Date:     Mon, 1 Aug 2005

To:         touring@phred.org

From:    “Michael Ayers” <michael@terminalia.org>

Subject: Gondwana - Paradise Not yet Gone in Papua New Guinea

Nenterene/Yongamo/Seefu/Egrebagi/Bona Melana(*) Phred Wantoks(**)

Well, that was simply outstanding.

Today I’m back in Cairns, Australia, after an amazing two weeks in Papua New Guinea (PNG). First, here’s some historical background. PNG, which consists of the eastern half of New Guinea, one of the largest islands on Earth (which several times in the geologic past ceased to be an island by becoming connected to Australia, including in the original Gondwanaland) and numerous smaller nearby islands, was largely overlooked by the rest of the world during the colonial era, until the early 20^th century. Germany then made a short-lived colony in the northern portion of the country while Britain did the same in the south. At the start of WWI, Australia consolidated both parts and ruled PNG until its independence was granted in 01975.  Consequently, there is a good bit of Australian influence still felt in PNG today, with English being the official language, travel on the left side of roadways, and an occasional Aussie product appearing on store shelves in the big cities. However, most of the country continues to live in a near subsistence manner, and in a few places people still live and dress in the colorful traditional way, as has often been featured in the pages of publications such as National Geographic.

Those traditional ways apparently have included considerable violence in days gone by and many people believe that that continues today. In fact just about every resource that I consulted in my planning indicated that I would be foolish to attempt a tour in PNG, especially in the Highlands, the area I was most interested in seeing. Most seemed to think I would be robbed, caught up in a Tribal Fight (where politics is settled with gunfire, and which do still exist, apparently,) or killed by Raskols (a generic Pidgin word for robber/highwayman/street thug.) The Captain of the Direct Kestrel told me about his visit 20 years ago and peppered his account with phrases like “Lucky to get out alive.” Somehow, my past experiences led me to believe that I would have nothing to worry about.

I’m happy to say that I was correct and all the hype about safety in PNG is 99.5% hogwash. Of the literally thousands of people I came across during my visit, not one gave me any reason at all to be concerned about my personal safety or that of my belongings (including the bike, which did draw quite a bit of curious interest, my camera, and a considerable amount of cash.) It’s true that there are severe fences around many buildings and security guards all over the place, but I think that the need for those is more due to a self-sustaining meme that PNG is a crime-infested place, and the lack of worldly experience by many here, which would let them know that most places around the world are even more dangerous. I found that everyone in PNG went out of their way to be nice, and helpful, to me and were genuinely pleased to meet someone from another place so far away. In fact, if there was anything I had to complain about, it would be that the people’s helpful ways extended so far as to be quite “mother hen-like” at times. It was often tough for me to do anything on my own without someone volunteering to be my escort or assistant.

One of the more amazing things I noticed while in the country was the virtual absence of beggars/aggressive cabbies/kids asking for pens/scam artists, of any kind. This even was the case at the international airport at Port Moresby. I can’t think of any other place I’ve ever been that I could make the same claim. I first noticed this upon my arrival at the airport in Lae, PNG’s second largest city, and my starting point. My plane was a little delayed, and there was just about an hour left before sunset by the time I had completed all the arrival formalities. I had originally planned to assemble the bike at the terminal and ride into town for the night, but being so late in the evening I changed my mind and decided to take a taxi instead (a good decision as it turned out, as the airport was a surprising 40 km from town and there is no way I would have made it in time.) Much to my surprise, there were no taxis at all at the terminal, also the first time I’d ever seen that situation at an airport. There was a small mini-bus, ubiquitous around PNG, which was rapidly filling up with other passengers from the flight.  With all my gear I was the last one out of the terminal and there did not appear to be enough room for me. Three men, seeing my predicament, offered to help, I assumed in exchange for a few Kina (PNG’s currency.) Much discussion ensued, and to my surprise, without asking me for anything, they arranged for a nice lady who had just gotten off work at one of the car hire desks to give me a ride into town.

She took me right to the place I had decided to stay and I learned a little about the area from her along the way. She did not expect any cash for the ride, but I insisted on giving her a little anyway since it was such a long way. Along the way I observed many people walking along the roadside, a sight common in the non-overdeveloped world. Many had rather stern, grumpy expressions on their faces, and I started to wonder if everything I’d head about the place might in fact be correct. However, over the years I’ve found it to be a truism that one should never judge a place by the ride back from the airport. The next morning I confirmed that again as I walked around town for a while.  As soon as I was among the crowds on the muddy streets of Lae, people’s expressions changed to smiles and folks shouted greetings to the somewhat dazed-looking White Man in their midst.

The people of PNG are direct descendants of the first major African migration some 50,000 years ago, when early modern humans made their way around the Indian Ocean basin, eventually reaching Australia (which was connected to New Guinea at that time) and retain a definite African appearance.  Today, if one didn’t know better you could think that you were in another part of the world, except that there are no lions or other large beasts in PNG. The people are generally quite fit, and are often rather handsome, especially the ladies who dress very colorfully and carry bright knitted bags called bilums hanging on their backs and hooked over their foreheads. However, many adults have had their looks spoiled by a lifetime of chewing the horrid, addictive betel nut concoction used as a recreational drug in the indo-pacific region, which stains their teeth and mouths bright orange.

Choosing a route for this part of the Stage was not particularly easy since there is no real network of roads connecting the entire country.  There are separate shorter sections of highway in various parts of the islands, none of which are very long. One of the longest roads, and one that passes through the most populated, and most culturally interesting regions is the Highlands Highway, which begins in the northern city of Lae and runs up into the mountainous interior, ending at the remote hill town of Tari. This is also the road that most sources said foreign travelers, especially those making their way independently, would be well advised to avoid. The reasons usually being that the mountains are too high, and in any case you would certainly be robbed/beaten/killed by Raskols. I knew better, so I set out from Lae for Tari. I had 11 days available to cover the 800-900 km of the route, so that seemed like plenty of time to do the ride and still have some rest and sightseeing days.

As usual the start was slower than I had hoped. The first morning in Lae it was lightly raining with some heavy showers. Being near the equator, I was expecting some wet days, but I was a little reluctant to start off in the wet. Instead I spent the morning visiting a nice Rainforest arboretum and wildlife center in town. That was a place that I had wanted to see, but would have missed if the sun were out. It turned out to be a good visit  because, while New Guinea is famous for its forests, butterflies, and, especially, birds, seeing the most interesting examples is extraordinarily difficult. So it was nice to get a look at some of the exhibits. I found the Tree Kangaroos especially interesting.

At about one-thirty, the sun had come partly out, and had dried the roads, so I began the ride then. Fortunately, the first section to the west of Lae was rather flat, with the highway passing through the Markham Valley.  There were also some nice tailwinds that evening. Though I did not get as far as I had originally hoped, I did quite well for only half a day. The following day began with a little more flat terrain before the first climb into the highlands began later in the morning. That was the 1060-m climb over Kassam pass. It was a reasonably easy climb, especially since the foggy skies kept things cooler. Unfortunately, that also obscured some of the nice views. Additionally the views were further obscured by the smoke from numerous fires burning in the canyons. These had been set by rural people as a pig-hunting aid designed to flush their prey out into the open.  Along the way I discovered what would actually turn out to be the hardest aspect of touring in PNG, namely that the food available along the way was even more sparse than some other remote places I’ve been. The small stores that lined the highway had little more available than rice, Maggi noodles, canned fish, something in a can called “drippings”, which I chose not to sample, vegetable oil, and, if I was lucky, little packets of biscuits (cookies). Fortunately the Coca-Cola empire had already conquered the island, and soft drinks were universally available throughout the country. Along the way up the climb, I stopped at place along the roadside where there were a few kiosks with drinks and a little food. A man there started chatting and I learned that the people there did not live in that spot, but rather in rural home sites spread around the vicinity, and they only came down to the roadside to “sell things.” Without me asking for any food, he brought me some sliced banana and a can of Besta. On the ride from the airport to Lae town, I noticed numerous billboards advertising Besta, and asked my gracious driver what it was. Her response, “Fish in a can,” did little to inspire any desires to try that particular delicacy. However, at that point good manners prompted me to accept the man’s offer. As I suspected, in all sensory ways, smell, appearance, texture, and taste, the contents of the can appeared indistinguishable from those of a similar can with the label marked Little Friskies Seafood Buffet. I did my best, but could only finish half of that particular plate. As the days progressed, I learned that the best food was available in the early afternoon, where chicken cooked on little grills could usually be found.

Later in the day, on the other side of the pass, I reached the first larger-sized town since Lae, Kainatu. All of the towns in PNG that I visited have only existed as cities, in the modern sense, since the early or mid-20^th century, and Kainatu was no exception. Built with little consideration for civic beauty or architectural style, they are little more than a collection of rather dour, boxy, steel and masonry structures scattered about a few rough, dirty streets. People continuously crowd the streets and never failed to notice the unfamiliar cyclist entering the scene. In Kainatu, I eventually found a place to get some rice with stir-fried vegetables, the only real food I’d had so far that day.

I wanted to get 20-30 km farther that evening, but that didn’t work out.  Apparently, there is a place several kilometers out of town where Raskols have been known to come out of the woods and hold up passing trucks and buses. Why the police have not been able to effectively prevent the Raskols from attacking at the same spot over and over, despite occasionally capturing, and rather harshly treating some of them, seemed rather strange to me, but I suspected that the risk was minimal.  Nevertheless, the people of Kainatu were convinced that I’d get ambushed by the Raskols if I tried to ride further that evening.  I managed to elude one or two groups of locals who thought it would be in my best interest to stay in town for the night, but before I was able to get beyond the edge of town, a couple of men in a bright red Coca-Cola truck pulled up and ran through the same story. I felt that my ability to escape this time was rather slim, so I agreed to wait until morning, when I could get a police escort past the Raskol spot, and to stay at the house of the driver, an amiable fellow named Sinake, the man in charge of further Coca-Colanizing the local population. I generally don’t like to impose on folks like that when on tour, mostly because it tends to disrupt my preferred routine, but this time I bent the rules. It was rather nice, as I got a big plate of tasty food for dinner, and got to meet Sinake’s nice wife and three beautiful kids. In the morning, the police were still asleep when it was time to go, so I got a ride in the Coca-Cola truck past the Raskol spot. As I suspected, there were no shady characters anywhere to be seen along the way, just lots of ordinary people going about their daily business. I decided not to point out that if there had been any Raskols around, they would have been much more likely to attack and steal the shiny, brand new Coca-Cola truck than my unusual-looking bike.

In subsequent days I rode through Goroka, which was probably the nicest town in the highlands, where I took a half day off for a rest break. Then came two long days, each with a long climb, which topped out at 2470- and 2780-meters, before another day off at the out-of-the-way town of Wabag.  It was nice to get some real altitude under my wheels, and the second climb will likely be the highest point of this Stage of the tour. However, there was a strange situation on these and, in fact, all of the climbs in PNG. Often, when I rode through a small village or rural settlement, the local children would run along beside me. On flat sections I would leave them behind in an instant, but on the big climbs they could keep up with me and many ran along for most of the way. It’s a bit disconcerting to have four- and five-year old kids with bare feet set a faster pace than I did on a big climb. Let’s see them do that with 35 kg of gear!

Wabag was a place that I might not have ordinarily visited, as it was 90-km down a dead-end road, which meant I would have to backtrack (and climb the 2780-m pass for a second time) for most of a day. However, it was nice that I went there, as the road on the far side of the pass dropped down through a beautiful gorge, made by the Lai River, with many pretty waterfalls along its walls. Along the way there was a battlefield where a “tribal fight” had recently been raging. Apparently, the shooting had ended a couple of weeks before, and I knew that the participants would not have been interested in me in any case, so I was not worried about continuing on. Nevertheless, some local guys insisted in following along behind me in their truck for my “protection.” Once again, the logic of just how this would have helped me, were the fight to suddenly resume just as I passed by, escaped me, but I declined to press the issue. In Wabag, I took the only full day off during the ride and stayed at the only hotel in town, an Asian-run place with pretty gardens, that was located behind a big security wall. During the next day I took a walk through the surrounding neighborhoods, gardens, and forests, where, of course, I was “adopted” by a local man who probably thought I would be ambushed if I walked around by myself, ate at a rather basic Chinese restaurant, and did a little arts and crafts shopping. There is not much in the way of traditional art available throughout the country, but someone had set up a school in Wabag where local artisans can learn to make sand paintings, so I bought a couple of those. After that much-appreciated break, I rode through the gorges east of town and over the pass for the second time, though the scenery was a bit muted that time, as the weather had begun to cloud up. However, the surprisingly cool climate, even at 4 degrees south latitude, made the climb back up a little easier.

I wanted to reach Tari, the end of my route, and where I would catch a flight back to Cairns, after two more days riding. That would leave me two full days for rest and sightseeing in Tari. At first all was well. There was a 700-m climb early on, which was a rather gradual grade, however, along the way a light rain began which continued throughout the day. Later on, the Highlands Highway, which had been an excellent, two-lane, sealed road for most of the way, but which had been possessing an increasing number of potholes in recent days, turned into a rough gravel road for most of the last 40 km before the town of Mendi in the southern highlands province. Gravel is actually an inadequate term for that surface, as it actually consisted of sharp, jagged, rocks with sizes between baseballs and basketballs. Quite close to the worse road surface possible, and very slow going, especially as the terrain was still very hilly. Somewhere along that section of road, a white pickup truck rolled along in the opposite direction. Its driver, who appeared to be an Australian geologist, probably from a big mining company, jumped out, and, after chatting for a few seconds, insisted on taking my picture. I could tell that he did that for a reason such as: “Wow, the guys back at the office are never going to belive this!” After a long wet, tiring day I spent the night in Mendi at a guest house run by the Catholic Church, still hoping to reach Tari the next evening.

The following morning the rain had eased, but it was still rather damp out. I had hopes that the road surface, which was rumored to be unsealed for the remaining 115 km to Tari, would smooth out a little.  Unfortunately, the big rocks continued and the pace was slow. I rode for about 45 km before deciding to stop. I could have continued for the rest of the way, but that would have meant riding through one of the days off I had planned, and perhaps more, and I decided that I had gone far enough to say that I experienced riding through the Southern Highlands. Instead, I took a ride from a passing van, which happened to be a Police van bringing some officers back to Tari from a day in Mendi. I figured I’d be “safe” with them, and they were probably the fastest transport on the road, so that worked out well. Even so, it was nearly sunset by the time we reached Tari. There is a very upscale lodge several kilometers before the edge of town, where all of the visiting birdwatchers stay, and a mid-range eco-lodge a little closer where I thought I might try and stay. However, the owner of that place was out of town and it was closed in his absence. Instead the Police dropped me off at the only other option, a basic guesthouse in town.

Tari was an interesting place indeed to end the route through PNG. It is a smallish town in a region which is fairly isolated from the rest of the country, and whose people feel neglected by the national government (among their grievances is the poor condition of the Highlands Highway through their province,) and who do not receive much of a share of the wealth generated from a nearby gold mine and gas pipeline. Many local people, especially the men, still regularly dress in a traditional manner, often with a few feathers, a large round wig made from human hair, and little else. As usual, the caretaker of the guesthouse took it upon himself to not let me go off by myself for more than a few minutes during my two-day stay. That wasn’t really so bad, as he was a nice man, and was able to pass on quite a bit of local information. The commercial part of the town is spread out over quite a distance over the hillside, thought there aren’t many real buildings at all. In the spaces in between, locals may pass the time throwing darts in makeshift outdoor dart arenas, set up as a marketing gimmick by a well-known beverage conglomerate. There, a well-thrown dart earns the contestant a free Coke. Most homes seemed to be scattered even more widely around the surrounding forest. I was fascinated to see the earthen ramparts that separated various properties, many of which were two or three meters in height and covered with mature trees and vegetation growing out of their sides. I was left with the impression that some of those artifacts have probably been in place for hundreds, or perhaps, thousands of years. Further along we visited a man named Peter who has been converting the grounds around his home into an orchid garden for visitors to enjoy. He also arranged for me to meet some local Huli men who showed me their best fancy dress, and demonstrated their bush-living techniques of archery and fire-starting. One thing that I was a little disappointed by along my route was the absence of any wildlife or wilderness areas that could be easily seen. Most of the area near the highway is fairly heavily populated or used for agriculture. To make up for that I hired my hosts to take me on a brief excursion out to see the “Big Bush,” a patch of primary forest a ways out of town. I didn’t see too much in the way of fauna beyond some birds very high up in the canopy, but the forest itself was nice, and my hosts were able collect some leaves and herbs that were either valued for medicinal or cooking uses.  All this made for a very interesting place to end the route in PNG, and I’m glad I decided to continue there despite the poor road.

Here are a couple of tips in case you ever find yourself wandering around the highlands of PNG. First, when you are walking through a market, village, or other place with a lot of people, be rather cautious when using your digital camera. This is not due to a risk of theft or other criminal activity but because, while many people around the world will tolerate having their picture taken, the people of PNG think it’s just the greatest thing ever. So if you are walking  around, say, the Goroka market, where a few thousand people trade their wares daily, and take a picture of a particularly interesting person, expect virtually everyone else in the place to want theirs taken too. Be sure your batteries are well charged. Showing your subjects their images on the camera LCD is a sure way to make new friends, however, and brings out expressions ranging from shock to amusement.

The other piece of advice is that any answer your receive to an inquiry about road conditions, distance to the nearest town, or similar things, is almost certainly less than 100% accurate. Ask five people how far it is to Kundiawa and you will likely receive answers ranging from 5 to 50 km, not to mention some like, “it’s close,” or “about 30 minutes on the bus.” Any map that you might be able to buy is only slightly better.

So then it was time to return to Oz to continue the ride down here. I don’t think I have seen a greater contrast when boarding and exiting a plane ever before. First there was Tari, where people come from far and wide to gather at the Friday market, and then crowd tightly around the airport fence by the hundreds, dressed in all sorts of colorful attire (or not), to watch the Air Niugini plane land, exchange its passengers, and take off again. Then in a few hours there was Cairns where wealthy “first-world” travelers, many a little soft around the waist, come from the world over to eat in fine restaurants and go on “Adventure Tours” in air-conditioned busses. Talk about culture shock!

Now, I’ve been back here in Cairns for a few days, bleeding money, and doing some touristy things, including a couple of dives on the Great Barrier Reef. Then, I took one last day here to recover a little and take care of a few chores, sleeping most of the rest of the day. Now it’s time to get on the move again, so tomorrow I head west into the Outback. After being rained on so much in the last two months it will be nice to get into the desert for a while.

Tenkyu,

Mike

(*) This is how one says “Good Morning” in five of the 800 languages indigenous to PNG. Amazingly, none are very similar to the others, even when the speakers live in adjoining valleys. Some are still widely spoken, while others are beginning to go extinct.

(**) With 800 languages in a moderate-sized country, it isn’t surprising that an alternative had to be found. Many of the more educated people speak English, however just about everyone speaks Tok Pisin (“Talk Pidgin”, or “Pidgin English”) as well. Pidgin is a common language around the country and is made up of words borrowed from other languages, mostly English, German and Dutch, and probably several others as well. However, words are spelled in an odd sort of phonetic fashion, in a way that includes the accent of the original speakers. Therefore, “Bia Stoa” does not sound much like what it means, “Beer Store,” unless one says the latter with an Australian accent. “Wantok” is the Pidgin word for “friends.”

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The Tour of Gondwana

May 02005 - Oct 02007

http://www.terminalia.org/tour