Paul's PNG Collection

Papua New Guinea - Backpacking Trip 1999

Arrival

Arriving in Port Moresby, which has a bad reputation, is not settling. It is always my travelling principle that getting out of the big city as soon as possible is the best move. Better to return when you know what you are doing. The Mount Hagen plane was my choice – no seats available. Lots of nervous chats with ex-pats and tourist bureau staff persuaded me that I could survive the five-minute walk to the PMV ( minibus ) and the bus ride to the Country Women's Association hostel (which I was to use many times in future years in PNG). The PMV detoured because a truck had snapped the main power line en route, but we arrived safely.

The evening was spent in the intriguing company of an ex-Vietnam vet Aussie, a Korean Logger and a Bougainville Islander with tales of 3,000 deaths from a separatist war against the Government who used helicopter gunships to fire on villages. Even more rewarding was the grouchy old Aussie who shunned contact.

Mount Hagen

The next day I rose with a sense of confidence, and I decided to walk to the airport stop. Along the way I was joined by a young man for pleasant and relaxed conversation until:

“Did you hear what happened near your hotel last night?”

“No”

“A man was killed in the street. His head was cut off and his stomach was cut open and filled with grass.” he sensed my disquiet,

“ Don't worry it was probably tribal or gangs fighting, just be a bit careful.

The flight to Hagen in the highlands was uneventful and I cautiously made my way from the basic airport into the town on foot, painfully aware of the large rucksack target on my back. I soon found that the Haus Poro which I was aiming for had gone upmarket and I approached the Austrian Development Agency (OED) to ask if I could leave my bag there while I found a bed. Joyce, the Engan housekeeper, couldn't have been more welcoming. There was room for me to stay, and I was soon best friends with Joyce and a few volunteers passing through. Joyce was not going to miss an opportunity and by the end of the evening I was to chaperone Alex, her 12-year-old son, to the Wabag show and stay at her family home. Andy, an agricultural advisor also invited me to visit his farm project at Fatima and Angela, a pre-school development worker, was keen to explore how my Uffculme experience could transform rural Hagen. This was the perfect tourism programme venue.

In case I was getting ahead of myself I was entertained with cautionary tales:

a) Angela had had a gun pointed in her face at the market but had said “ nein ” which seemed to work

b) That day a man had been killed in a shop leading to truckloads of family members arriving in town to demand compensation (culturally, victims are either paid off or require payback (retribution)).

c) Alex's school had been closed because rascols had beaten a teacher and stolen 6 sewing machines.

At least I would be safe in Enga Province with Joyce's family.

Wabag Show (Enga Province)

Having nervously drawn money from the Hagen bank 

“They hold your arms while they take the money”

we had an uneventful bus ride and went straight into the show. Cultural shows are now the most traditional activity in PNG life. In fact, they were the invention of Aussie Kiaps (colonial district officers) as a way to bring warring tribes and clans together for celebration rather than fighting.

The feeling was very rural, a big green field, surrounded by hills, with a high wooden viewing platform for dignitaries in the middle. Spread around the field were a large number of cultural groups dressed in brightly coloured and feathered costumes representing their tribal heritage. Early photos showed much less flamboyant costuming, but now display was on Eurovision scale.

Groups danced and sang for a short time as the mood took them. There was no organised programme. Many of the Highland groups had similar styles. They would form a line and a drumbeat would set the rhythm for a leaping movement holding the upper body stiff. Accompanied by chanting and yodels they would dance for a couple of minutes before gradually subsiding into silence, breaking ranks for a period of ‘stand easy ', drum and feather inspection and a fag . Then someone would get bored and start again.

The afternoon was beginning to go with a swing. The Deputy Governor General accompanied by a bag-pipe band took centre stage and the opportunity to deliver an overlong speech. More groups were arriving along with a fierce cloud burst which revealed that Alex had no waterproof . We tried to use my coat and then gave up. Another soaking left dancers and spectators bedraggled, deciding that day one was finished.

As we trudged up the road to the PMV a voice called to us. It was Paul, a big, bearded man, who had travelled with us from Hagen. He turned out to be Alex's uncle, but they had never met. We took the bus to Liagam , the village a few kilometres out of town on the steep slope of a U-shaped valley with a river at the bottom. The rain had made the paths very slippery, so we were shown to a relative's dwelling at the bottom of the hill. This was the start of a period of very complex introductions to relatives, half-relatives, cousins of in-laws etc. as news spread of the visitors. The clan is the main form of protection in a world where the police are too weak and ill-trained to maintain order which is historically regulated by tribal fighting and systems of compensation. The clan protected all of its members from retribution by any other clan no matter what their transgression. Paul told us that he was in the middle of negotiating a compensation of 75 pigs and more than K1,000 for the killing of his brother by another member of a rival clan. The killer would then go free and everyone would be satisfied. It seemed that anger is openly and quickly expressed and acted upon and then forgotten. It appears to be a system that is respected by all.

We were to sleep in Adolpho's haus. He was a man probably in his sixties who was the brother of the ‘Big Man' or head of the clan. It was not long before we were told that Adolpho had been a rascol but had taken to religion following a life of violence, drinking and carousing. His wife had left him some years ago and the pain of it had persuaded him never to marry again. We ate, talked to around twenty visitors and settled to bed in a rectangular room with a fire in the centre on a concrete base. A cut down oil drum was placed over the fire to serve as a range. The walls were constructed of strips of bark and leaves with a woven reed floor.

Sleep, however, was not a straightforward process. As the evening progressed drunken revellers back from the show began to make noise on the road close below .  We were served food inside the house as the evening chilled. After ten minutes or so a man came to the door. Alex's uncle turned and smiled.

“I hope everything is alright . Please excuse us we must attend to something and will return in a short while.”

This happened three times during the evening meal.

Next day I was told that at the bar some 50 metres down the hill, by the river, the bar owner had gone berserk, firing a gun at everyone causing people to leap into the river to escape. There had been a dispute over damage done to his prize possession – his old 4 x 4.

Our hosts had handled these events with such diplomacy that we never felt under any threat and Adolpho stayed up most of the night to ensure our safety. 

Day two of the Wabag Show started with light rain that soon gave way to a sunny day, so, in spite of the puddles dancing began. The red and yellow painted Tari bounced, the Enga emulated them, Simba swayed their courtship dance in two rows, and the Huli Wigmen displayed huge plate shaped woven hair pieces. The snake people came, like representatives of a New Games movement, they consisted about thirty young men, bodies and faces covered in black and white paint and joined into a twisting snake dance by holding each other around the waist. They scared the children with sudden charges. All-women groups unselfconsciously bare breasted contained women of all ages and some groups were mixed.

 At the side of the field men made stone axes, lit fires with bow spindles turning stick in a wooden hole in a block, wigs were mended and a model haus meri na man (men and women's house) was constructed. The Highland men were usually short but had broad strong chests and looked as though they could throw you across the road if they so desired.

The field became more and more crowded as the day progressed. Regina, a German volunteer, had arrived late the night before and was rescued by another of Adolpho's brothers. Today she featured in, what became the main event of the afternoon. She was persuaded to join her high school group in a dance. At at least six foot two inches she was a rather incongruous addition to the line of small bewigged, black-faced boy bouncers. She stood at least two feet higher than most of the line and her jumping and bouncing breasts soon drew a large crowd of laughing, gesticulating male nationals, some who were heard asking friends if they had seen the woman from New York dancing.

Before I left a rather ego-centric young teacher requested that I join him later for a special courtship ritual at his school. It sounded too good to miss.

The open truck ride back was a jolly affair with all in high spirits. My fellow passengers enjoyed my impression of a sing-sing but refused my invitation to join in.

Back at Liagam , Paul was waiting to give me the benefit of his expansive personality and matching philosophy. He was building a mu-mu pit with the help of a young good-looking, quiet and unobtrusive man. However, it soon became clear that this shy young man was far from retiring. This very day he had been involved with an enemy clan at the top of the hill and finished with two spear wounds in his shoulder. In return he had stabbed a man in the stomach . 

Adolpho came out:

“I must sort out a problem. My brother has been fighting with the clan at the top of the hill and has stabbed one of them. He might die. ”

He left the others to prepare the customary mou-mou as he went to deal with a situation that could easily escalate into tribal fighting. It was a concern but not a reason to interfere with the Mu-Mu. A Mu-Mu is a traditional way of cooking a feast for a gathering .  When he returned the traditional feast was under way. A ditch is dug, stones are heated on the fire, pigs are killed, and sweet potato, taro and greens are prepared. The hot stones are placed in the bottom of the ditch, leaves are placed on top, food is layered, and a covering of leaves and earth seal the food in a natural oven. At a bride price ceremony many whole pigs would be cooked but this family sized meal was dug up and fed with around ten adults and children satisfied.

I asked how the meeting went.

“I think we will agree some compensation, but there could be trouble if he dies.”

Following the meal with typical traveller's thoughtlessness I was determined to experience the teacher's promised courting ceremony back in Wabag . I hadn't considered that hospitality demanded that my hosts must accompany me to look after my safety. I insisted that I would walk into town, but Adolpho would not let me go alone. As we started the twenty-minute walk in the dark their light-hearted banter made it clear that this was not a comfortable stroll. Trucks carrying drunks back from the show passed us on the road accompanied by dark shouts of which I only deciphered “white man” as the trucks sped on. At the school we were welcomed with the news that the teacher had been delayed in town and the boys had failed to show – I had put my hosts at risk for nothing. Luckily, the walk back was relaxed and trouble free. 

The evening was a fascinating time with Mathias, the grandfather. I asked what changes he had witnessed in modern times. He started with reminiscences of World War 2. For the first time they had seen aeroplanes flying overhead and fired arrows at the “ bigpela pulas ” (big birds). Then, one day an Aussie plane dumped its bombs before crashing and local men went out to find the bombs that had fallen. They found a bomb which they thought would provide metal for axes. They gathered around it and started to strike it. It exploded, killing all but one man, who was still alive.

Aussies are still not liked because of their colonial racist attitudes. Mathias said that they had treated PNG people like dirt and had made it compulsory to attend the early cultural shows, walking to town. They had also forced people to work on the construction of the Highland Route.

Mathias felt that his view of the ideal rural life had been weakened because education took young people away and increasing dependency on money had damaged self-reliance .

The bed was uncomfortable and full of biting things.

The third day of the show began with a gorgeous walk up the mountain to a traditional meeting haus, a single room with a central fireplace. Women and men sat on different sides and could not enter each other's space. There was a room at the rear for pigs. By the time we arrived at the rain- soaked show things were feeling tired, although a pumped-up Governor General made a colonial style entrance and inspected the troops in the mud. In the afternoon Alex, Regina and I went back to Hagen for a lovely evening with Joyce.

Postscript: I wrote a few times to Joyce on my return, but her final correspondence noted sadly ‘We can't go home because my village is now a battlefield. My brothers and uncles are dying every day and I am very scared to go home' Dec.2002.

Banz (near Goroka) – Fatima Agricultural Training Centre

As I started the day, I was aware of what sounded like gunfire. The sound went on for what seemed like a long while, stopped and then it went on again later. I assumed it must be some sort of industrial process nearby. After buying some food as a farewell to Joyce I made my way to the PMV for Banz ready to take up Andy's invitation to visit his project. People at the bus station had only one topic of conversation – the PWGBC bank robbery this very morning. Six rascols had tried to hold up the bank and it seemed that there had been a shoot-out with the police. Rumours swirled ‘K28,000 stolen', ‘passengers on a bus injured', ‘shops and banks to strike for two days to protest against increasing rascol activity'. A teacher told me that rascols quite regularly demand money from customers leaving shops and the police cannot go into some nearby villages without being shot at. They were badly trained , equipped and paid. When we met up Andy felt that things had deteriorated badly in the past two months and law and order were close to breakdown. He had his own story to tell.

“I was driving the flatbed truck along the Highway and five or six rascols with home-made guns stood in the road to make me stop.”

“What did you do?”

“I didn't slow down and drove straight at them. They jumped out of the way.”

“Weren't you scared of being shot. ”

“Oh, these home-made guns are not very accurate , so I took a chance.

The Melanesian Institute in Goroka had their own theories about the current situation:

1. Less than 10% of under 25s were in employment.

1. The wantok (clan) loyalties protected rascol s and distorted disciplinary structures e.g. schools.

1. Village life was too hard and dull and young people were abandoning traditional beliefs – only 40% believed in magic/sorcery and only 25% think that ancestor spirits can help them

1. In spite of that there was high church membership, and they wanted the village and church leaders to exert strong leadership and promote more work-related education.

The agricultural centre seemed to be playing its part.

The centre was a working farm, and students had their own gardens to produce crops to sell at Hagen market. Three students took me for an hour, and a half walk around the land at the foot of the mountain and showed me hibiscus, orchards, passion fruit peanut, sugar fruit and various trees, all with uniquely useful properties. The highlands were fertile agricultural land and coffee and tea growing provided the biggest cash crops. One oddity was provided by an orchid with a flower in the shape of a cross that was prized by the church. 

Goroka and Matule

A pleasant day in Goroka, a main town at the edge of the Highlands, featured a visit to the J.K.McCarthy Museum with its wonderful collection of colonial era photos, but sadly not to the market, which had been closed due to tensions between tribes following an election.

Early next morning I was refused entry to the PMV so chose to board a flatbed lorry to visit Mount Wilhelm, a local tourist beauty spot. However, I was derailed by a chat to 22-year-old Pastor John, who, keen to have a white friend, invited me to stay at his village, Matule . The journey was not straight forward, and the passengers had to pull on ropes, push the truck and hurriedly pack anything that came to hand under the wheels to stop it rolling back down the hill. Eventually we got the truck to top of the hill and Pastor John, me and his small son made a triumphant entry to be greeted by the full array of wantoks.  

The village was in the middle of a triangular tournament of volleyball and basketball designed to bring local villages together and to persuade the young that village life was not dull. They also hoped that sport would divert them from crime. Given my early experience, this was an event packed full of tolerance and good spirit. No-one shouted or questioned the referee, and I was warmly welcomed by all. An evening at Pastor John's brother's house turned into a discussion with a health worker about the spread of HIV and the struggle to gain acceptance for his messages. Condom use did not seem morally acceptable.

There was a general interest in politics and the economy, but politicians were seen as corrupt and the cause of many problems. This was a common theme everywhere I travelled.

As Christians they did not use stimulants but were not averse to harvesting wild marijuana for sale. 

The next morning, I had hoped to walk to a more remote village, but we ended up missing the only PMV from village and instead walked three kilometres to the next village, which had a health centre. As there was no PMV at this village either I had time to chat with the staff. The staff were all unqualified but coped with anything from typhoid to trauma injuries with little medication. The health worker was known as ‘the smol doktor '

Eventually, a pastor who worked at the health centre offered to drive us to the bottom of the hill where we could catch a PMV. Predictably , the old Suzuki 4-wheel drive did not make it. A front spring broke close to our destination and we had to abandon the car occupants to their fate.

The afternoon provided a rich feast. 

Dixon, the hunter, took us with him on a walk. His bare-foot agility on the slippery, sloping paths was breathtaking. Occasionally, he stopped to climb a tree or rock, loaded a stone into his catapult and fired at a bird. The walk was crowned with stunning views from the top of the north side of the valley.

The walk back yielded another cultural treasure. We came across a bride price exchange. When a man decides to marry, his wantoks search the villages around for a suitable bride. The families then negotiate a bride price according to the value they attach to the attributes of the woman. In some remote communities an elaborate ritual involves the two families sitting some distance apart facing each other. The bridegroom's family advance to the middle with offerings of pigs and goods and then retreat. The bride's family then advance to inspect the offering and, if not satisfied, they retreat to their place without touching the goods. The bridegroom's family must then decide whether to increase the offering. This continues until the bride's family carry the offerings back to their side – the art of the deal. In my case there was a procession from the man's family village behind a feathered banner and a cooked slaughtered pig carried on green bamboo poles. The price must have been agreed in advance because the families movingly exchanged chanted greetings and then embraced warmly only for the Highland Gods to unleash a downpour. I hoped this was not an omen.

We retreated to a relative's house. He was a MAF (Missionary Air Service) agent who had taken on his dead brother's children and now had nine to feed. The small pig slept under the bed.

The Lapun Stories

The day had yet more gifts to bestow. In the evening the older people ( lapun ) had their turn with the guest and came to the house. Following a slightly sticky start we had a wonderful evening of story-telling . It soon became clear that some stories were told across the Highlands as folk tales, probably based on an original incident.

Jim Teller

An old man told of the day the first Kiap (Dist rict O fficer). He was a tough Australian – Jim Teller. He tried to call the locals together, but they held a meeting and decided to kill him with bows and arrows. He was either aware of their plans or saw them coming and he shot them before they could harm him. He left a pile of salt on leaf by the bodies, telling bystanders

“This what they missed by not coming to my tok-tok”

At first their fear of him was because of his guns, but he won them over with the benefits of tools, goods, salt etc.

Jim Teller and a man called Bergman came to mark out a new Highland Road. A big man from each village was responsible for their area. Men had to dig their stretch of the road with sticks and lay stones down to provide a base for vehicles. In later years machines came in and dug the road properly.

The Old v The New

Surprisingly, the lapuns were all agreed that today was much better than yesterday.

“We used to be half naked, now we cover our bodies (a victory for the church)”

“We can go to town now whenever we like because there is a truck”

“Life was very hard”

One man described how tribal war went on as a daily activity with no let up.

“In the old days war never ended”

A woman told that she was not allowed outside as a child because the tribe from the next hill would fire arrows into the village.

Then after Jim Teller arrived it became custom that an offender was handed over to the enemy who would kill him. It was only in the 1980s that the Government brought in the idea compensation. It started as low levels of payment instead of killing the offender. Then clever people cranked up the system until the levels of payment today were reached.

Bergman and the Cannibals

At Karamui , Bergman preached to the cannibals. They welcomed him with a feast. Food was piled up with fruit, vegetables and meat and eventually it was topped up with a freshly killed woman from the village. He politely asked for a grave to be dug and buried the woman before sharing the feast with them.

The Second World War

Here was where familiar stories from Enga surfaced. Whether it was just that several similar events took place or that one event became a Highland folk tale it was impossible to tell. It started with one local man describing how, when nine years old, he hid when Japanese bombers flew overhead in case they hurt him. Another then told how a man had found a bomb in a forest near Goreka and carried it back to his village, where he proudly stood it outside his hut. When it came to time for a mu-mu the stones were set to heated in a fire and he left to go to the river. Helpful wantoks decided that the bomb would be helpful on the fire – BOOM!

Another had a similar story from the coast about a torpedo that had failed to explode some time back. Local fishermen decided that if they could get the gunpowder out they could make their own bombs to blow fish out of the water. They tried to hacksaw it but no luck, so they got rougher with it – BOOM!

The evening drew to a close . As people made their warm farewells an old lady approached me.

“Are you from the same tribe as the Queen?”

Back To Mount Hagen for Another Show

Saying goodbye after such warm hospitality was difficult. As I had a last few words with Pastor John and the family two older women appeared. They had dressed up in their tribal dress. I say dressed up but their half-naked state seemed to sit well with the church after all. It was a special farewell.

OED was full but Joyce pulled strings, and I shared tales with Aussies, Austrians and Swiss. One had stories of people in more remote Kompian villages where people still wore tanget (grass skirts) with tee shirts. I was to work in Kompian some years later. I was now firmly one of the OED family thanks to Joyce.

The next day was the start of the Hagen Cultural Show. This time the whole of the OED family went together on the PMV. This was much bigger than Wabag , the Albert Hall rather than the village hall. The huge site had a kunai-grass-roofed hut for each of the large number of groups to change in. The morning was the best as groups put on their paint and feathers, preened for the camera and warmed up. There were large numbers of tourists from the US, Italy and Germany brought in by tour companies. It was not long before we came across a distressed middle-aged couple where the husband had been punched in the face in return for his camera. The police quickly caught the offenders.

By 11.00 the procession onto the show ground took place. Many of the Wabag groups were present; with practiced authority the Mount Hagen Dancers marched in martial order, men at the front women at the rear. They stamped as they marched and sang and shouted. An older man brandished a spear, other had axes. Men's faces were painted white and red with a red hussar -style hat on top. A broad bark belt and long woven loin cloths completed the uniform. They stomped three times round the field, depositing the women to dance in a circle with faces, fully covered in red and white painted designs, long plumed headdresses and long cloth loin cloths. Men had wooden scrolls and women had large kina shells around their necks. Coastal groups tended to have more willowy dances in pairs, sometimes with unexpected adornment, such as the group with cane, ship hats. The groups filed onto a rugby pitch surrounded by grass banks for spectators. Unlike the intimate openness of Wabag the sing-sing could only be viewed from the banks.

I met up with Alex and we decided to go to the music stage. Banks created an amphitheatre around a small stage. We had arrived early and easily found a place to sit not far from the stage. The band took ages to set up and after about twenty minutes someone had the bright idea of playing some music. This attracted customers and as the arena began to fill up I became aware of two things

1. There was a huge preponderance of young males.

2. I was the only white face amongst hundreds of people.

Alex, aged 12 years was relaxed and chatty.

A more edgy atmosphere started to build. As two young women walked across the front of the crowd a Mexican wave of appreciative sound followed them. Every young man felt obliged to shout “oi, oi, oi” as the women passed them. They were joined by the almost 100% male presence on and around the stage.

Impromptu entertainment was provided by a wag who inflated condoms and launched them into the air. The whole crowd followed their progress, cheering when someone popped one and laughing generously when one reached the back of the crowd on the bank. A fist fight started between two boys and then subsided. Alex and I were talking less, trying not to be noticed.

The gap left by the condom man was quickly filled by a young man who came to the front and started to dance extravagantly. This worked up the crowd no end. A circle formed around him and the crowd alternately laughed and bayed. A group of men joined the dancing. The group of young male dancers also drew raucous shouts of derision or approval as they displayed their moves.

At last, the band started with a short, badly played PNG number. The crowd simmered. Then they played some rock n roll badly – the crowd jeered and gestured for them to play somewhere else.

Alex asked if we could join the dancing. For once I decided that joining the dancing carried too many risks. It would likely cause a sensation with the crowd and one irreverent youth could start a nasty incident. So, when the band launched into a country and western number accompanied by jeers, I thought, on balance, that it was time to leave as nonchalantly as possible. By now the crowd was full and we stepped carefully and gently between sitting bodies hoping that no one would start throwing missiles. We exited safely stage left and decided to call it a day .

Mount Hagen Back to Masul

The highlight of the last morning of the show was a contact with the Mudmen of Madema (in Simbu). They were a traditional group who covered their bodies with grey clay and fashioned full head masks from the mud (like crash helmets), which they were baking on site. We talked for some time, and they told me about their trips to 5 countries abroad. These strange Eastern Highlanders many years ago decided to scare people by baking the pale grey mud masks, and covering their bodies with mud, extending the fingers with sharp bamboo. They move slowly and creepily around the field scaring children and women and me.

I left the show early and found myself trapped in a supermarket by heavy storm while a security guard menaced locals with a fierce Rottweiler. I was helped with a lift from a young woman and her brother in a high-end Land Cruiser. She made use of the journey to make sure that I knew of her status as the wife of a rich coffee buyer in Banz.

I was soon back in Masul , but Pastor John had been held up out of town. I received a warm welcome from Dixon the hunter and Calne, the MAF agent, whose wife offered me a huge meal followed by a video show of the Pacific Games on a set borrowed from somewhere. Luckily, the heads of the machine ‘ em i buggarup ' so we ended up with a wonderful history lesson from a book he stole as a student that told the incredible story of the Leahy brothers and Jim Taylor's expedition in the early 1930s looking for gold. These were the first white men to discover the Highlands, which were thought to be thinly populated inhospitable mountains. What they found was a huge high plateau with up to a million people living there in stone age cultures.

Contact was mainly friendly and curious but occasionally turned nasty with locals shot whilst attacking and an instance of native soldiers with the expedition having to abandon a besieged camp. One of the Leahy brothers was a keen photographer and took a cine camera. The footage was found in a loft after their death and a wonderful documentary was made involving local people alive at the time viewing the Leahy footage and laughing uproariously as they tell their tales. The documentary is called ‘First Contact '.

As we talked about the history, I noticed a large bow with arrows standing in the corner. He had some arrows for birds with a trident head and some with pointed heads for shooting people. The bow was shaped from hardwood with a thick fibrous string. It was only effective when fired at reasonably close range, he told me. He went on to say that he was the captain of the clan for tribal fighting and he needed the bow for fighting. His Christian principles were put on pause for tribe fights and he enjoyed the fighting. He went on to tell me of two recent injuries. He had been speared in the side in 1997 and just a few weeks ago he had tried to intervene in a fight between his brother and a Chave tribe man. It ended with him being hit on the head with a big stick and then struck on the back with a bush knife (machete). It nearly killed him and compensation of K200 was agreed and shared between all the village fighters at K4 each.

“It was because lots of the Chave men are not Christians.”

The Chave are the traditional enemy, but most of the time people talk to each other and get along easily. When a serious dispute causes war then people separate and don't talk to each other. The Haus Man is the place where old men tell tales of past fights, teach the young men how to fight and pass on tradition. Dixon, the hunter, carries the tribal shield (totem) into battle.

Fights are not common, but he remembered one in the 1980s when three enemy men had been killed and payback was never achieved. Then there was the big fight in 1997 and there is a danger that tension might lead to a fight soon. The cause was a Chave policeman who brought youths to the village to attack local youths. The policeman was beaten up and reported in a complaint to the police. Calne thought that if the policeman was sacked there would be a battle. The problem is that now both sides have guns. The enemy has five and his village has six including two semi-automatics . Whilst it will probably start with bows, spears and bush knives it could escalate. The guns are stolen from the police and army by rascols who sell them on. Men who do not wish to fight do not have to. Calne explains that whist men accept it, women tend to talk disparagingly about them.

The situation led Calne to worry about his family responsibilities. Unusually, there are no other males left alive in his family so, he must find money for daily living, education, bride price etc on his own.

Madang 

I left Masul for Goroka early next morning bidding a fond farewell to Calne and the lapuns who were pleased to receive sticks of Dawlish Rock as a farewell gift. Goroka had a MAF office, and I managed to find a flight to remote Haia next week. All was falling into place, what could go wrong? A long, hot, dusty drive down the steep, hairpin roads from the Highlands ended in more lush coastal vegetation with lots of coconut palms and greenery. Madang proved to be relaxed, and I spent a day at Kranket island lagoon. Houses were very different in the villages. They were built on stilts with a pitched roof and half-walled veranda style rooms using bamboo cladding. Canoes are hollowed out tree trunks with an outrigger. The paddler sits on a small platform balanced on top of the trunk and attached to the outrigger. 

Next day I did some long hot walks to Bibil by the sea, impressing two young women that a white man could walk so far. My plans to walk on to Yabob were abandoned when two young men warned me that it would not be a safe place for me. A cultural centre was full of historical photos and beautiful carvings, some of which were very rude. I averted my gaze.

Following a hot humid afternoon I reached the coastal boat heading for Wewak.

Wewak and Angoram

Wewak is the gateway to the Sepik River , which had a reputation for criminality and robbery. An Israeli traveller had recently been stabbed but survived .  The boat was old and sweltering, but the extra money spent on tourist class was money well spent. I managed to choose a bunk right over the engine which increased the heat and noise and led to fitful sleep. The long Sepik River has the mystique of remoteness and pagan wildness. The remote crocodile cult worshipped the reptile and men used sharpened bamboo sticks to create a raised skin pattern of crocodile scales on their backs. The first day was a frustrating melange of transport and people let downs but finished at Angoram at friendly Cletus' guest house where I met carvers who create masks with a distinctive local style. John's mother had had both legs amputated below the knee and a fellow carver had lost one leg. Both were blamed on cancer. Negotiations led to a canoe with a crew of two. A third boy was forced upon me who later borrowed K10 and disappeared all day to gamble.

Angoram to Kamboramba

Early next day we paddled into the wide Sepik with a distinct absence of bird life. After some time, we reached Kamboramba , a village split into T1 and T2 with groups of 3-5 houses around a lagoon. The houses were high structures built on stilts with a single large room for an extended family open to the elements under a high grass roof. In the rainy season the river rises up to two metres and everyone simply moves up a floor leaving the lower level under water. The stilts were substantial tree trunks, and the houses were built to last. Storks and big-bodied, black, crested water birds circled and dived for fish. All around the land was flat and skies were big. As we glided into our hut the scene on the platform above us resembled the final scenes of ‘Apocalypse Now '. The platform was crowded with curious, watchful people as we climbed up a rickety log ladder. The hall-sized floor was the sleeping area for up to twenty adults and more children each night. There were only two seats, one a bench style the other a block of wood carved with a crocodile head and tail at either end. Other than that, there were two fires made in truck wheel hubs and daily-living detritus scattered along the sides. The main building was joined to a smaller subsidiary structure by a precarious bridge of four poles roped together, which sprung up and down as you walked some twelve to fourteen feet above the bank and water. I tackled the challenge with trepidation and considerable lack of grace, drawing derisory laughter from the cross-legged women.

The older men, including the family head, spent the next hour simply walking up and down, wafting brushes of reeds at mosquitoes and occasionally stamping their authority on small children who took no notice of their bad-tempered admonitions. This displacement activity and lack of certainty about how to behave in front of the white man gave way to bright idea of sending me off for a local tour of the river frontage in a canoe with two small boys. I was given a paddle to join in the fun. As we paddled past a row of houses a very dirty boy of about 16 year with almost pure beetle nut red teeth waded, clothed into the water and came over to our canoe, which seemed even more superfluous as the growing assembly of youths and children were standing, water up to their chests, next to us. I had a long broken pidgeon conversation with Kenny and watched fish being collected in a net. A small boy was forming small balls of mud to be dried in the sun. I discovered that these were ammunition for catapults, used to kill birds. The strike rate was very low , but in spite of that the family produced a skinny duck, which had met its end as the result of a direct mud-ball hit and was to be cooked for our dinner.

I returned in triumph to the hut to people impressed by my pathetic attempts at Tok Pissin with the endlessly patient youth. I found a new companion in Max from Biwak , who was on a four-week fact finding tour in his efforts to get elected to the local council in 18 months' time . He was full of information about the village of 3,000 people, which was one of the poorest in Sepik Region. They had no agricultural land and survived only by catching and smoking fish to sell at market. He felt that, as with most impoverished communities, gambling, alcohol and sex work were endemic. There was also a high rate of single parenthood, which was compounded by the difficulty for them to find partners.

By evening we had been served the skinny duck, and the older men had considerably relaxed . Max went on about his election plans and then introduced me to his grandfather and yet more stories of the Second World War.

Max's Dead Grandfather

was a giant of a man who was recruited by the Japanese army, although he claimed to be forced. This did not stop him rising to second of command in his unit. One horrendous atrocity, he claimed he was forced to commit under fear of execution, was the brutal murder of a large number of locals who were hit on the head with an axe and buried in a mass grave near B iwak . It seemed incongruous that this a tale still told.

Max's Living Grandfather

told how the Japanese soldiers had run short of food due to the success of the Allied naval blockade. They were often small, young men of 16 years with no beard, but good fighters. They forced the villagers to deliver food from Kamboramba to the garrisons. The villagers were under military discipline and feared for their lives. It meant fishing during the day and carrying heavy loads at night. During air raids they canoed into the reeds or hid in specially constructed tunnels. At one point they were unable to sleep for days. They wanted to get to an American controlled area but did not dare. Then they were ordered to deliver supplies to a village many miles away. They stopped to sleep and were a day late. The Japanese commander flew into a rage and had them beaten. Grandad had his arm broken and his brother's back was broken. From this and other injuries he died. Worst of all, he said, was that at Wom , it was said that the soldiers killed men who refused to work and ate them. When the Japanese finally retreated, having lost the war the hated Japanese commander had his throat cut – payback. He is still very angry to this day with the Japanese who are still being asked to compensate those who suffered. He went on to say that the allies, when they arrived, were not very friendly either.

Interestingly, John, the old man at Cletus' Guest House told me that Angoram had actively supported the Japanese.

Kamboramba to Chimondo

I left Kamboramba with warm feelings and had the initial feeling that upstream Chimondo felt dull by comparison. I was, for the first time, under the weather and the atmosphere between me and the canoe boys was tense. The locals were carvers and whilst the carvings were not inspiring, the carving hut was spectacular. Another stilted floor of hall size with a high-pitched roof. All of the roof beams were decorated in ochres of various earth colours. Carvings were carelessly spread around the edge, but the gable end boards had large murals of local people. The village was a real contrast to impoverished Kamboramba . Situated on both banks of the river, with well-maintained traditional houses in the midst of towering coconut palms and lush greenery. The village of 500 was a stop for high end tourists on the Discoverer boat that came every two weeks for carvings sales. An afternoon walk took me through extensive fields of coffee, palms, avocado etc that highlighted even further the contrast with Kamboramba . People here wanted for nothing with plenty to eat, no near neighbours to fight with and regular tourist cash. The walk was ended at an old overground lake infested with crocs. So, I sat and watched the gentle scene of women and children preparing decorations at the large Catholic Church on the opposite bank to welcome penitents back from a bush retreat next day. In the evening my canoe boys abandoned me to the old men's stories but my tok pissin was too poor to follow and I went to bed caressed by the lilting sounds of South Sea harmonies being practised for the morn.

Next day a crowd gathered on the opposite bank and began warming up with the South Sea floating harmonies accompanied by a simple rhythm played on guitar and a single kundu drum played on the beat. A motor driven canoe came into sight and proceeded slowly towards the bank. The penitents were garlanded with their leader resplendent in a cowrie-shell decorated hat. As the boat moved towards the bank there was touching moment as penitents and welcomers took turns to sing beautifully to each other in turn. The pilgrims had come back from the bush where they had revitalised their Catholic Christianity. Gradually, the penitents came up onto the bank to be garlanded again with flowers, origami-style folded leaf necklaces and headwear. They walked slowly down an aisle formed by the waiting well-wishers. One woman carried a two-foot-high statuette of the Virgin Mary accompanied by a man and they processed slowly to the church singing all the way. The way was marked by huge banana leaves shredded to form fringed flags.

I decided to cross the river and was welcomed into the church, which was half walled with pews made of stout planks laid across the floor joists leaving parishioners with their knees around their chins. A beautiful Melanesian Mass followed with lilting hymns, lessons in tok pissin and lots of prayers. The children in their best clothes sat at the front, where a little shaven-haired girl in a floral dress unselfconsciously stole the show. Now she sat with a cross face, now she joined in with the singing, now she pulled flowers from a garland, now she turned to her neighbour to play and tease.

At the end I was made a fuss of by the church warden, who had been a penitent. I got a little over stimulated and started teaching the children some silly tricks, which some adults also joined in. The warden was not so sure but everyone enjoyed the fun. A bright young man took me to his relatives' house where we chatted and I was given a carved story board. This generosity was repeated on the other side of the river with nothing expected in return. On return, a small boy was sent to climb a palm and I was feted with coconuts and mango. I was again sorry to leave, especially as the next day there was to be a drama and music.

Angoram to Wewak.

An uneventful last night with Cletus in Angoram and I was up early ready and excited to catch the PMV to the MAF station in Goroka for my flight into the deep bush. Everything was quiet. I was puzzled. What could go wrong? At last I found that the Governor had declared a public day of mourning for the death of the popular Catholic Bishop the evening before. No transport was running for the first time in living memory. I tried for 4 hours but nothing left for Wewak. Finally, in the afternoon a group of volunteers from the Catholic Training Centre said that they were leaving for Wewak. Too late to get to my plane and phones were down in Angoram so there was no chance to rearrange. The trip back to Wewak matched my mood in the back of an open pick up in the rain.

They dropped me at 

Ralph Stutgen's Guest House

The volunteers dropped me about half a kilometre from Ralph Stutgen's Guest House outside of Wewak. The light was fading fast and I found an unusual guest house. I was greeted by a middle aged gaunt Austrian man who's home was extended to offer accommodation. The place was chaotically messy, the walls festooned with PNG artifacts for sale to tourists. It was difficult not to feel that you were interfering with his home life, although he was attentive to your needs. Ralph turned out to be an eccentric ex-pat who had trained for the Catholic priesthood but lost his faith and decided to stay on in PNG on his own. He had the feeling of a man who had spent too much time in his own world and would suddenly break off to do something he had just thought of. He was definitely a man who liked things to be done his way but was also kind, tolerant and interested in you. He had a downbeat view of the possibilities and capability of PNG people to make progress in the modern world. 

Up early next day to try to get the early flight that might just save my trip to Haia. News from Airlink – no flights today, the plane is broken. Goodbye to all hope of getting to Haia ….. unless I could get to Madang. I dashed to the airport, but the plane had left 11 minutes early along with my trip deposit. Maybe fate was trying to tell me something. I decided to return to Ralph's Guest House. Even his old dog recognised the air of doom surrounding me and attacked my ankle, ripping my trousers. If I was hoping for sympathy Ralph was not my man,

“Do you not know that dogs are hunting animals? If you turn your back on them they will attack your Achilles to bring you down.”

He was shocked at my unworldliness and there was no sympathy.

I decided that moping around was no good and found two boys in the village close by who would take me on a bush walk. They hunted in a local forest, which turned out to be the best yet. The forest had a high canopy, trees of huge girth on steep slippery slopes. We balanced across log bridges over deep ditches and saw a snake eat a frog. One of the boys slashed at a tall grass disturbing a nest of small wild bees which chased us for 100 metres, stinging us as we went. We saw birds of Paradise, red males and dull females, a huge tree python curled in a Gordian knot in a tree and a wild pig. The afternoon was completed with a visit to a crashed Japanese plane left from the war. It was the most rewarding walk yet. I went back happy, washed some clothes and slept. 

Wewak – Madang – Usino

At last I succeeded in leaving Wewak on the short flight to Madang. I was lucky this time and found a bus to Usino in the company of a driver and bus boy who were as rough as hell, but very friendly. The woman sitting next to me was from Usino and showed me the path to Martin, my contact's place. He was not there. Following high level discussions two boys were deputed to guide me on the short cut, which was actually an hour and a half. I made the fateful decision to walk bare foot as we had to wade across several streams along the way. The foot damage followed me to the end of the trip.

I thought that the Ramu River area would be fairly pristine , but it was soon clear that there was a greater population than expected. There were large areas of forest cut and burned for crops like taro, cau-cau , tobacco, banana, coffee, sago, maize etc. However, I received a warm welcome at my destination and quickly got round to negotiating a guide for a bush walk in less cultivated forest by the river. A guide would arrive at 6 a.m. and ‘yes' he would know about the area, birds and animals.

Ramu River Trip

Up at 6.00 next day ready for a walk next to one of PNG's big rivers. Wassa was called at 7.30 and came grudgingly to be my guide. It was already getting hot and Wassa had plans.

“We go quickly; I have to do sports this afternoon.”

Not a good start and I reminded him that this was a paid trip, and I wanted to do as much as possible.

He was obviously used to paddling tourists for short trips up and down the river and was not to be diverted from this by my firm demands that we should spend time walking in the bush. Instead, we came to a collection of four huts at the bank of the river, which was Wassa's home along with his family. I was shocked by what greeted me. A young boy with a bloated stomach appeared to see who had arrived closely followed by Wassa's mother, who looked awful. She was the skinniest person I had ever seen. Bare chested like most women, her ribs were the most prominent part of her body, and her breasts were mere flaps of skin. There was no fat on her body. Was she starving in this fecund land or was she ailing? Wassa's two older brothers did not look emaciated and were sitting in a canoe which they looked after for a man in Usino who owned it. They looked very rough and ready, and a bad-tempered discussion began between Wassa and his brothers with interjections by an irascible mother. Eventually, the canoe was made ready, and we set off with the oldest brother paddling and the other seated at the prow putting the finishing touches to a home-made basket. The river was pretty and peaceful, and we passed only one old man at the bank, gutting and smoking a small netful of fish. It seemed that the older brother had his own business to do and spoiled any chance of seeing wildlife by shouting for a friend every few minutes.

“|Mi Kam, Mi Kam”

I got more and more frustrated, and they stopped so that I could walk in the bush, but Wassa wouldn't go far in case we got lost. I never did see any of the red and white Ramu Birds of paradise. By now the devil was loose in me. Maybe there was time to cut this short and catch a PMV to Goroka. The boys warned against,

“ The busses will be gone.”

But the devil was not ready to listen. Even after several hours in the humid heat I was going to walk the one and a half hours to the road. They would not let me walk alone and Moses came with me. They were right, the buses had gone and cars that stopped were all heading to Lae, the port city. I had to accept the inevitable. Moses arranged for my bags to be left at Usino Cross Village, and I limped the hour and a half back to Usino , where I sat in the shallow warm creek water, washing myself and my clothes and feeling sorry for myself, especially my bleeding feet. My hosts were admirably tolerant, given the madness that had sucked them in.

Usino – Goroka

Up early next day, but PMVs did not arrive from Madang . I insisted on walking to bus alone but half an hour along I was joined by Wassa and managed a more generous contact than the previous day, but I don't think I will be remembered fondly My gear had been well cared for – rewards all round. I found a small bus and climbed into the front seat. My annoyance at being overcharged by the bus boy soon changed to bonhomie as we all chatted and they shared their cakes with me. The steep hair-pin bend journey was fast, and we arrived at Goroka in the highlands at 2.15 p.m. Perhaps, I could get to Hagen today – the devil was loose again. A local man tempted me with the notion that his son might drive to Hagen tonight, but I never saw him again and settled for a night in Goroka and a visit to the Melanesian Institute and Museum. I ended up at the Lutheran Guest House with an interesting group of people – a local vicar in his 30s, a young Peace Corps teacher and a Simbu native development worker. We soon got round to discussing my views from the Melanesian Institute materials.

1. Sexual Violence in PNG

There was obviously a major problem in PNG leading to a press campaign for Judges to raise the scandalously low conviction rates. The Peace Corps teacher said that his school reported high rates of sexual abuse, and the papers often carried lurid stories of serious incidents. The two local people, however, had a different perspective . They felt that tribal customs saw rape as serious offence, leading to tribal war or wounding of offenders inside the tribe. Nevertheless, it was still a major issue.

2. Lack of Reproductive Health Knowledge

The Peace Corps teacher again had strong views on the subject and quoted a 3 year old study that claimed 40% of university women in Port Moresby had unplanned children because of poor reproductive knowledge. 

A story in the Melanesian Institute publication gave a slant on this issue. A father, who had been away on a contract at the coast for two years returned to find his betrothed daughter pregnant. Indignant at the loss of bride price he went to the village court. One after the other the village elders denied responsibility, one proving the point by saying

“It could not have been me; I only slept with her twice.”

The belief was that it was impossible for a woman to conceive unless they had engaged in sex five times

3. The Role of Women

Of all issues the clash of western and local values was widest here. In tribal culture women had a respected place. Men had to work hard to cut and burn trees so that women had a place to garden and look after the rearing of children. Both local people felt that western ideas of equality had undermined this respect. Women were no longer treasured.

4. Ideas of Development

Shelly, the Simbu woman had set up a trust to help village level projects. One was an eco guest house project near Mount St Michael that depended on local labour and international grants. She liked the Japanese, who just put money into the account, but the Aussies were a pain because they wanted reports and accounts.

Goroka – Hagen – Port Moresby

It was coming to the end. No more excitement, just the arrangements to complete. Joyce was not in Hagen and other staff were not helpful so phoning the airline was problematic and the only way to confirm the flight was by fax.

Moresby was an easy flight, but the cloud travelled with me. No answer by phone at the CWA guest House and turning did not work as it was Sunday, and no staff were around to help. A local hotel was so expensive I was stumped, when suddenly the clouds parted and a New Ireland man leaving told me he had booked a room, which he could not use -angel. I wandered Moresby markets and spent the evening in the company of a PNG Rugby League team. The cloud returned when I ended up at the Airline Office in town.

“ Oh, there was a schedule change. Your plane left at 9.30 this morning. Weren't you contacted?”

Blood pressure fairly high , but helpful staff found my fax had gone to an out-of-date number and ended up with another airline. Luckily, no problem I could fly next morning. So, a night at the Catholic Mission HQ and I was on my way home along with my sore feet. PNG had been everything I had hoped for. I wondered if I would ever return.

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