNG are known as Red Skins. I met a red skin in the same burnt out shell where I had purchased the black cans, the red skin was from Goroka and he was manning his Kai Bar. I said “Hey red skin, what are you doing here?”

He responded with “I came here for a look a few years ago, and found my nirvana, this place is paradise, so I opened a kai bar and now I sell my goods to all these black skins” He hailed from Goroka and was a nice guy for a chat. In a society were everyone had polished black skin, this Gorokan and I felt almost like wantoks, there was a connection in that his Highlander skin tone was the closest thing to a white person I had seen for some time and likewise, my skin tone was familiar to him. Well it felt like that.

So in the dark, Alfred was very difficult to pick out, mind you he did have some reflective tape on his Security uniform which helped. I asked Alfred where in Bougainville was he from and his response was “I’m from here, from Arawa”, so I asked if he knew everyone in town and he said “Of course.”

“So, some of your wantoks would be drivers?” I asked.

“Yeah heaps…”

“Got any of their phone numbers in that mobile of yours?”

“Yeah heaps…” he looked up at me.

“How ‘bout you start calling them and getting one of your wantoks to come and get me back to Buka?” I was getting nervous. “I don’t want to be stuck here.”

Alfred said quietly “The same thing happened to Mark.”

Now Mark ain’t his real name, I’ve changed that for two reasons, one; this is the internet and I understand privacy issues and the second is more of an in-joke that I will embarrassingly admit went on for too long. But the pair of us share some common interests and traits and have been often confused by some of the people of PNG in the past. Us white guys all the look the same. So when Alfred said “The same thing happened to Mark.” I knew what outcome was possible, another night in Arawa, and another early morning hoping for a PMV.

But to Alfred’s credit, he started making some calls on his phone although it didn’t sound to inspiring until he finally spoke to someone. He got off the phone and said that everything would be okay, a PMV would pass by. And then one came, but Alfred said “You don’t want this one.”

It was 0420. And then a Land Cruiser stopped. Alfred said “take this one” and I was already inside and on the seat.

“Thanks Alfred” I called out as the PMV left the kerb. I took a look around, no-one was inside, and I thought that was odd.

We drove around town, at the first house, we parked in the driveway and the driver laid on the horn for around half a minute. A tired looking guy came out onto his balcony and looked down at us through sleepy eyes. The driver gesticulated wildly at him, and the man went back inside. A few moments later he returned with a small bag and he walked down the steps. The driver got out and the new guy got in. It was explained to me that the first driver was actually the owner and that the new guy was the driver. I asked where were all the passengers and the new driver said we would go and get them now.

We drove to a workshop where the driver would once again get on the horn; a sleepy security guard came and said that the passengers were waiting for us outside on the footpath. We both got out and we found two men asleep in a pile of beer cans, one of them woke up and climbed into the back of the PMV, the driver and I picked up the other guy and tossed him into the back. We then drove across town where we stopped again, but this time to drag the sleeping drunk out and place him safely on another footpath. What a surprise for him when he awakes.

After a few laps of town (Arawa only takes 10 minutes to walk from end to end), and picking up a few new passengers, it was time to leave; 0450, we then started our trip back to Buka. Now the trip crosses many rivers and in the middle of the first river, we stopped the car and the driver got out. He wandered over to a rock, laid a towel down, removed his shirt and with a bar of soap, he proceeded to wash himself in the river. After drying himself off, he returned to the car and said “Ok, now we go.”

Western Province

2009-04-18T21:58:00.001+10:00

Flying over PNG whether in commercial F100s, small light fixed wing aircraft or even in a helicopter, it is amazing to look out and watch the Mountains rise and fall and the emerald green forests that carpet these peaks and valley floors. But catching a flight to Daru, and then jumping on a little plane and heading further west until you reach the border with Indonesia, the environment below looks like another country indeed. Spreading out below is a vast wetland of Melaleuca forests, acres of open grassland and not that many people.

A friend once said to me that the Bensbach River is like a place where God removed all the people and left only the animals behind. And animals there are a plenty of. When you get sick of the gorgeous view from above and you step out of the plane, there’s always a boat waiting at the end of the runway which will give you a Barramundi’s eye view of this vast wetland area. This is where you will meet all of those animals that God left behind; huge crocodiles, white breasted sea eagles in every second tree, wallabies, Rusa deer, goannas and an endless variety of birds.

But if you look closer, there are Papuans living here and the small communities of Weam and Wando are an interesting clash of cultures. There have obviously been attempts to modernise this part of PNG, many houses had tin roofs and there were cars parked in front yards around the place. On occasion a telephone tower sprung up as the tallest member of this flat wetland but thanks to a lack of follow up maintenance, the people here now no longer rely on telephones to communicate… they now have message boys and bicycles. The cars that sit in front yards no longer drive as there are no longer any roads in the province and the tin roofs are slowly rusting and being replaced by thatched grass materials.

Slowly, all attempts to bring the 21^st Century to these communities are being rolled back and traditional living is looking more and more likely to be the future. It doesn’t appear to faze anyone, the people are wonderful and warm and inviting. Life on the river moves rarely faster than the river itself and it is a requirement to stop and chat to everyone you meet either on land or water.

Oh, and some of the animals were well tasty. Roasted wallaby and venison, large barramundi steaks cut from a fish caught only an hour earlier, and crocodile curry all served with locally grown vegetables made for a culinary experience that rivaled the experience of seeing such a gorgeous countryside.

New Ireland

2009-03-29T08:55:00.002+11:00

Eloi tasig!

New Ireland is really pretty, it is what most travelers to this country would expect when they first imagine stepping onto a Pacific Island, but there is one exception to this thought and I’ll get to it later. The Australian troops that were sent to the mainland of Papua and New Guinea during the Second World War were disappointed when they arrived at Port Moresby to find a relatively dry landscape with a few Gum Trees dotting the countryside and also small clumps of heavy barked Cycads reminiscent of the Australian grass trees or “black boys” as they were once called before political correctness stepped in. The troops were expecting Coconuts, white sandy beaches and well tanned, bare breasted Melanesians wearing only their grass skirts. While you can find all of these things if you know where to look in Moresby, it is much easier to achieve if you get away from the Capital.

I spent a few days on a tiny Island off the coast of New Island, it took me 15 minutes to walk a lap of the Island and that was a slow lazy lap and 1 hour and 30 minutes to swim a lap of the coral reef that lie below the crystal clear waterline. During my stay, I opted not to wear footwear as there were no roads, and few rocks, for it was a white sandy island with coconuts, a few Mango trees, a Frangipani or two, some Hibiscus and a gorgeous white ginger. But not wearing shoes for such a period of time had its pros and cons. Firstly, my feet have never looked cleaner, the abrasive sand particles had ex-foliated my skin to perfection but upon returning to the mainland and having to walk along a concrete pathway, my feet were in pain because of the hardness of the ground beneath. Ouch.

While I was able to find the utopia that the Soldiers found missing in Port Moresby, there is a slight physical difference to the bare breasted Melanesians of mainland PNG here in New Ireland. Along with the people who live in East New Britain and across the sea in Bougainville, the New Irelanders share a common trait with both these neighbours. Like the Bukans of Bougainville, the New Irelanders are of darker skin tones but like the Tolais of East New Britain, the New Irelanders often will have blonde hair colour.

A really pretty part of the country despite the ever expanding Oil Palm plantations, but even these has a lineal symmetry that is peaceful and entrancing. The Boluminski Highway is an easy and attractive coastal road, in good condition which cruises through a few small tiny villages as it winds its way to Namatanai. I know of others who have cycled this road and had a wonderful time doing so. In envious rage I shake my fist at them, but not too threateningly, they know who they are… Next time I return to New Ireland, I’ll take my bike.

And getting back to those soldiers who were disappointed with Moresby in 1942, they should have know better as Australian troops saw action and casualties against the Germans in New Guinea during the First World War and two of those soldiers of the 1^st and 4^th Tropical Force are buried on the island of New Ireland. Vale.

East Sepik Province

2009-03-15T14:01:00.001+11:00

I have traveled to Wewak on occasion and one time, I was able to get up in the hills behind the town and my aim was to overlook the Sepik Basin, well one thing lead to another and the Sepik never appeared before me so I returned back to the Airport and back to Moresby.

This experience left me with a desire to experience life on the river and after meeting two Austrians in Enga, I decided to spend some time on the Karawari River, high up near the mountains of PNG but well inside the East Sepik Province. I would use the Karawari Lodge as my base and spend my days languishing on the river in a canoe or jetboat and visit the nearby communities.

Planes, Boats and Automobiles, PNG style.

The tally stood at one diesel jetboat silently cruising downstream with the current after the engine died, one diesel generator cutting in and out providing lights and darkness, followed by lights, followed by more darkness at the Lodge, one diesel 4WD which had front wheel diff problems, followed by some burning of the rear bearings, followed by the passengers all jumping clear as the 4WD rolled noisily backwards and over into a drain, one light aircraft heading our way only to turn around because of mechanical problems and Airniugini showing up 22hours late with their F100. And this was after I bought my Karawari Good Luck Idol.

But back to life on the river; apart from the odd 15hp outboard motor for a canoe and the odd commercial fishing net, life on the Karawari has not changed much over the years, the people still living with the river as they have for many generations. The one thing that impressed me was how clean the villages were, no plastic bags, no tin fish cans, no trukai rice bags, there was the occasional bleach and coke bottle used as a fishing reel and/or float and the odd flame flour bags stitched together to make sheets and sails. Everything else was traditional fibre.

The houses were huge and sago was the roofing material of choice and would give good shelter for at least 15 – 20 years, far greater than pit-pit or kunai thatched homes in other parts of PNG, and apart from termites and the occasional change in the river, most homes were solid and expansive. Apart from a longhaus spotted at Kutubu, these homes were the largest in the country, and designed well with the kitchen at one end, and sleeping on either side of the large open space. Mosquito netting was the only protection against mosquitos which in this part of PNG is a big issue, the gnat gnats were everywhere as soon as you got out of the village and into the tall grass and trees. But the mozzies were no where near as bad as I expected.

There were some demonstrations in place for us tourists and we learnt how to make sak sak and how to fish, but I think one of the better moments was when a concerned debate started between the Councillor and some of the local businessmen, a group of kids and I decided to go for a bit of a look around the rest of the village and see what the rest of the crew were up to. This provided a more natural demonstration of true village life and we were able to visit the local church, chat with the guys who were building a new Spirithaus and talk with a couple who were preparing some more sak sak.

The kids were fantastic, as they always are in PNG, I sat and listened to a group of young boys with a home made ukulele playing a song a girl named Lolene, inspiring stuff, I was disappointed not to meet this young lady and another bunch of kids were happy to continue running the entire length of their village just to wave good bye.

But my return to school was an emotional journey. Lucy the teacher came up to see us in the evening and let us know that the school kids would be happy for us to join them in the morning. When we arrived, the entire school assembled in their best clothes and presented us with wreaths of flowers that we wore Roman style around our heads. The school then turned their back on us and sang the PNG National Anthem to their flag; this was an emotional experience as I find the PNG National Anthem a stirring and interesting song about the modern way of life in PNG. They then sang another anthem about their country followed by a rousing welcoming song to their school.

After the singing came the dancing and the laughter and then we had to give a small introduction about ourselves, and where we had come from. It was a fantastic moment and a joy to see all the students have an opportunity to learn in such a remote part of the country. This year saw the introduction of 4 new teachers raising numbers from just the Principle to a staff of 5. Not bad for 120 kids.

Madang Province

2009-02-15T05:17:00.003+11:00

Madang town at the heart of Madang Province is the Florida of PNG. It seems every crusty no-necker from Moresby or Lae chooses to flock there if they are forced to holiday within PNG itself. You will often overhear stories of people having their family decide to come and visit them in PNG and they have to decide where outside of Moresby do I take them for a break… inevitably Madang is the destination.

Sure, Madang offers a relaxed lifestyle that Moresby or Lae doesn’t, and one can feel relatively safe in walking around the markets, but don’t let that fool you. Madang was the first place in PNG where I saw some graphic domestic violence in full view of a crowd at a PMV stop, bottles of beer thrown at my car and the way that some store owners (from another nationality) treat their locally engaged staff. Behind the pretty orchid rich grounds of the resorts and lodges lies a socially and economically struggling community.

Some people fly in to Madang, some even tackle the drive through the Ramu Valley from Lae, but I chose to walk there. A dear friend of mine who was recently murdered here in Moresby once walked this track from high up in the Chimbu mountains and down into the Ramu Valley below, so shortly after his tragic passing, I decided to follow his footsteps from PNG’s highest point down to the sea.

My Madang story starts in neighbouring Chimbu, high up on the spine of PNG sits Mt Wilhelm at 4,508m above sea level. Because my plan was to walk down to Brahmin in Madang, I only opted to walk up to the cool of Base Camp and then plan my descent down to the heat and jungles below. From Kegsugl my girlfriend and I set out on a gorgeous Spring Day in the mountains, the daisies were blooming, the birds were singing, there was a crispness in the air, and with a porter each and a guide each, the six of us loaded up our packs and headed up what appeared to once be a road. Indeed it was, the Bundi Highway linked Madang to Kundiawa via a treacherous road cut into the mountainside and it was along this track we would travel, with Pomyea being our first point of call inside the border in Madang.

The road climbed up over 3,400m above sea level from our starting point some 1,000m below and then crossed the border shrouded in the mountain cloud. We met many people along the way, many of whom were wantoks of our fellow travelers and we often stopped to take a break and just chat about how things were. Many of the people we met were from Pomyea and were just taking a walk into Kegsugl or Gembogl to do a bit of shopping and would plan on a return later that afternoon.

The road descended from the border until we reached a mountain spur where Pomyea was situated on top, with a ridge barely 20 metres wide, a village sat. Their vegetable gardens were on the incredibly steep slopes below and on the far sides of the valleys. This was mountain goat territory and a sense of being high up in the mountains was further impressed by PNG’s best view of Mt Wilhelm itself off to the west.

Inside the Hausman, we dropped our bags and met the locals, because we had a good supply of food and our guides were sure we could get a feed at Bundi, we cooked the lot and half the village community joined in. Greens were brought in, Kaukau was roasted on the fire on the floor, rice was served and we ate. And then the locals ate, and ate and ate. We were informed that this amount of food was a rarity so it was a joy to have a full belly. I grew up with a reasonable appetite but the amount of food; I saw a young boy tuck away was phenomenal! So with full bellies, we retired to our raised bamboo bed and slept. So too with half the village as they all decided to camp out in the Hausman with the two white people; plenty of piccaninnies, some lapuan men na meris and our guides and porters. I expected a noisy night but the only stirring was when a young mother was woken by her infant baby crying for a feed. I slept well with my new family.

The next morning I awoke to see the Moon setting behind Mt Wilhelm as the sun rose behind us. Astronomically, only an eclipse could have made the moment more inspiring. It was a gorgeous way to start the day.

The 6 of us were joined by a young brother who wanted to walk with us to Madang so the 7 of us then continued our walk down the mountain road, past the kids at Snopas School, past the tiny little kopihaus and into the warmer air. The alpine rugged barren hills started to become richly vegetated as we entered into the jungle landscape of PNG and it was here we found an extraordinary site of a tin clad Catholic Mission at the base of a Mountain. Its tin exterior looked like a Knight in shining armour and Sister Roselyn greeted us with a warm New Ireland smile. Our guides and porters left us for nearby accommodation with family and left the two of us in the hands of the Sister. So there the three of us were inside this massive Mission and waited for the night to fall. A tremendous storm came and lashed the Mission with torrential rain as Sister Roselyn served us some dinner in the giant hallway inside. Sister Roselyn moved with a stealth along the timber floors of the mission, often moving between rooms down the ends of long corridors, her blue and white habit so clean and neat against the blackness of her face, she wasn’t quite a Bukan but very close in colour..

The sun set just after 6, just like it does every night and after walking hard all day, we retired to the crisp well tucked in linen of our beds. A polar opposite of yesterday’s evening. During the night Sister Roselyn quietly performed her rounds of the corridors and at sunrise had prepared us an urn of hot water, and some warm food. We ate in silence and in awe of Sister Roselyn’s hospitality. Shortly she would show up down stairs with a friend who was keen to sell some handicrafts to the visitors. As we offered our farewell, we headed off in the direction of Madang, and around the corner came our guides and porters from their overnight rest.

We then left the highway and took a shortcut through the jungle. This was more like walking the Kokoda Track and the trees were filled with Hornbills and the creeks swollen with cold mountain streams. Up and down into valleys and ridges were traversed only to find an old Bailey bridge sans timber and remnants of a road. This shortcut was once a road, but now the jungle had won. Even more surprising was when a friend of ours from Kegsugl phoned me up on my mobile to say that she was waiting for us at the Brahmin Mission, we only had to step out of the jungle at 2pm and she would come across the bridge to meet us. Sure enough at a few minutes before 2pm, the jungle parted and we were standing on the side of a road, to our right were another Bailey bridge avec timber and our friend driving across. We all jumped into the Ute and headed to the Mission where some of our guides/porters departed, with their Aunty (our friend from the mountains) calling out “Don’t you steal anything this time!”

With that thought we drove across the Ramu Valley and into the town of Madang. Later relaxing with a beer, at one of those places the crusty no-neckers frequent, we borrowed two old dunga bikes and took a ride around Madang town. My first and most likely only push bike ride in PNG.

Gulf Province

2009-01-18T08:23:00.001+11:00

My trip to the Gulf Province was fun but short lived, what initially was planned was to spend a few days at Kikori, just hanging out on the river, but a better offer was to go through the Gulf Province by road and enter the Southern Highlands after first arriving in the Gulf Province by Air. This trip also included the previously blogged about lap of Lake Kutubu and an aerial assault on the Wasi Falls so with 4 flights, a few hours on a road in the Jungle, camping out in minesite, a six hour boat cruise and lunch with the locals, this weekend looked like a corker, and a good reason to escape from Moresby for a few days.

The Gulf part of the trip was fun; the plan was to fly to Kikori, catch a drive to Gobe while crossing the mighty Kikori River and then flying north. Sounds simple, this is PNG and like most travel in PNG, it starts with that familiar voice (imagine a Rabbit trapped in the headlights of a car) at Jackson’s Airport letting us know that our plane was delayed.

So we have a chat to the Airlines PNG girl, give her my mobile number and we scoot out of there. The easiest escape is to get up to the Airways Hotel and jump into a cold SP while wasting a few hours watching someone else’s planes come and go, and while we couldn’t find the Airways shuttle bus we did manage to spot the Crown Plaza bus and he was gracious enough to take us poolside and at the Airways. He told us he knew where we were headed because he used to be the driver at that Hotel. If the Crownie ever read this and they work out who he is, he will probably want to line up the Driver’s job at Lamana. But thanks to ol’ Bud, we were relaxing in a little bit of Moresby style while our plane was doing naught.

Then came the call, the Airlines PNG girl phoned me up and said that our delayed plane was early and we had to be back at the Airport. She was well excited that she was able to give us the good news that our delayed plane was in fact, taking off early, she almost couldn’t control herself. Good on her.

So we took the Airways shuttle bus back down to Jackson’s and boarded our Twin Otter. It was a pleasant flight along the Motuan coastline of southern Papua, we could check out Yule Island, and the Brown River and then we started descending well before Kikori, and it was raining, perhaps the weather was bad and we were going to sit it out at Kerema. The landing was okay, but then the Twin Otter got stuck in some mud as the pilot tried to get closer to the terminal. We were bogged, I was watching out the window as the right hand tyre started to disappear into the yellow mud. The pilot had the Twin Otter straining with the engines screaming and slowly the plane lifted like that Phoenix story from the ashes or charcoal and the Twin Otter wandered across the mud to the terminal.

The pilot came out to say G’day and that he was going to head off to Bereina and then come back and get us and then we would all go to Kikori. We said that we would like to go to Bereina too as an excursion would be nice, but he said it would be best if we went for a walk around Kerema, and besides, how often do you get to check out Kerema?

Oh yeah, during this flight my seat totally collapsed, it came away from its railing on the side of the plane and just fell apart in a heap. I was stuck holding on to the seat in front of me while using my hip flexor muscles to try to rise the seat up to a normal position. I was then able to rest the edge of the seat onto the top of the rail, meaning any turbulence would cause the seat to collapse again.

Whilst stationary at Kerema, the Pilot and I went to town on fixing the seat. We got it solid again.

So there we were a group of us, standing at Kerema, no luggage, no plane and a supposed one hour before the pilot would be back. So we went for a meet and greet with the locals. We watched some muddy soccer on the town square, we hung out with some betelnut chewing lads and we had a chat with a betelnut bombed lady in one of the Chinese stores. She was keen to show us around town as they don’t get too many white people just wander into town with no luggage and stuff, but when we wandered off looking at other shops, she got a bit offended. I feel deeply bad about it, and if she’s ever in Moresby, I would like to say I am sorry. But she was pretty bombed.

So we bought some coke and twisties and had lunch.

After some time we went back to the Airport and sat around the terminal, and lo and behold, our plane came back! We got onboard and took off towards Kikori. There was no chance that our driver would be there waiting at the airport…

The Kikori Airstrip is laid with Marsen Matting. No Way!!! This stuff was laid down during the Second World War to create runways on beaches and build temporary bridges and roads. Not in 2007. But sure enough, we circled the airport and we could see the torrential rain, we could hear the torrential rain and we could see the 60 year old strips of rusty iron all curled up and bashed together to form what appeared to be a Second World War Airstrip designed for Kittyhawks and the occasional Mustang. This landing was going to be all over the shop like a mad woman’s breakfast, and I was right. Bang, we hit hard, you could hear the plates of old metal moving around and there was mud and there was rain, and the Twin Otter was sideways, slewing all over the runway, we could see the Pilot through the little wooden archway and he was riding this beast like a Rodeo rider. We slowed to taxi speed and then taxied across the drainage trench and up to the shed. The Pilot looked back at us and said “Welcome to Kikori, hope you enjoyed your flight, sorry ‘bout the landing and I’ll see ya next time.”

After collecting our bags, a man approached and said he was our driver, and he was going to get us into the dark heart of the Gulf Province and to a place called Gobe, but first he must piss around in town and at his office. After all this he said; “Sorry crew, there isn’t enough time to get to Gobe tonight, we will miss the last ferry and it is better if we try again at 4am tomorrow”. We politely persuaded him to give it a go getting us to the ferry and in the back of a Troopy, we headed off on a reasonably well graded gravel road at 40kph. “Can’t we go any faster?” we cried… “No” was the response.

This road is maintained and built by Oil Search Ltd and they have a strict no speeding, stick on 40 kph limit apply. We even have to sign in and out and check points along the way, which is a good opportunity to stretch the legs. Normally when traveling in PNG, one gets amazed at how many people are just sitting around and doing nothing. Not on this road. This road is one of the remotest roads in the country, it is owned by the Oil Company and it is used by the Oil Company. No one else has access and it is quiet.

You drive through thick forest, forever following a pipeline which is buried under the ground, and then the forest parts and you find the Kikori River, a river which is just smashing along… parts of Kikori get 6 metres of rainfall a year and it is not unusual for the parts inland to get 11 metres. This river is moving and the ferry is dragged sideways by around 6 cables to get from side to side. Trees float past. It is near dark, and the ferry has waited for us, after driving for hours at 40kph, we make it across the river, and we continue in the dark towards the mining camp of Gobe.

My time in the Gulf Province is short lived for after a night sleeping in the mining camp listening to the deafening rain on the roof, I am in a plane and headed for Lake Kutubu and the Southern Highlands. The Gulf is scarcely populated, heavy with rain and the rain forest is one of the thickest I have ever seen but I enjoyed my time here. Apart from meeting the crew at Kerema, I feel as if I have missed something, maybe next time.

Manus Province.

2009-01-15T21:49:00.002+11:00

Manus is the most Northern Province in PNG, the main Island is Manus Island and it was here that I was able to get away to for a few days back in late 2007. Manus requires a couple of flights to get to and it feels very remote. If life in PNG is fairly laid back and casual, then in Manus it feels as if time has stopped. And a short walk around the Provincial Capital of Lorengau proves that indeed some of the construction work to build the town stopped shortly after the end of the Second World War; old Nissen Huts are now Coca-Cola advertisements, old concrete bunkers are storerooms and the start of a great causeway built by the US Army still looks as if work will re-start tomorrow.

Manus does not know what Tourism is. The trios of us traveling there in November of 2007 were tourist numbers 8, 9 and 10 for the year to date, and as I knew who the last two visitors were, I felt that we were in elite company. The day we arrived must have been tourist season as we saw a couple of lads with surfboards arriving to try and catch some PNG swell… we never saw them again albeit ever so briefly in the marketplace. I wonder if they tried any of the smoked Cuscus.

The only Hotel in town was owned and operated by the Local Level Government and they would only receive visitors from workers coming to the Island to fix things. Workers like Telikom and PNG Power and Eda Ranu would stay there along with Politicians on workshops and junkets. The staff eyed us suspiciously as we wanted not to sit around the stagnant pool drinking warm beer and staying up to 6am, but we wanted to visit local communities, chat with the locals, go for a swim and enjoy PNG hospitality. These ideas were foreign to the staff.

After much convincing and cajoling we managed to get a vehicle and staff member to take us for a journey away from the heart of Manus and up into the Mountains in the centre of the Island. As it was surfing season, the swell was far too great for us to go visiting neighbouring Islands. We did manage a snorkel on Ra-Rah Island close by which was a swell time, and there was fantastic Manus Pandanus on the Island. Our journey into the Mountains culminated with watching a Soccer Match in the pouring rain with the entire Village community involved. There was not a blade of vegetation on the pitch and the red soil was saturated with the constant rain. We got to hug a baby Cuscus which probably ended up being smoked and sold at the markets later and we got to spend some good quality time chatting to the local crew. Some of whom had a fair idea about tourism, but were being hamstrung by the only Hotel on the Island. A shame really because hindsight is an amazing thing and I think I would have altered my original plans if only I knew more and spent more time with these people…

After the men finished their game of soccer, the young ladies of the Village had their turn, in pouring rain and on a field of clay; two dozen young Manusian girls chased a heavy saturated leather ball around. Mud wrestling anyone?

We then drove back to town, purchased a shortwave radio and decided to listen to the election to see if Johnnie Howard still had a job or if Kevin 07 was gonna be the new PM. Amazingly enough, the Hotel found a technician who was willing to work all day Saturday to make sure the planets were in alignment and that the televisions picked up the ABC. Unbelievable, as we sat and drank warm beer and peered at the crackly snowy image on the teev, we watched history being made, from as far away from Australia we could get whilst in PNG.

Sandaun Province

2009-01-11T16:37:00.012+11:00

Formerly known as West Sepik Province, this most North Western corner of PNG is now referred to as Sandaun or “Sun Down” Province. This is the west for PNG and it is in the west that the Sun goes down every night. As they say, getting there is half the fun. My plan was to go to Jayapura, the provincial heart of what I always learnt in school to be Irian Jaya or as it is referred to now, West Papua, or even (in some circles) West Irian. Jayapura started off its life as Hollandia and was the Colonial headquarters for the Dutch who had administration duties of the left half of New Guinea before the Indonesians took Sovereignty.

Like I said, getting there was half the fun and what could have been a disaster, turned out in the end, a good rollicking rollercoaster of a ride which as with many adventures in PNG start with a flight delayed call at Jackson’s domestic Terminal.

There we were, a small group of 4 sitting in Jackson’s when the announcement came over the PA, “all people flying to Wewak and Vanimo, your flight has been delayed…”, a few audible groans reverberated around the (at the time) mangy carpeted attempt of a departure lounge that serves the Air Niugini patrons in PNG’s capital. It was later we found out that this delay then meant that our pre-arranged driver in Vanimo had felt that we were not coming.

But we boarded our F100, and we were soon in the air and heading to Wewak, not a bad flight, you cruise along to the north west skirting the PNG southern Motuan coastline until you get to Yule Island, where you then start to drift inland and up and over the sort of saddle between the Owen Stanley Ranges to your right and the PNG Highlands to your left. After flying over the top of these ranges you then start to head over the Ramu Valley and then skirt the PNG northern coastline until Wewak comes into view. Always a right hand circle over the sea then lines you up with the air strip at Wewak. Touch down, now 30 minutes (ish) on the tarmac while passengers are exchanged and luggage hopefully, a dash of fuel if there is a tractor to pull the fuel tank out and then up and flying along the north coast heading west to Vanimo. Again, a quick circle over the sea, this provides gorgeous views of the Timber logging wharf and one touches down at Vanimo Airport.

After collecting our packs, we then headed to the carpark where we were to meet our driver who would take us to the Indonesian border. Vans came and went and no-one driver seemed interested in taking us to the border, but it soon became clear that the driver wasn’t there and he had decided to go home and chew some betelnut because the plane had been delayed and he was off. It was Good Friday by the way and everyone wants their public holiday. The driver had been seen in an old red Toyota crew cab Ute and some of the locals said that they would go in search of this vehicle for us. As a dozen young men from Vanimo, headed off to all points of the compass, we remained patient and in the carpark of the airport.

And then, a red Toyota showed up and our man Doug was there, he said we would drive to the border, so bags were chucked into the back and we climbed aboard. Doug drove in typical PNG fashion, get the car into 5^th gear, and leave it there until it nearly stalls and then start changing back down the gears until the car goes forward again. Then once you accelerate to 5^th gear, do the same. So in a slow racing chugga chugga style we made our way to the border. I was in Sandaun Province.

The road to Wutung and the border is gorgeous, it snakes it way gently along the north coastline of PNG towards Indonesia, along the way, and gaps in the jungle expose white sandy beaches and small bays with waves coming ashore and so many children riding old wooden surfboards or planks of wood. Some of the boards are full of borer holes and look like Swiss cheese and none of the children are clothed. They just run and play in the surf without a care in the world. Oh to be able to enjoy such a freedom. The car passes many small villages where everyone waves and nods at the passing vehicle. The road is quiet as not too many people make this journey, although the views are worth the effort alone.

After 90 minutes of driving, we come to the Village of Wutung; at the base of the hill is a yellow gate which today being Good Friday is closed. Doug grunts and mumbles about never seeing this gate closed ever before. We sit for a short period of time, and Doug blasts the horn. No movement but up on top of the hill we see Indonesian figures, these men were there waiting for me, they were going to get us to Jayapura. Doug had nearly completed his work for the day. I talked to Doug about approaching someone in Wutung to open up the gate, and he had an old wantok who could do the trick. We reversed back down from the gate to a road junction and headed into town. While reversing down the hill, Doug’s Toyota was making an awful noise from the front wheels, it looked like Doug was driving with his wheel hubs locked into 4WD and the front left was locked solid when reversing. It was smoking, but Doug just wanted us gone.

We arrived at this house, Doug went inside and spoke to the owner, they chewed some betelnut and we watched the kids surfing just down the road. Doug came back and said that there would be a Custom agent on top of the hill and he could get us to the yellow gate but no further, we would just have to walk the remaining distance to the border. Ok we said, and off we drove again.

We got out of Doug’s Red Toyota at the Yellow gate, shook Doug’s hand and said thanks; he said “Buai” and then drove off at speed. The four of us were now standing at the bottom of a steep hill, with no transport, and no place to stay and the time was marching on. So up the Mountain we climbed, and what a steep climb it was, over 180m change of altitude in a distance of less than a kilometer. At the top of the hill, we met our two Indonesian drivers who were to get us to Jayapura, a handful of PNG policemen and a closed Customs Agency. It was Good Friday by the way.

There were more audible groans.

How were we going to spend our weekend in Indonesia when the sign on Customs said come back tomorrow? We spoke to the half dozen PNG Police officers who were sitting around chewing betelnut and we asked if they had the clearance to stamp our passports out of PNG and therefore clearing us to Indonesia. The answer was “No”. We asked if there was someone in Wutung who could perform this task, the answer was “Yes, but it was Good Friday, so they are not working today”. It seemed no-one was working today.

We asked if the good Police officers could use their phones to call up someone in town to come up to the top of the hill and stamp us in. They tried their mobiles, no coverage, so the answer was “No”. We asked about the phone inside, and they said it was for emergencies only. This was taking time… The police officers continued to chew. We spied a small scooter and we asked if the police officers could send someone down to Wutung and pick someone up for us, the answer this time was “Yes”, but it would happen after they had chewed some more betelnut.

Sometime later, one of the police officers got on the scooter and then put-put-putted on their way down the hill. Some 45 minutes and needless to say, some betelnut chewing later, a Customs officer showed up and stamped us out of PNG. There was relief on everyone’s faces.

Getting to Jayapura is another story. The return leg in Sandaun Province was a smoother process as everyone was back at work, and we eventually boarded another F100 for our return to Moresby.

Southern Highlands Province

2009-01-11T09:11:00.006+11:00

Been there twice. Fantastic place, if you look at a map, the Southern Highlands are at the south-western edge of the Highlands. It was the first and second Highland Province I visited and I like the place. Some of them even consider themselves to be Papuan and I have met a few who speak Motu. It was a corker moment to say “Oi Namu” in the Highlands and score a smile and a response. I was stoked.

The first time I traveled to SHP, there were some problems. The 2002 elections had destroyed Tari and Mendi and left both Towns a smoldering wreck. I arrived in Tari some 4 years after the devastation to find a charred and screwed up Town. It kinda reminded me of Wilcannia… kinda.

While Tari was just a shell of its former self, Mendi was struggling to rebuild itself, only marginally calling itself the Provincial Administrative Centre, the Southern Highlands was, and still is in disarray. Marijuana and Guns were rife, Clan warfare had reached a peak and some of the fighting between clans had been an ongoing problem for more than a generation. What was once dealt with bows and arrows was now being conducted by automatic rifles. Tensions continued to escalate and the PNG Government called a State of Emergency. Additional Police and the PNGDF were called in to enforce a Gun Amnesty.

I thought it would be an ideal time to plan a holiday and a visit to the Highlands, extra Cops for extra Protection and less Guns on the streets, sounds like a win-win situation. As it evolved, I had a wonderful time, safe and I managed to avoid anything that remotely looked like a dodgy situation. Moresby and Lae were considered to be a bigger threat.

I spotted three Birds of Paradise, the King of Saxony, the Ribbon Tailed Astrapia and the Superb. I spent time with the most fearsome of all Highland Warriors, the Huli, and I learnt much about their culture and their way of life, from childhood to funeral rites. I was able to trek into the Mountains as high as twice the height I had ever been in Australia. It was one of my first forays outside of Moresby and I had discovered the warmth and gorgeousness of the people of PNG. The plane I was on when it landed at Tari was greeted by thousands of locals all seeing who was coming and who was going. It was a daunting sight.

The next year in 2007, I returned to the Southern Highlands but this time I snuck in by a different way. After flying eventually to Kikori, I then drove inland through the Gulf Province (but this is another story) and on the next day I flew from Gobe to Moro in the Southern Highlands on the edge of Lake Kutubu. What a gorgeous location to mine for Gas.

On a Sunday with a few crew from the Gas Field, we took a slow boat to complete a lazy lap of Lake Kutubu. Along the way we stopped and visited the local Villages, we stopped and visited a Long Haus, a Skull Cave, and an Orchid Farm and had lunch with the local ladies.

There was a moment of joy where I spent some time talking about Bixa orellana with some of the local kids. This was a find of mine when I recently lived in the far North of Australia and had never seen this amazing seed and its pod before. The kids knew the whole deal, and there weren’t much I could tell them, this plant had been there long before they were born…. The only catch was that none of them knew that this plant was introduced to their country from South America, many, many, many generations past.

The next day, I then flew out, again flying over the Lake as the Sun was once again rising on the Southern Highlands. A beautiful place and a magical place.

Eastern Highlands Province

2009-01-10T18:34:00.006+11:00

The EHP or more particularly for me was Goroka and its accompanying festival. I flew in, checked out the many, many Sing-sing Groups and then flew out. I had a tight schedule and during this trip I had visited the very South Eastern corner of PNG, followed by a journey to Rabaul via Buka and it was at the end of this journey that I took in the splendour of the Goroka Festival.

It is simply an awesome spectacle; imagine dozens and dozens of Highlanders in traditional tribal bilas and performing dances of a variety of meanings. Most of the performances were based on some of the dances that they would perform when going into battle with other clans yet some of the performances were based on finding a partner whether that be for loving or for cooking… and of course there was the snake dance.

My personal favourite group was the group of ladies from Enga who stood in a long line rhythmically swaying their grass skirts by a gentle bend of their knees, while beating out a tempo on small kundu drums. Upon their heads was a wig of human hair decorated with small ferns, and they wore a light coating of light brown earth on their faces, shoulders and breasts. A band of black paint from ear to ear masked their eyes and added to the seriousness of their expression. Quite hypnotic.

My other highlights were the crew from Goroka town itself and their traditional costume which was bilum made and in the colours and designs of the PNG National Flag, very patriotic. I liked the lads from Morobe who performed very energetically and sexually while singing songs about their women getting the dinner ready. The snake dance guys were really cool too, underneath a huge stocking, filled and painted to look like a long snake, the men would dance and circulate in and around the rest of the crowd, with the tallest man leading the way and slowly getting smaller and younger until the last few performers holding onto the tail end of the snake were just little tackers enjoying their day out in the sun.

The lads all looked like they were having a ball.

And then the performers all left the field and mingled with the crowds outside, and this was a sign for the afternoon rain to start and this was a second sign for the crowd outside to start hurling bricks and large rocks over the fence and into the throng of people all trying to get out of the rain. After a large rock landed in the clump of bamboo I was hiding under for rain protection, I thought it was best to move further away from the Rock Concert.

But I survived and managed to escape down to the centre of town, got a beer from the Bird of Paradise and then bought some crafts from the street sellers outside, and got followed by more craftsmen on the way to the Airport to the waiting Dash-8 and journey back to Moresby.

East New Britain Province

2009-01-08T05:32:00.005+11:00

I guess if Lae and Morobe are my PNG home away from home then the East New Britain Province is my holiday home away from home. I have spent a fair deal of time in the province and as mentioned once before in this blog, I never tire of watching Tavuvur, the active volcano.

The provincial heart of East New Britain is now Kokopo as much as those in Rabaul disbelieve, but the true business heart is on the other side of Simpson Harbour. Rabaul got dumped on in 1994 and covered with Ash from Tavuvur and Vulcan (original name for a Volcano) and despite rescue attempts to save the Town, it survives purely as a shipping port and tourist draw card. The ash which has now fallen in the last 12 months is ringing out the end of this once beautiful town. The people, who still live here, are ash coloured and depressed, the Frangipanis still hang in despite their leaves being continually darkened from the sun and the Mangoes of Mango Street are a thing of the past.

PNG almost gets tourism right here, and it is making inroads to improving what possibly could be a sustainable and economic future. Diving, Fishing, War History and the Volcano could all be a boom for this part of the Pacific.

I remember one time jumping into some very deep water just off Pidgin Island into a pod of Dolphins and for a brief moment I swam with these large mammals of the deep. I could hear their whistles and clicks and it is a very surreal feeling watching them play and swim around. The surrealism got even more intense as I then had the strongest feeling that one of the Dolphins was not looking at me, but through me, looking at something behind me and over my shoulder. I turned around in the water to see a rather large fish with a big pointy nose, an intense black eye and a long pointy tail. It was a close encounter with a shark.

I then started to try to walk/run on water whilst calling back to the crew on the boat to come and get me as there was a shark in the water. During my impression of a wounded seal I could only think of where the shark was and how fast was he going to hit my legs at. Well something was on my side because it was a whole minute later when I was picked up by the old Sea Cap’n and his boat, which was more than enough time for old Chompy to have a bite, but thankfully Sharky didn’t.

My pulse still elevates when I think of that big black eye in the water.

Don’t know what is safer, standing underneath Tavuvur is when it is chucking out molten VWs or swimming in the water...?

Morobe Province

2009-01-04T07:33:00.008+11:00

Ah Lae, I like the place, it’s kinda like my home away from home when referencing my time in PNG. Lae is the provincial heart of Morobe and is the link that PNG has with Asia. This City exists for its shipping, because there ain’t much else to see in Lae. Moresbians don’t like Lae and Laetians (I made that one up) don’t care too much for Moresby. In fact Lae can’t wait for the day it has to avoid Moresby to get anywhere internationally; mind you it is only a 40 minute flight, Moresby to Lae and there are three flights a day. Ahem. That’s also forgetting the 40 minute drive required from NadzabAirport to the City of Lae itself.

But I digress, despite the copious amounts of razor wire, the Guard Dog security guard on every street corner and the security screens welded to the outside of the windscreen on the bus you catch from the airport, Lae has an attractive underbelly to it. 4 metres of rainfall each year means the grass is always greener and hidden amongst the termite infested Rain Trees are some exquisite orchids, zygos, broms and ferns. There are some hidden Horticultural delights in the main streets of Lae. There’s also that laid back approach to dodging pot-holes (called driving elsewhere) that exudes the charms of a big country town, and the way that on every pot-hole corner there’s a dozen people makes one think that one is caught up in a thriving metropolis.

One time, I managed to escape the allure of Lae itself, and I managed to get up into the mountains behind the City to Bulolo and Wau, towns of a decent gold rush in the 1930’s and a new prospective happening at the moment up in Hidden Valley. The locals today still continue to pan the streams and rivers looking for their fortune while the big mining boys manage to divert and redirect the watercourses upstream. It must be frustrating for the little guys, but eh, that’s business.

Wau was gorgeous, should be renamed Wow, and had a real charm to it, after you get over the initial What-is-this-white-guy-doing-in-town introduction. I will admit, Wau gave me the most aggressive of all welcomes by any town in PNG. Shortly afterwards, once it was known that I wasn’t here to dig a massive hole in the ground and shortchange the locals, I was received more comfortably. If you are ever in Wau, go to Donna’s Stoa, see Dannielle or Tim and they can give you some good guidance in a real pretty part of Morobe and far removed from the aggression of Lae.

I only regret not making it to Finschafen. Footy biang!

Central Province

2009-01-01T13:57:00.005+11:00

Home of the Motuan, Koiari, Rigo and Goilalans, and home to my PNG family. I have been fortunate enough to explore a good deal of this province yet have missed out on a great deal. I would have liked to have made it eastward past Kupiano and to the west past Yule Island and even up into the mountains of the Goilala, but I have walked and spent some time with the Koiari between Sogeri and Kokoda and I have hunted Orchids in the Rigo hills around Lebogoro. I have had the privilege of attending a Bride Price Ceremony down at Hula and I have watched Rugby League with my PNG family at Boera.

The Central province is the Motuan coastline with the Owen Stanley Ranges providing a continual blue hued backdrop, and on clear days in Moresby, you can see Kokoda Gap, Mt Victoria, and Mt Albert Edward.

A partnership between my GF and a traditional potter at Boera has provided many highlights; the two potters have spent time together learning each other’s techniques, clays and firing practices. Watching a collection of Motuan Pots being fired in an above ground fire in only 20 minutes is a spectacular and fiery event. Motuan clay is very sandy and contains a lot of grog whereas western clay is smooth and creamy and seeing the joy of the local kids playing with this modern clay and getting the clay everywhere is quite amusing.

Meanwhile, as the kids and potters are busy messing around with clay, the rest of us sit around under the Oil Palms and Frangipanis and watch the local lads play Rugby League. Boera has a population of around 2,000 and has at least 8 League teams which play each other during the regular season and then they play each other again during the “off” season. The matches are brother and against brother, cousin against cousin and despite the concrete hardness of the pitch, the lads are keen to smash into each other at any given moment. Papua New Guineans are passionate about their football.

A great way to spend an afternoon.

National Capital District

2008-12-31T18:06:00.006+11:00

Where I spend the majority of my time, the NCD is PNG’s smallest province and the most accessible. The edge of its surrounds can be seen on the Magi Hwy at the roundabout by Central City, just past the Laloki Bridge on the Hiritano, the Abattoir out on the road to Sogeri and the moment you step off the Napa Napa Rd and head towards Boera and Lea Lea. Home to the Capital of PNG (hence its name) the NCD is the melting pot of all of PNG’s provinces and people. The suburbs and settlements here are made up of the same clans that assemble in the Highlands and Coastal areas of this country, and as a result, sometimes age old differences from back home are regurgitated on the streets of the Nation’s Capital.

Basically the NCD is Port Moresby and its fringed settlements. Change is happening in the time I have been here, new buildings and accommodation apartments are always being erected, the new sub-division at 8-mile is coming along, especially noticeable from the air and generally there is a sense of a new dawn, and a new level of economy. The PNG middle class is becoming noticeable, yet you will still find a grass roots approach to family and wantoks on many street corners.

A highlight for me in NCD and this will be repeated as I discuss the other 19 provinces is surely the people, I have made many friends here and their smiling faces and gorgeous warmth will be the core of my memories of life in Moresby. No one single highlight stands out, I review my time here as a mix of emotions and energies. Perhaps walking over the top of Burn’s Peak on a Sunday morning and meeting a young Papuan who was sitting atop of a rock reading the Good Book may be one of the more surreal moments. He was up there for some solitude on his Holy day of the week.

Foreign Correspondent. A book review.

2008-08-24T05:26:00.007+10:00

Not really a book review but a collection of my thoughts regarding a recent edition of the ABC's Foreign Correspondent television program. A segment of the program recently highlighted problems with Air Travel here in PNG and while I do not doubt that there are some issues with the Management of flying up here, I was not entirely convinced with the sensationalistic style of journalism displayed on the people's network of Australia at a night time slot. Perhaps it should have been best suited for a 6:30pm slot on a commercial network?

My primary concern is that the journalist (Steve Marshall) informed us that in a recent crash investigation, the investigating team were denied access to the crash site by local landowners seeking PGK10,000 in compensation. Whilst this was obvious, it was odd that Steve and his camera crew were given access to film the site and interview the landowners in question. The majority of helicopter charters in PNG start at around PGK4,000 per hour and Steve and the team had flown in and out of the crash site, and I am sure the landowners would of had a small surcharge for the permission to film the crash site. If they didn't then there is some hypocrisy in demanding compensation for the crash investigation team? I wonder if the crash investigation team were given access to the ABC's footage in full of the crash site? Let's hope the money spent bringing this news to our attention was used in a positive vein and the crash investigators received some valuable information?

The segment also interviewed the family of a pilot who lost his life in the crash that the camera crew visited and currently the family are being told that it was pilot error and therefore the case is closed. My impression in this compensation dependent society is that the family would prefer to have someone else be responsible for the crash so that compensation could be sought. While this is not a criticism of the segment, it is more a reflection as to why I named this blog what it is called.

Perhaps this is why man-made machines flown by man fall out the sky? On Christmas Eve of 2007, I needed to fly across to a village in the neighbouring Oro Province and high up in the often cloud covered Owen Stanley Ranges. I spoke to a friend of mine early in the morning and he said please do not go with such and such (named charter company) as he had witnessed their chopper pilot drinking heavily at the Yachtie at 1:00 am that morning and buying take aways for the drive home. I took that advice on board and went to another hangar where the pilot took me out to the workshop to show me the condition of the helicopter. It was unrecognisable, it was a pile of nuts, springs, panels and assorted mechanical looking bits. I asked what happened and he said that there was a concern on the last flight so they undid a nut and the chopper fell in bits. It must have been the nut on the mechanic's shoulders that was loose.

I then headed to the next hangar, home to the pilot who I was warned about with his overnight celebration and I found the pilot still celebrating Christmas with the boss of the company, in the middle of the carpark. To their credit, they did offer me a green can but I refrained, it was only 9:00 am.

I decided to postpone my trip. A few weeks later, the first hangar I went to, their helicopter stalled whilst landing at a nearby location a few seconds prior to landing, causing the helicopter to crash into a big messy pile. Both pilot and passenger survived, the chopper was brought back to Moresby in the back of a Ute.

Steve Marshall finished his story in a Nostradamus like fashion by suggesting that while currently it is only light aircraft falling out of the sky, it won't be long before the bigger planes have a Yogyakarta style incident. Inferring that if landowners continue to demand compensation of crash team investigators and the families of dead pilots seek someone to blame, then this will mean bad weather and poor pilot judgement will result in a Air Niugini flight crashing. I am going out on a limb and I will say that if F100s start dropping off the end of runways then the disease will spread to other carriers that use the same tarmac that Air Niugini do, it won't be long before QANTAS, Malaysian Airlines and Singapore Airlines start going buggerup.

Happy flying!

Tourism, PNG style.

2008-05-11T15:08:00.002+10:00

How tourism should work… A tourist goes to a spot, may it be scenic or otherwise, they pay their entry fee, this fee goes to the upkeep of said spot. The tourist thinks that the spot is amazing and decides to take a few photographs and on their return home, they show said photos of said spot to their family and friends. Family and friends are inspired and plan their next holiday, perhaps including a visit to the spot.

Everyone is happy, Spot worker has a job, Spot is maintained and more and more people decide to visit, increasing employment in local community and just generally making everyone happy.

How tourism has worked for me in PNG… sometimes on the weekend, I am a tourist in my new found backyard. I would like something to do, so I ask around, and I discover that there is a good spot for a Sunday visit. I arrange to get there, I have a good time, I pay my entry fee and I pay some bloke who shows me around, and he takes me to the better parts of the spot. I’m impressed, I take a few photos and I show them to my friends, who ask me to take them to the spot.

We all arrange to get there, we all pay our entry fee, we all have a good time, and we all convince our friends that it is well worth the effort to get there. And they do.

Then one day we all show up, and as we are leaving, the guy who we pay entry fee to stops us and says that he hears that we have been taking photos of the scenery some two months prior. We say “Of Course! It’s a beautiful spot and we want our friends to be inspired and visit!” And he says, sorry but my boss says you must pay K250.00 because you used a camera. Unbelievable! This extortion is shooting tourism in its own foot.

Over the last two years I have probably introduced this spot to around 50 people, who have all paid their entry fee, and quite possibly have visited on more than one occasion, and quite possibly have used the services of the local crew to help find the better parts of the spot and have all had a good time. Perhaps over K1000.00 has entered the spot’s coffers through my direct and indirect involvement, yet someone wants more, someone is greedy and someone is stupid.

For shame Tourism PNG, this is a bitter day.

the War in Papua New Guinea. Part Three.

2007-12-25T11:40:00.000+11:00

Delonix regia can best be described as a messy tree, and they rely heavily on a good season if they are to be a spectacular tree. I have seen some awesome D. regias in the past and seen some pretty ordinary ones. In Australia they are sometimes referred to as Poincianas and in North Queensland, they are pretty popular, as they grow fast and are tough as boots. They will often in times of dry weather, shed all their leaves and look quite deciduous, other more prosperous times, they will hold onto their foliage. In PNG, they are called Christmas Trees, as this is the traditional time for them to flower (not to be confused with the other Christmas Tree which is Cassia fistula or even C. queenslandica).

As Christmas can often be a time of reflection, so too are the memorials and cemeteries which I have spoken in the last two previous posts and the Bita Paka War Cemetery has a small stand of D. regia within its boundary of Codiaeums. The Bita Paka War Cemetery makes up the trio of War Cemeteries here in PNG.

From my understanding the fighting that took place in East New Britain was a little different to that of mainland PNG. It appears that the Japanese saw Rabaul as a very important strategic port with its deep volcanic caldera and proximity to lands to the east, west and south. The Japanese decided that Rabaul had to be theirs, so they sent some 17,000 troops ashore to pacify a small contingent of Australian troops that were in the area.

The battle was decisive yet the Australians fought valiantly despite being heavily outnumbered. The stories that emerged from the months afterwards are emotional and exhausting, tales of survival as people tried to retreat to mainland New Guinea amidst plantation massacres and those who remained in East New Britain and became spies against the Japanese forces. The Memorial to the Missing at Bita Paka lists more names than those buried in the cemetery itself, many of the names were of servicemen killed at Tol and served as part of the Lark Force.

Members of the Lark Force and many civilians were also killed aboard the Montevideo Maru as she sailed away from New Guinea towards South East Asia. An American submarine thinking the vessel was a Japanese Troop ship, torpedoed and sank the Montevideo Maru, killing all on board.

Once Rabaul had fallen, Lae fell shortly after, and then the push to capture the Coral Sea and Port Moresby was on. Rabaul indeed became a vantage point for the Japanese Troops. Along with the troops, the Japanese bought with them Indian and Pakistan soldiers who were captured on the Malay Peninsula and used in New Guinea as labourers, digging many of the tunnels which dot the shoreline around Simpson Harbour. Some 400 of these POWs are now interred within Bita Paka, many of them unidentified.

The history of the Bita Paka War Cemetery was created before the atrocities of the Second World War, as the War Cemetery is now on the site where a German Telegraph station was positioned during the start of the First World War. Australian exploratory troops were sent to Rabaul too investigate and a small and bloody battle took place where the first Australians to be killed in the First World War lost their lives, just days before Australian Troops stepped onto the shores at Gallipoli.

The Delonix regia are not the main horticultural feature of the cemetery, this honour goes to a stand of Albizia sammans which grace and dominate the entrance. These massive trees are a vigilant reminder of the strength and fortitude that was required not once but twice by Australian Troops in this part of PNG. At this time of the year, let us remember those who served and those whom still provide defence duties for their countries.

Lest we forget.

the War in Papua New Guinea. Part Two.

2007-12-12T20:16:00.000+11:00

Speak to a lot of ex-pat Australians living in PNG and they know of Kokoda, and quite a few have read books on the subject and a few have also read further into the battle campaigns of PNG not centered around that "bloody track". The Battle of Milne Bay and the Naval conflict on the Coral Sea are some of the more decisive campaigns in the entirety of the whole Pacific War. The march into Rabaul by some 17,000 troops was a confidence building victory by the Japanese forces. And their ensuing push to gain control of the whole of New Guinea started when the Japanese landed at Buna and Gona on the Northern side of the Owen Stanleys.

The city of Lae, not far from Buna and Gona was invaded by the Japanese as easily as Rabaul was, and the Markham and Ramu Valleys were strategic pieces of flat land in and otherwise mountainous country. The Australian advance was to eventually push the Japanese back from whence they came and the Markham and Ramu battlefields were as pertinent to the entire conflict in PNG as Kokoda was.

As a horticulturist in this country, I spend a great deal of time looking for moments of inspiration, looking for those parcels of trees, flowers, plants, and grass that capture the beauty of this amazing country. In my last post I mentioned the Bomana War Cemetery and the cemetery is an oasis in a rugged country, especially in the dry season, but the Lae War Cemetery is a picture of history, of what the entire city of Lae once possibly looked like.

I have heard storeys of how the red canna lilys once lined the entrance to the city of Lae for kilometres underneath the massive boughs of the Rain Trees. Now these Rain trees are infested with Mastotermes darwiniensis, a monster termite accidentally imported from Australia in timber pallets and is literally eating the city of Lae. And these trees are falling over and busting the fences of the Golf Course, which I might add, is another splendid display of horticulture in PNG.

If you want to see good amenity horticulture in PNG, visit the War Cemeteries, the Golf Courses or a politician's residence.

The canna lilys are now almost completely gone. High cyclone fences and razor wire now line the streets of Lae, it's an aggressive face to a once beautiful city. The old Royal Botanic Gardens shows infrastructure which once would have been gorgeous, and yet it still holds one specimen of Amherstia nobilis, the Queen of all Flowering Trees. And nestled in one corner of the Lae Botanic Gardens lie the final resting place of nearly 3,000 graves of soldiers from the Commonwealth. The Lae War Cemetery is a large expanse of turf, with small garden beds interspersed amongst the concrete headstones, surrounded by a garden bed designed to hide the boundary. Beyond the fence is the Botanic Garden, fastly becoming a termite infested jungle.

The neatness of the War Cemetery, proves what once was, and may never be again. It is a peaceful and reflective sanctuary as are the majority of cemeteries, but the harsh razor wire edge of Lae tends to soften a little as you read the inscriptions of those young men who paid the ultimate sacrifice.

Lest We Forget.

the War in Papua New Guinea. Part One.

2007-12-05T20:37:00.001+11:00

It is nigh impossible to avoid the fact that the Second World War held a theatre of conflict here in Papua New Guinea. At the time, Allied troops had surrendered at Singapore, Pearl Harbour had been blown to pieces and the Japanese were expanding their line of attack ever closer to Australia. John Curtin was caught up between Commonwealth (read Imperial) alliances and the entry into the War by the US. Plus he had a continent in which war had never graced its shores before.

August 1942, Australia was in the firing line.

Papua New Guinea has a very interesting career, the Spanish have been visiting for hundreds of years and only a dozen years before the Second World War reached New Guinean soil, white man had discovered soil in the rich fertile populated Highland regions. What did New Guineans think of the invading Japanese and what did the Papuans think of the invading Australians?

There are no answers at the three War Cemeteries in Papua New Guinea. Only more and more questions but all three War Cemeteries are beautiful places of reflection and peace. I often find myself on my journeys of PNG, stopping to refocus within these places of history. I am not alone as I know of many expatriates who work here in Papua New Guinea who often visit the War Cemeteries as a place of solace and understanding. No where closer to Australian soil has a concentration of Australians fought so valiantly for a nation of multiculturalism (Those in Darwin may disagree, and I understand).

My first blog entry on the War in Papua New Guinea starts with the Bomana War Cemetery in Port Moresby. Here lies close to 4,000 Commonwealth soldiers who paid the ultimate sacrifice. I have wandered through these grounds and read the epitaphs of many of the fallen, the individuals who's history is forever written include Kingsbury, French, Marie Craig, Bissett, Payne and many more but it is some of the collective stories that bring me back to wander the field.

I must say that am moved by the 438 men of the British Artillery who surrendered at the Fall of Singapore only to be taken Prisoner of War by the Japanese and sent to Ballale Island. There they were instructed to build a runway for the Japanese offensive to continue East. Unfortunately these British men died on the Island and were buried in a mass grave. This grave was soon discovered after the War and the remains were relocated to Torokina War Cemetery on Bougainville. A short time later, they were exhumed and reinterred at Bomana War Cemetery, Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea.... A long way from home, and a long way to get there...

The loss of a plane full of passengers in a tragedy anywhere, but one full of Medical staff and wounded soldiers returning to their home after the War was declared over is even more heartbreaking. 28 were on board a flight returning home to Australia when they crashed into Mt Carstenz in Irian Jaya. Recent explorations have discovered a 29th body which was never on the original flight manifest and was always considered lost in action by family. The discovery of remains from the wreckage has finally given closure for families back home, as their burials at Bomana have only recently occurred. One member of the flight was Sister Marie Craig who is the only female buried at Bomana War Cemetery.

At the going down of the sun, we will remember them.

The wonderful part of walking around Bomana is the gardens themselves, they consist of a large expanse of turf surrounded by Albizia sammans, and then the dry tropic areas surround. The headstones are interrupted by a variety of plants which obviously need to be trimmed to be kept in size and a series of low growing plants which sit in front of the headstones.

My favourite photo of Bomana is of a young son of a good friend of mine, we all visited Bomana one weekend and young Scotty enjoyed his time running around, simply oblivious to the impact of some 4,000 headstones should have. I am well aware of the significance of him holding a white feather but it was found from an Egret which habits the Cemetery.

Lest we forget.

Wom Beach

2007-11-29T22:21:00.000+11:00

I have had a request to wax aimlessly about some of the flora I have spotted here in PNG and to tell you the truth, the entire scene and the people of PNG makes for better subjects... However.

Recently, I had a moment spare at Wom beach. This beach is some 18kms North(ish) from Wewak which is situated on the North coast of PNG. Some 62 years ago, the boss of the Japanese Navy handed over his sword to the Allied defenders in a Surrender ceremony on the beach of Wom. The local community must have looked on with amazement has an entire garrison of Australian troops were present to witness the declaration. The locals must have thought that these Aussies and Asians were crazy.

Anywho, I recently had the opportunity to check out the beachfront not far from where the aforementioned ceremony took place. Along my trip into the coastal jungle of Northern PNG, I discovered a small collection of perty flowers. Sure, most of them (in fact, all) are found in Northern Queensland, it was nice to get a few snapshots away.

The first flower that caught my eye, was the delicate white simple flower of a Fig Tree. This Ficus grew (well I think it is a Ficus) right on the high tide mark, and had some decent fat fruit/nuts (perhaps the nuts raise doubt over whether it is a Ficus or not) but it did have white sappy sap...

Then, travelling along for a bit, I discovered a gorgeous sweet pink Lantana. So soft in colour and pretty as.

Oh, and I found a member of the Malvaceae family that I once thought was Alyogyne but I am probably wrong. A gorgeous yellow flower nonetheless.

A Clitoria was discovered and photographed too :)

There was other stuff, grasses and weeds and blue flowering thingos, but it was all fun.

the Volcano. part 2.

2007-10-12T05:10:00.000+10:00

I was able to visit the Volcano again recently, Tavuvur is the Volcano in question. And although she was relatively quiet, the occasional pillow of ash was blasted into the overcast sky.

It is an odd sensation standing at the base of Tavuvur, getting ash in your eye, and feeling the hot pumice stone beneath your feet. The ocean alongside you is steaming with hot Sulphur and the local young men will boil the megapode eggs in the boiling water.

The amount of ash puffing out of Tavuvur is quite substantial with vast areas of trees and palms now dying from the rain of ash. These are trees that I can remember looking quite healthy some 18 months ago, but the eruption in October of 2006 has caused some widespread devastation.

The good news is that the local hospital is running again, after closing for a few weeks due to the constant ash falling.

The landscape is ghostly, especially around the old Airport, with submerged buildings only just standing. The Main street of old Rabaul town can still be seen under drifts of black snow and there is still an old Hotel in which you can stay which survived the 1994 massive eruption by Tavuvur and Vulcan.

One more image of Tavuvur with green seas as a storm came from across the Harbour and the rain turned the ash to mud.

Volcanos.

2007-09-29T19:52:00.000+10:00

I remember back in Geology class, my teacher saying that we should all see an active Volcano once in our lives. Well I never thought it would happen, especially living in Australia, where we have some fine looking extinct cones that people now live on the side of them and drink the water contained within.

So I am always impressed when I get to travel to the parts of the Pacific where one can see a lump of glowing rock being hurled from a hole on top of a naked mountain. Here are pics of two Volcanoes on the island of New Britain.

Tavuvur has been quite active in recent visits, and not long ago it stopped blowing any steam or ash. This ain't a good sign, because sometimes when it goes quiet, it's a precursor to something big. And it was the case as during the next night, Tavuvur blew quite a bit of ash into the night sky. Still, not as bad as last October or even as bad as the last big eruption in 1994.

But it is fun to stand at the base with the gentle roar of its furnace and the boiling sulphur water at your feet. Kudos Mother Nature.

Babaka Bride Price

2007-09-04T19:58:00.000+10:00

What an awesome day! I was invited to attend a Bride Price Ceremony in the Central Province of Papua New Guinea. A day of colour, of joy and a reminder of the traditional ways of Melanesian culture. It was kinda like revisiting those family weddings that one can remember when one is a teenager and some unscrupulous Uncle is taking the piss by plying one with alcohol...

But this time the unsober feeling came from the joy expressed in the family that attended the ceremony and the local village people who crowded the front yard with support and well wishes. As one of only three white people in attendance, I kinda felt like a fly on the wall who was privvy to too much information, but the hospitality and warmth provided by the Bride and her ceremony was more than enough to feel welcome and to feel part of her family.

And, the children of the family and of the village behaved the same way that one did when one was 8 years old and attending the wedding of some Aunty or Uncle, whom one may never see again for some time. The kids ran amok, and played chasy and were cheeky to all of the vintage crew and also those not much older than they.

What a special day, witnessing the delivery and distribution of 50 bags of rice and flour, pigs, yams, shell money and the modern equivalent; cash, all attributing to the value of the Bride in question. A local man of the cloth arose and prayed for the Bride and her Price. Senior family blokes all got up and spoke of not losing a daughter but gaining a son (well, it sounded like that to me) and then the handover ceremony where the Bride was to leave her family for the comfort of her new Husband...

Come to think of it, I am not sure if I saw the Husband throughout the ceremony??? This day is for the Bride and is an event I sha'n't forget for some time to come. Ever.

Twin Lakes or a Tale of Two Lakes.

2007-06-14T18:20:00.000+10:00

Lake Two. Kutubu.

Lake Kutubu is situated in the Southern Highlands of PNG, linguistically it is an interesting location for PNG. On one half of the lake, one enters true Highland country where the people still proclaim to be Niuginians, and on the southern end, they may call themselves Papuans, and indeed, many of the older members of the community will still speak in Motu rather than the Highland influenced Pidgin.

The opportunity to spend a day with the local people of Lake Kutubu was fantastic and I saw things that will remain with me. The group of us boarded a small boat and we then spent the day cruising on the tranquil water. Our first stop was the Village of the "Captain of our boat" and we stopped to refuel. All of the children of the village came to the water's edge to look and giggle. We took photos which only encouraged more giggling. It was only as our vessel chugged away that the children would call out "Bye" at the top of their lungs and wave until we could no longer see them.

Our next point of call was a small village with a massive Longhaus. The Longhaus was were the men of the village lived and talked stuff to do with being men. All the women and children lived in smaller huts away from the Longhaus. The women of our party were not allowed access to the inside of the Longhaus, but us men all wandered in and proceeded to talk stuff to do with being men.

The interesting thing with this village was that only the young boys of the village came down to greet us, we did not see any women or young girls for the introduction to their village. As we (the Men) wandered around the Longhaus, the young boys whom met us journeyed into the Longhaus also. It was apparent that the young boys were not normally allowed inside such a building as they thoroughly enjoyed being inside with their new white friends.

But wait... I discovered some Bixa orellana which is a plant in which the Native South American women would paint themselves in the red seeds. It also provides Margarine with it's anatto food colouring. The village people showed me how to decorate their noses and faces with the dye from the seeds. Now, my camera, my clothes and backpack are stained red...

After viewing the Longhaus, we wandered down to the village green where games of football would be held, but on this occasion, all the women of the village came to greet us after their Sunday Church services.

It was a shame to leave such a warm reception but we had a lake to lap. The next stop was a limestone outcrop in which the bones of the long departed were laid in the sunshine to bleach. Allegedly some of the remains had been there since World War Two, or so our friendly guide told us. The osuary that lay in front of us was moving testimony to those who certainly lived in a different time to ours.

Our next village stop on the edge of the lake was also time for lunch, so the local women of the village had been busy cooking river prawns, Sago, Sago Palm bugs, Pumikin kourou, Kaukau and smoked fish. Within Lake Kutubu, there are some 11 species of fish that are found no where else on the planet. One of them tasted ok.

And I was a big fan of the Sago Palm Bug. I ate more than my fair share.

After a sumptuous PNG style banquet we wandered around the local Orchid and Butterfly gardens of which the Orchids were gorgeously maintained and spectatcular.

And then we watched a bit of village Basketball, boarded our boat and headed off home.

Twin Lakes or a Tale of Two Waters.

2007-06-13T18:17:00.000+10:00

Lake One. Lake Sentani.

Our small baby Toyota wagon pulled off of the smooth two-lane road and parked amongst the mud and mosquitos. The driver told us that this was Lake Sentani, so we left the car and stood in the mud and admired the view.

Lake Sentani is 45 minutes drive from Jayapura, the Capital of Papua (formerly known as Irian Jaya and Hollandia). The road to the Lake is smooth, well sealed, and complete with sign posts, armco barriers and line marking. These things are a rarity just east of the border.

The small group of us took photos of the view and appreciated the stop. We then asked the driver what was next on the agenda, and he said we should wait for the boat.

Well, the boat arrived and aboard we hopped. The small outboard motor buzzed away and was only disturbed by the dial tones of the driver's mobile phone. How a mobile had range in the middle of a great lake 45 minutes from a major Capital centre was a mystery for those of us who had made the journey west into Papua.

The small timber boat chugged around the lake and we passed by stilt villages where the locals waved with excitement and went about their daily routine. We passed fish farmers, large 'Dutch' churches and larger smiles from the kids whom would cry "Foy".

At one Island we stopped and disembarked. There on the Island, the women of the Village showed us some traditional bark paintings which were beautiful in design. Needless to say, we handed over some rupiah in exchange for some of their artwork. The people of the village lived in and amongst the graves of the Dutch settlers whom sent their missionaries some years ago.

After the lake, we visited the Town of Sentani which is a bustling small community of shops, cafes (re: take aways) and traffic all trying to view the concrete bridge which collapsed during the last heavy rain. It was impressive to see the damage that the rising river had caused to some of modern bridge construction... Still, the scooters and Kiangs drove happily over the temporary wooden bridge.

Hati hati.

When Road Rage goes horribly, horribly wrong.

2007-06-03T14:20:00.000+10:00

This Post contains alleged violence.

The other day whilst running errands, I returned to my jobsite and further up the road, I could make out what looked like a commotion... In hindsight, the commonsense thing I should have done was to do a U-turn and seek an alternative route. But I thought I'd be alright...

Two cars in front of me was a Police truck so I thought, these guys will sort things out. It appeared that things had been sorted just prior to the Police arrival.

It was at a section of road which has some serious tyre deflating pot holes and the action of choice when approaching these potholes is to either leave the road completely and drive on the 'shoulder' or drive around the other way using the better bitumen on the opposite side of the road. It appears a PMV (mini-bus, legally would seat 18, but 30 can fit) had opted to take on the opposing traffic. There was some glass and a bumper bar on the road so it seems that there may have been contact between vehicles. The PMV was stationary in the middle of the road as I approached cautiously as the traffic was starting to slow-up and get congested as other vehicles tried to squeeze between the increasing crowd and the stationary PMV.

By this stage, I was driving at a crawl and the Police truck has pulled over to the shoulder. People immediately attacked the Police Truck with aggressive gestures and finger pointing and yelling.

I inched past, whispering to myself "...dont look so obvious dont look so obvious..." and there by the side of the road was perhaps one of the motorist or maybe even a pedestrian who was laying down on the ground in the Jesus Christ Pose. Looking very relaxed and at peace.

I had enough time to see if his fingers were twitching, or if his chest rose and fell with breath or even if his closed eyes were shut tight or just closed. There was no movement. At all. Now, I am not a good judge of liquids but I would guess there was 2 or 3 litres of claret pooled around his shoulders and what appeared to be the back of his head.

Once a gap appeared at the front of my vehicle, I ensured that I made my way out of there quite quickly. I am sure that there was little that I could have done to help the situation. There were more than enough onlookers and Police in attendance.

The thing I have noticed is that Road Rage is virtually non-existent here, especially when compared to places I have lived before. Perhaps this is how the people up here display their unhappiness when it comes to judgements of error on the road?

Equal Opportunity in the Highlands?

2007-05-29T23:38:00.001+10:00

Some time ago, I wandered around the Southern Highlands of PNG. The Highland regions are densley populated and are among some of the last tribal areas to come in contact with Westerners in the world. Clan warfare is still commonplace, to the extent that during the last general elections in 2002, some serious, permanent damage was sustained in Clan fighting to the majority of the amenities in the major centre of Tari.

The Huli men live in the Tari Valley and it is the Warriors of this region that intrigue me about the Highlands of PNG. I was fortunate to spend some time with the Huli people and learn about their way of life. Men and Women still, rarely live together and the children are raised seperately when it is deemed that they themselves are aware if they are a boy or a girl. The Huli men spend a great deal of time preparing for war and defence of their clans.

So it seemed odd to me that recently in Port Moresby I witnessed a traditional Huli Sing-sing group perform, and I noted that attached to the end of the row of brightly painted, dancing Huli men, there danced a trio of young girls. On their faces were the looks of caution as many white tourists took photographs of the entire Sing-sing group.

My gut feeling was that these three girls were experiencing life for the first time in a city like Port Moresby and were most likely witnessing such a large group of white people for their very first time. The Huli people have a simple yet seductive dance that draws the audience in. It would be a truly terrifying spectacle to see a full clan of Huli men preparing for warfare.

I plan on visiting the Huli people again, I may have to wait until the end of these 2007 elections before doing so.

I think I have something stuck in my eye...

2007-05-27T22:01:00.000+10:00

I spent the day wandering around a nearby rainforest... I spent the whole time with one of my dearest and closest Papuan friend whilst he continually told me to be quiet, to stop and look, to step away from and to make sure my centre of balance was alright....

We walked through some treacherous mud, and up and down some disgustingly steep inclines that some of us were spending more time sliding on our backsides than going forward to the top of the hill. We started to liken ourselves to the Australian Soldiers whom trekked from Moresby to Kokoda during the second World War. My friend soon became a "fuzzy wuzzy angel" in our eyes as he helped my stricken companions up each muddy climb...

But all along the way he would stop and say "Yumas lok wantaim antap long diwai, em i narapela Orchid bilong Dendrobium" to which I would look up at the tree he was pointed at, and see the grape-like cluster of ruby red orchids, each one no larger than half the size of the fingernail on my smallest finger.

On other occasions he would stop and make me listen to the call of the Bird of Paradise, but unfortunately, they were too alusive for us to see. We heard the calls of the Greater Bird of Paradise and the Sicklebill. He would tell me that the Sulphur Crested Cockatoo was making such a noise, because a Pig or a Wallaby was coming our way. We should prepare to kill it and perhaps cook it for lunch...

My friend's quietest moment came when we stood at 900metres ASL and looked out over the lowlands in front of us. I asked him "Mi laik save wonem yu tingting?" and he told me that he could see his home, the place were his wife was, where his children were, where they lived whilst he lived and worked in Moresby.

I have been to his village and met his last born son whom was sick at the time. I spent time with the kids at the school and saw their joy and amazement of being with a white guy. I saw the bridge that the Australians built which was destroyed in the last flood and I struggle to help...

What a tough and beautiful place to be.