Switzerland, Hayman Island, England, France, the USA, Austria, The Netherlands, Hayman Island, South Africa, Italy, Germany, Singapore, Hayman Island AGAIN!
Where can we travel to, that is different?
Papua New Guinea had been featuring in the news due to the country gaining independence from Australia at the end of 1975.
My Uncle Les had fought on the Kokoda Track in 1942 in World War 2.
Why not go to see the Kokoda Track?
It never occurred to us that, as there were absolutely no tourist brochures for PNG, we should pause to think this through a bit more.
So, tickets were booked to fly there, with numerous short flights around the country due to the lack of roads. Our paper tickets unfolded like a concertina postcard!
Off to the doctor for an advance course of anti-malarial drug Chloroquin and we were soon ready to take off with our back packs.
Jackson Airport – Port Moresby, 1976.
The Customs official asked our reason for visiting PNG. Who do we know there? Where are we staying? With amazed laughter, he told the other staff that we knew no one and had come for a holiday.
“You are the first people we have ever known to do this! Good Luck!”
Outside into the stormy heat and bright sun, we trudged up the hill on a dusty road towards the small hotel the Customs man had directed us to.
Lots of people walking, all black. It was the first time in my life that I had experienced my partner and I being the only while faces.
It felt strange, even intimidating as everyone stared at us. I tried a tentative “hello” and a smile. Immediately, everyone beamed wide smiles with greetings of “afinun”.
I relaxed. It would be OK.
The hotel staff warned us that we must travel in taxis. Moresby was rife with ‘raskol’ gangs and unsafe for everyone. All non-PNG nationals lived in heavily fenced, gated and guarded compounds.
Out to Bomana War Cemetery by taxi. Nearly 4,000 sparkling white headstones, mainly teenaged young Australian soldiers. Heart wrenching.
The taxi driver had not waited as promised. The hotel was 19km away. How do we get back?
Finally, with no alternative, we bravely boarded one of the PMV (Public Motor Vehicles) mini-buses. Again, the black faces all registered shock as we climbed in. My long hair blew out the window and I could feel people touching it. The local people’s hair does not move at all in the wind.
Back at the hotel we exited the tightly packed bus by climbing out that seem window. The few white businesspeople at the hotel promptly snubbed us quite distinctly as we had used local transport.
Flying up the Highlands in a tiny Air Niu Guinea plane was an incredible experience. Again, the only white people apart from the pilot, we shared our space with baskets of vegetables, chooks and piglets as well as local people. Many of the runways were very short and up or down hill in thick jungle. Rather hair raising at times as we descended through steamy mist to a virtually non-existent airfield.
Mt Hagen, again, no other whites, all PNG nationals, staring hard at us. Not a town, but groups of grass roofed timber huts, open fires, cooking pits, dogs, lots of little shy children.
A small man in a lap lap, ass grass and bone necklaces approached, wanting to know who we were. With the help of a Pidgin English book, I asked for accommodation. For a few kino, we could stay in a hut with a local family. We slept on grass matting with green geckos running across the walls and roof above, and]shared their food, yams, hoping we wouldn’t get worms from it! We went to sleep as soon as the sun went down and up at daybreak. This became the pattern of our accommodation for the whole trip.
The people were very friendly and interested in us. They were fascinated by my 6’7” husband as they are of such small stature.
Whilst in Mt Hagen, we witnessed a pay back murder between two warring tribes. A poor woman was macheted to death in front of us.
Another flight, to Goroka. So strange the contrast between the people’s basic primitive lifestyle and aircraft travel which they all happily embrace.
A huge gathering of over 100 different tribes from all over the highlands was happening in Goroka. A sing-sing. Dancing, singing and everyone dressed in their most colourful feathers, grass and ochre- based body paint. Bones through noses included! The Mud Men of Asaro were frightening with their mud-caked bodies and huge mud head-dress masks. We also ate meat, pork, for the first time.
We hired a local guide to take us to the Owen Stanley Ranges in a jeep, where we walked a couple of miles of the Kokoda Track from McDonald’s Corner. Vale Uncle Les.
We landed near Lae on an old-time military runway. Lae was a lovely town on the coast, still very hot, but not safe to swim in the sea. There were orchards growing everywhere, a truly beautiful sight. It was good to stay at a small lodge where we could shower and sleep on beds. Fish, pork and plantains were available to eat, which we welcomed. We found a Burns Philp Trading Store where we bought Sao biscuits and cans of Spam. The biscuits were soft due to the humidity. No fresh fruit or vegetables at all. No chocolate either!
We were beginning to think about food a bit more frequently and by the end of the fourth week, we would lay on the grass mats, watching the ever-present geckos, fantasising about our favourite meals. Fresh salad, lasagne, Mum’s roast lamb!
There were always markets in the villages but very little variety of food. Yams, tapioca, plantains. But as we could not cook for ourselves, it was difficult. However, the most favoured commodity was the Betel nut, a nut chewed by virtually all adults and even children, known locally as buai. It contains an addictive psychoactive substance that causes oral cancer. It creates a sense of euphoria and alertness apparently. It used to be used for sacred ceremonies but has become a real health problem in PNG. It stains the chewer’s mouth, gums and lips bright red and then they spit out a stream of bright red spittle on the ground. The ground everywhere is literally covered in bright blood and spots of goo. Is it another machete massacre site or betel spit? Very alarming.
Next, we went to Bougainville Island where copper mining was the mainstay. The Buka people here actually have the darkest skin colour in the world. Blacker than black! It is unbelievable. If their eyes and mouth are closed, one cannot detect their face. Absolutely incredible and so beautiful.
We flew to New Britain Island and stayed in Rabaul. It was incredibly beautiful and surrounded by the most gloriously blue of the Solomon Sea. There were many WWII pieces of equipment and artifacts visible in the water. Sadly, the island and Rabaul were ravaged by a volcanic eruption in later years.
Again, we were fortunate to find a lodge to stay in, so I decided to wash my accumulated dirty undies. I hung them on bushes to dry, as the locals do and we went off exploring for the day. When we returned my unmentionables were all missing. We finally tracked them to a dog who had taken them to his lair under the building – he was too aggressive for anyone to retrieve them.
Luckily, we are departing soon, as the remainder of the trip will probably be me going commando!
Last night in Port Moresby with flight before dawn. We will need to go the short distance by taxi to avoid the raskols. But, we only have 42 kina left and we have to pay 40 kina departure tax.
No credit cards in those days, so the taxi driver scored my husband’s watch as payment, which was a pity.
Flying back to Australia, I was both happy and sad. Happy at the thought of regular showers and food. Sad to be leaving such a different culture and land behind. It was an amazing adventure.
My husband didn’t say much, however. He complained of an extreme headache and felt he was burning up.
Just how effective were those chloroquine tablets?
It looks like another, less happy, adventure is looming…
Jill Gaumann
September 2023
Where can we travel to, that is different?
Papua New Guinea had been featuring in the news due to the country gaining independence from Australia at the end of 1975.
My Uncle Les had fought on the Kokoda Track in 1942 in World War 2.
Why not go to see the Kokoda Track?
It never occurred to us that, as there were absolutely no tourist brochures for PNG, we should pause to think this through a bit more.
So, tickets were booked to fly there, with numerous short flights around the country due to the lack of roads. Our paper tickets unfolded like a concertina postcard!
Off to the doctor for an advance course of anti-malarial drug Chloroquin and we were soon ready to take off with our back packs.
Jackson Airport – Port Moresby, 1976.
The Customs official asked our reason for visiting PNG. Who do we know there? Where are we staying? With amazed laughter, he told the other staff that we knew no one and had come for a holiday.
“You are the first people we have ever known to do this! Good Luck!”
Outside into the stormy heat and bright sun, we trudged up the hill on a dusty road towards the small hotel the Customs man had directed us to.
Lots of people walking, all black. It was the first time in my life that I had experienced my partner and I being the only while faces.
It felt strange, even intimidating as everyone stared at us. I tried a tentative “hello” and a smile. Immediately, everyone beamed wide smiles with greetings of “afinun”.
I relaxed. It would be OK.
The hotel staff warned us that we must travel in taxis. Moresby was rife with ‘raskol’ gangs and unsafe for everyone. All non-PNG nationals lived in heavily fenced, gated and guarded compounds.
Out to Bomana War Cemetery by taxi. Nearly 4,000 sparkling white headstones, mainly teenaged young Australian soldiers. Heart wrenching.
The taxi driver had not waited as promised. The hotel was 19km away. How do we get back?
Finally, with no alternative, we bravely boarded one of the PMV (Public Motor Vehicles) mini-buses. Again, the black faces all registered shock as we climbed in. My long hair blew out the window and I could feel people touching it. The local people’s hair does not move at all in the wind.
Back at the hotel we exited the tightly packed bus by climbing out that seem window. The few white businesspeople at the hotel promptly snubbed us quite distinctly as we had used local transport.
Flying up the Highlands in a tiny Air Niu Guinea plane was an incredible experience. Again, the only white people apart from the pilot, we shared our space with baskets of vegetables, chooks and piglets as well as local people. Many of the runways were very short and up or down hill in thick jungle. Rather hair raising at times as we descended through steamy mist to a virtually non-existent airfield.
Mt Hagen, again, no other whites, all PNG nationals, staring hard at us. Not a town, but groups of grass roofed timber huts, open fires, cooking pits, dogs, lots of little shy children.
A small man in a lap lap, ass grass and bone necklaces approached, wanting to know who we were. With the help of a Pidgin English book, I asked for accommodation. For a few kino, we could stay in a hut with a local family. We slept on grass matting with green geckos running across the walls and roof above, and]shared their food, yams, hoping we wouldn’t get worms from it! We went to sleep as soon as the sun went down and up at daybreak. This became the pattern of our accommodation for the whole trip.
The people were very friendly and interested in us. They were fascinated by my 6’7” husband as they are of such small stature.
Whilst in Mt Hagen, we witnessed a pay back murder between two warring tribes. A poor woman was macheted to death in front of us.
Another flight, to Goroka. So strange the contrast between the people’s basic primitive lifestyle and aircraft travel which they all happily embrace.
A huge gathering of over 100 different tribes from all over the highlands was happening in Goroka. A sing-sing. Dancing, singing and everyone dressed in their most colourful feathers, grass and ochre- based body paint. Bones through noses included! The Mud Men of Asaro were frightening with their mud-caked bodies and huge mud head-dress masks. We also ate meat, pork, for the first time.
We hired a local guide to take us to the Owen Stanley Ranges in a jeep, where we walked a couple of miles of the Kokoda Track from McDonald’s Corner. Vale Uncle Les.
We landed near Lae on an old-time military runway. Lae was a lovely town on the coast, still very hot, but not safe to swim in the sea. There were orchards growing everywhere, a truly beautiful sight. It was good to stay at a small lodge where we could shower and sleep on beds. Fish, pork and plantains were available to eat, which we welcomed. We found a Burns Philp Trading Store where we bought Sao biscuits and cans of Spam. The biscuits were soft due to the humidity. No fresh fruit or vegetables at all. No chocolate either!
We were beginning to think about food a bit more frequently and by the end of the fourth week, we would lay on the grass mats, watching the ever-present geckos, fantasising about our favourite meals. Fresh salad, lasagne, Mum’s roast lamb!
There were always markets in the villages but very little variety of food. Yams, tapioca, plantains. But as we could not cook for ourselves, it was difficult. However, the most favoured commodity was the Betel nut, a nut chewed by virtually all adults and even children, known locally as buai. It contains an addictive psychoactive substance that causes oral cancer. It creates a sense of euphoria and alertness apparently. It used to be used for sacred ceremonies but has become a real health problem in PNG. It stains the chewer’s mouth, gums and lips bright red and then they spit out a stream of bright red spittle on the ground. The ground everywhere is literally covered in bright blood and spots of goo. Is it another machete massacre site or betel spit? Very alarming.
Next, we went to Bougainville Island where copper mining was the mainstay. The Buka people here actually have the darkest skin colour in the world. Blacker than black! It is unbelievable. If their eyes and mouth are closed, one cannot detect their face. Absolutely incredible and so beautiful.
We flew to New Britain Island and stayed in Rabaul. It was incredibly beautiful and surrounded by the most gloriously blue of the Solomon Sea. There were many WWII pieces of equipment and artifacts visible in the water. Sadly, the island and Rabaul were ravaged by a volcanic eruption in later years.
Again, we were fortunate to find a lodge to stay in, so I decided to wash my accumulated dirty undies. I hung them on bushes to dry, as the locals do and we went off exploring for the day. When we returned my unmentionables were all missing. We finally tracked them to a dog who had taken them to his lair under the building – he was too aggressive for anyone to retrieve them.
Luckily, we are departing soon, as the remainder of the trip will probably be me going commando!
Last night in Port Moresby with flight before dawn. We will need to go the short distance by taxi to avoid the raskols. But, we only have 42 kina left and we have to pay 40 kina departure tax.
No credit cards in those days, so the taxi driver scored my husband’s watch as payment, which was a pity.
Flying back to Australia, I was both happy and sad. Happy at the thought of regular showers and food. Sad to be leaving such a different culture and land behind. It was an amazing adventure.
My husband didn’t say much, however. He complained of an extreme headache and felt he was burning up.
Just how effective were those chloroquine tablets?
It looks like another, less happy, adventure is looming…
Jill Gaumann
September 2023