Oro

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.”