Sandaun Province

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.