First of all, I want to say that, in broad brush-strokes, I would probably would not recommend a trip to Papua New Guinea. While it is certainly one of the most fascinating and brilliant places I've ever been to, it's just too darned dangerous, especially for two white ladies traveling alone. That said, it is an absolutely dazzling place in certain respects. I suppose if one could join a bona-fide tour, it is worth considering, but I would certainly not endorse one going there alone. If one were intent upon going there, however, I would definitely recommend the trip to the Karawari Lodge. (But I must point out that, a few months after our return, a very well-known conservationist told me he'd nearly gotten killed in the Karawari whilst traveling down-river in a boat a few years ago, perhaps in 2003? ... a man on the shore began firing arrows at him for no apparent provocation. Turns out the arrow-slinger didn't like the boat-driver...) And though you won't find an itinerary to Lumi on any tourist trip, visiting Jim and Jean in Lumi (in the north of PNG, in the Torricelli mountains) was delightful, and reasonably safe. A bird-watching tour might be a good one, or something like a National Geographic tour. I would skip Port Moresby entirely, even if offered the (mandatory and absolutely necessary) armed guard to accompany me. Rachel on the other hand, feels that it would be fascinating to go along with a research team doing research in the forests in PNG, and she would consider returning there. But then, she's a graduate student in forestry, young, and perhaps a trifle mad. Although a dear, good soul nonetheless.
When I returned from PNG, I finished a book I had started prior to departure: an engaging little tome by Czech writer and biologist, Vojtech Novotny. In Notebooks from New Guinea: Fieldnotes of a Tropical Biologist, Dr. Novotny writes:
My trips to Papua New Guinea are for the most prosaic purpose of studying the ecology of tropical forests and I am definitely not one of those romantic souls who go there looking for adventure. Yet our researches are sometimes interrupted by having to assist in crises involving more or less serious injuries; I have become a dab hand at treating malaria in children and adults, I have been caught up in organizing the airborne evacuation of a seriously injured villager from the middle of the jungle or in resuscitating a woman after a failed suicide, I have escaped from an armed hold-up of a bus, I have chased away criminals trying to break into our station by waving a machete at them, and by the merest fluke I have avoided a plane crash; I have had to deal with a request from a criminal gang for help for one of its members who had been shot and seriously wounded by the police, and I have witnessed all manner of fights and acts of violence. In my ten years in New Guinea I have experienced rather more tense situations than in Bohemia, where over the same period I haven't even had my bike stolen. Although each and every one of my New Guinea incidents was more or less unpleasant and stressful, I'm not sure whether the absence of such predicaments might not, after a time, leave me with a sense of life not having been lived to the full.
About a month after our return, I did follow up with Jim and Jean by sending, as a "thank you" from me and from Rachel, two boxes of "care packages": everything I could think of that I could legally send them (alas, no alcoholic beverages or good-quality batteries, things that are very dear and hard to get in PNG) including spices, vast amounts of jerky (ahi tuna, spicy beef jerky, teriyaki jerky, etc.), lots of presents for their small son, Tadji (plastic dinosaurs and knights in shining armor galore, coloring books, stickers), cookies, dried fruits, candies, Indian food, anything I could think of that would help them add a little bit of foreign spice to their dinners, as well as plenty of treats for rainy and sometimes difficult days and nights. Jim reports that he received the boxes about 1 month after I sent them, but that customs had confiscated ALL the jerky, which was a shame, and a needless waste of perfectly delicious and non-insect-infested food. I'm sure that made Jim stamp his pretty little foot in frustration, as he ate with relish whatever spicy dried beef I still had in my luggage when we visited. And that the customs guys were full up on jerky the night my packages arrived. But Jim said Tadji loved the toys and dinosaur-themed books, and that they'll tuck some of the goodies away to give him for Christmas.
I also learned that an acquaintance, Nancy, went to PNG a few years ago (maybe in 2007 or 8), with her 3 teenaged sons, her husband, and her 80 year-old mother (!!!) Some of her stories bear repeating here. She said that they also visited Ambua, and while they did not have any interludes with raskols, they had an unpleasant situation upon landing. She recounted that it had rained heavily just prior to their landing in Tari, and when the plane landed it skidded on all the mud to an unceremonious and slightly askew, lurching stop. At that point, all the people who had been clinging to the fence rushed into the landing strip area and began to nick all the loot and baggage they could take with them. Nancy said her octogenarian mother was a bit freaked out and demanded to know, "where on earth have you brought me?" Miraculously, none of Nancy's family's luggage was stolen. On their way out of Papua New Guinea, they went on an art-buying expedition in Port Moresby. They hired an armed guard to accompany them to the showrooms for purchasing masks and other artworks, and escaped without incident, and all of their artwork actually arrived home by post some months later. (Note to self: save yourself the trouble and stock up on some nice PNG masks from eBay, which can be bought for reasonable prices from Australian re-sellers.)
Also upon return I spoke with my research scientist friend, Benjamin, who is a curator at a prestigious museum. He said he was in Port Moresby earlier in 2010, and narrowly escaped being raped by 3 thugs outside a bar. He said he was warned by another (unknown to him) black Papua New Guinean man that he was going to be raped outside a bar. His only recourse was to flee, down a night-time unlit dirt alley at the back of the bar, running at full tilt next to this man who he'd just met and who had warned him. He managed to get safely back to his hotel, but he was shaken by the experience.
After posting a review of Ambua Lodge on TripAdvisor.com, a British woman who had recently traveled to PNG wrote to me, and we struck up a dialogue on-line and exchanged a few photos. She said she did not have the raskol problem we did, but indicated a number of issues that came up for her or other traveling companions while in PNG. She recounted seeing a woman nearly beaten to death in that exact same bank where Rachel and I nervously changed money in Mt. Hagen, and also told a story of a Japanese couple she'd met on tour; they had been robbed on a bus, everything was taken from them, even their clothes! They were left in their underwear, absolutely terrified. And of course, she related the usual litany of multiple violent interludes recounted by others. I could go on and on and on about all the stories I've heard of problems in PNG, but you should by now have "gotten the picture." On the flip side, I will say that we met a few Christian missionaries who worked there, and they all seemed pretty blasé about the whole issue of violence in PNG. Many of them had been in PNG for over a decade.
Back in the relative safety of my home, I Googled "violence Papua New Guinea" and was rewarded with story after story of unpleasant happenings in this country. One of the statistics that sticks with me is that the reported incidence of domestic violence in PNG is 50%. That's what's reported... one can guess that the actual incidence is closer to 100%.
(Note regarding all of my posts: some names have been changed to protect the innocent.)
Friday, December 17, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Goodbye Sydney! 16 July
Our last day of vacation ... just a few hours to pack our things, check out of our lovely hotel, and dash off to the Sydney Botanical Gardens. Even though we only had about 2 1/2 hours before we had to be back for our cab to the airport, we used the time wisely. We did a very quick tour of the Botanical Gardens. We saw lots of flying foxes in trees, and signs saying that these were now being "discouraged" as they are ruining the trees. Well, to hell with the trees, I say. We saw an unusual art exhibit (flowers and mosses growing out of strangely shaped chemistry beakers), briefly went to the multi-leveled glass hothouse with the rainforest exhibit, admired the plantings, then zipped back to some trinket shops to pick up some souvenirs, then to the "Rocks" area of downtown Sydney where I bought some gorgeous scarves, and we went to a lovely farmer's market and tasted humus, cheese, olive oil and tapioca (which was delicious, and we bought some). Poor Rachel was still suffering from a nasty bout of heartburn, but she persevered quietly.
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| Rachel and Kris in the indoor conservatory (rainforest plants) in the Sydney Botanical Gardens. |
Then it was back to the cab, take stock of the luggage to make sure it was all accounted for, and off the airport. A brilliant but all-too-short visit to a lovely city!
We did meet a few Aussies who inquired about our travels, and when we told them we'd been to PNG, their response was uniform: "And you survived?"
As I'm heading out of Sydney, I spot a "Pandora" store, and on whim I decide to buy 3 of their charm bracelets: one for me, and one each for Juliet and Bella. Of course, mine features animals: hedgehog, elephant and requisite kangaroo, along with a tiny silver be-stickered suitcase. Rachel and I make it to the gate for last call of boarding, and settle in. I feel bad that I made us late with my purchases; Rachel is not able to stow her things above her seat as it's full. Even worse, which is just bad luck, she's squashed into an interior seat in the middle of the plane, between a grumpy old man and a man who is paralyzed from the waist down, and his legs are partially in her seat's leg area. As her long legs never seem to have enough room on cramped airline seating, and it's a long flight, this is bad news. She makes it to SFO in one piece, and somehow retains her good humor despite the unpleasantness. Go Rachel!
We exit the plane, right about on time, in California, gather luggage and clear Customs. It's time to say a sad farewell now - we hug outside of Customs, and in a blink, she's gone.
I hurry out to find Peter, who's been waiting for me for an hour, at the exit. Big hug! I'm so glad to see him and his easy smile, his kind face. It's very, very, very good to be home.
As I'm heading out of Sydney, I spot a "Pandora" store, and on whim I decide to buy 3 of their charm bracelets: one for me, and one each for Juliet and Bella. Of course, mine features animals: hedgehog, elephant and requisite kangaroo, along with a tiny silver be-stickered suitcase. Rachel and I make it to the gate for last call of boarding, and settle in. I feel bad that I made us late with my purchases; Rachel is not able to stow her things above her seat as it's full. Even worse, which is just bad luck, she's squashed into an interior seat in the middle of the plane, between a grumpy old man and a man who is paralyzed from the waist down, and his legs are partially in her seat's leg area. As her long legs never seem to have enough room on cramped airline seating, and it's a long flight, this is bad news. She makes it to SFO in one piece, and somehow retains her good humor despite the unpleasantness. Go Rachel!
We exit the plane, right about on time, in California, gather luggage and clear Customs. It's time to say a sad farewell now - we hug outside of Customs, and in a blink, she's gone.
I hurry out to find Peter, who's been waiting for me for an hour, at the exit. Big hug! I'm so glad to see him and his easy smile, his kind face. It's very, very, very good to be home.
An epilogue, of sorts:
I must point out that, despite going to one of the most corrupt, violent, crime ridden countries I've ever been to (Papua New Guinea), absolutely nothing, not so much as a stick of gum, was stolen from any of our rooms or our bags, and nothing was nicked in transit. I need to report, however, that my new Reef flip-flops (the kind with the beer-bottle opener built into the bottom, nothing but the classiest footwear for me) were stolen out of my luggage en route from Sydney to San Francisco. They were there at the Four Seasons, and gone when I got home. Someone may have stolen them. Or, I stupidly left them on the floor of the hotel.
We wonder what has become of the characters we've met along the road: Rita, Grace, Caleb, Chris, Virginia and many others. And what about that exasperating birder? Rachel muses that had he been along on our raskol adventure, things might have turned out differently. For the better? (He might have annoyed them to death) or for the worse? (he might have annoyed us to death).
Not willing to have this blog end with the word "death", let us end on a positive note, shall we? Violins up... let's hear an "A"....
I must point out that, despite going to one of the most corrupt, violent, crime ridden countries I've ever been to (Papua New Guinea), absolutely nothing, not so much as a stick of gum, was stolen from any of our rooms or our bags, and nothing was nicked in transit. I need to report, however, that my new Reef flip-flops (the kind with the beer-bottle opener built into the bottom, nothing but the classiest footwear for me) were stolen out of my luggage en route from Sydney to San Francisco. They were there at the Four Seasons, and gone when I got home. Someone may have stolen them. Or, I stupidly left them on the floor of the hotel.
We wonder what has become of the characters we've met along the road: Rita, Grace, Caleb, Chris, Virginia and many others. And what about that exasperating birder? Rachel muses that had he been along on our raskol adventure, things might have turned out differently. For the better? (He might have annoyed them to death) or for the worse? (he might have annoyed us to death).
Not willing to have this blog end with the word "death", let us end on a positive note, shall we? Violins up... let's hear an "A"....
Featherdale Wildlife & Bridge Climb. 15 July
Rachel cleverly points out this morning that, despite weeks of bad dreams and unsettled sleeping, we've both slept well for once. We had thought maybe it was some side-effect of the Malarone (anti-malarial) but come to terms with the fact that we've been, shall we say, "on edge" for 3 solid weeks, our bodies poised to deal with danger. The beds a the Four Seasons are ultra-comfortable. Ahhhhh. Just like the advertisements suggest. The linens are top-notch too, luxurious, high thread count and soft as a kitten. I'm starting to melt just thinking about it. We finally relax and we are grateful for the comforts of civilized Australia.
We are determined to the make the most of a our last full day of vacation. We get up early, and have a nice breakfast at the buffet. Then we head off in search of a taxi to take us to the Featherdale Wildlife Park. Unfortunately, the taxi is going to cost just under $100 each way, but our time in Sydney is ticking by quickly. We could save a bundle and take public transit, but that takes at least 1 1/2 hours, and a taxi gets us there is half that time. Taking a taxi will practically ensure that we make it back in time to be at our mandatory 3pm Bridge Climb rendezvous. So at 8:04am, off we go in a cab. Our driver, Sam, glad of a sure fare in low season (Sydney's winter) says he will be there to fetch us at 1:15pm when we need to return back to Sydney city center.
We make it to Featherdale the minute it opens, at 9am, and we head directly to the koalas. We've heard that one can have one's photo taken here, and that it's a nice experience. We are not disappointed. For about 10 minutes, we have these lovely little koalas all to ourselves, and we get some decent shots of us posing next to a koala on a perch, happily munching eucalyptus leaves. Then a queue of other tourists starts forming, so politely dodge off to the next creatures. It turns out that in New South Wales, where Sydney is located, you are not legally allowed to hold a koala. However, in Queensland (e.g., Cairns) you are allowed to hold a koala. I'm told they tend to leak on one, so maybe the NSW rule isn't such a bad idea.
Rachel and I are like kids in a candy store here... this is a wonderful little place! I've done a bit of reading about zoos in the Sydney area, and the other choices (we have time for only one zoo today) were the Taronga Zoo in central Sydney (which boasts the feature of being able to photograph giraffes with the Sydney Opera House in the background), and also the Sydney Wildlife World, where I've read that you can pose with koalas, but you have to pay for professional photos to be taken, and the animals are not roaming free as they are at Featherdale. Not all the animals are roaming free here of course, but there are enough unusual ones that it's worth the price of admission just for that! Emus, wallabies and kookaburras wander amongst the visitors here, along with various other birds that fly in for the handouts. In addition, you can hand feed kangaroos, pat a cassowary on that blade thingie on his head (really!), as well as wombats, and various other critters. There are cake cones and a green alfalfa-type mix to purchase, specifically for animal feeding, and all the animals seem to love those cake cones. I think we fed the cassowary about 20 of them! You can get reasonably close to Tasmanian devils, and there's a nice exhibit of dingoes too (but you can't feed these two species; they tend to bite). Evidently, this Park has one of the best collections of Australia's indigenous creatures. And of course, there's the "quality time" with the koalas. What's not to like? In fact, with a mere 4 hours there, Rachel and I are beside ourselves trying to figure out what to photograph, and for how long. If you like animals, I highly recommend this place; don't forget to get there as soon as it opens.
After a wolfed-down lunch and some delicious ice creams (which of course we could not buy for 3 weeks in PNG), we head back to our waiting taxi driver (he's there, right on time), and dash back to Sydney. We go back to our hotel (briefly) do divest ourselves of some of our camera equipment. Then we walk the short distance to the BridgeClimb office, finding that we still have 40 minutes to spare. We wander around the area, which is pleasant, clean and safe. What a wonder!
At last, it's 3:00pm and we check in for our climb. At 3:15pm our guide, a woman named Alex, meets us and we all introduce ourselves. A few Americans, some Canadians and a group of Danes. Two of the people in the group have done the climb before. We don our rather unattractive official "Sydney BridgeClimb" suits, get a quick training demo. We're all given breathalizer tests. Whew! Good thing Rachel and I didn't get bombed at lunch. Then we hook into the safety line that we'll be linked to for the duration of the climb. We climb up a series of stairs and ladders, and in what seems like no time at all, we are climbing up, up, up, high above the harbour. The height factor doesn't bother me, as there are guard rails everywhere, and we're always attached to our safety line, of course. We stop for a photo shoot from our guide about 3/4 the way up, with the opera house in the background, and a beautiful sky filled with the pinks and oranges of dusk. The tour has been timed so right when we get to the top, we watch the sun set. Gorgeous! The climb up really wasn't that hard. Well, especially not as we just hiked some 30 km over one of the toughest trails through the rainforest, a sort of "mini-Kokoda". We bask for awhile in the last glow of the day, and watch the red eye of the sun blink shut on another brilliant day. More photos, ka-ching. There's a bit of a wind up here, and it's cool, but not freezing. We've been supplied with fleece jackets and hats to keep us cozy, and they are generally all one needs. More photos at sunset and then we start to climb back down the bridge.
An outdoorsy, athletic Aussie woman, our BridgeClimb guide, Alex, tells us a little about her work experience: river raft instructor in Oregon, ski instructor in Colorado for awhile, happy now with her BridgeClimb gig. She's almost certainly gay, and hits on Rachel a little, inquiring casually to Rachel if I'm her "auntie". Way to go, sistah! Dissin' me to my girlfriend, huh? We laugh about this uproariously over dinner. People are always curious about our friendship. I suppose it does look a bit odd, a 51-year old woman traveling with a 26-year old woman who is not her relative. But Rachel and I are just really good friends, and we love each other dearly. I'm only sorry that this is our last night on the trip, and after tomorrow, we will be on opposite coasts of the US. Boo hoo!
At any rate, we finish up the climb in a rather leisurely fashion, posing again for one last photo-op as we descend, and the lights of the city of Sydney glow like jewels against the velvet-black sky. As we've been stripped of all of our belongings, including our cameras, we are dependent upon the images captured by the BridgeClimb camera, which naturally cost a fortune. We really have little choice, at the end of the trip, but to purchase 3 of the best images from the Climb, one of each of us "solo" and of course, one together. We gather up the DVD of the photos, and a few trinkets from the trip, and head back to the hotel.
We are elated that the whole "climb experience" all worked out, and that the weather, considering that it is Sydney's winter, was absolutely perfect, much better than expected. It could easily have been pouring rain in buckets on our heads. And also, that the climb was so easy! We head back to our hotel. In the dark. All alone. Without an armed bodyguard. We have not a care in the world! We get cleaned up for dinner, and head to a place that I read about on the Internet, called "The Establishment." It got great reviews on TripAdvisor, which I've found to be extremely helpful in planning trips. We are dressed rather shabbily, each in our one "nice" outfit. It's too cool for my thin Ralph Lauren skirt from last summer (my "official" one nice outfit), so I opt for fleece, safari pants and running shoes. Rachel manages a skirt and flip flops and a great deal of shivering. It's 8:30pm, and we look more like lost hippies than the beautiful people (mostly dressed in black) who are packed into the first floor bar of The Establishment. Sydney's finest, many look like uptown office workers celebrating a Thursday-after-work. The place is chock-a-block with people, looks like a rave. I find out later Thursday night is when they serve "free champagne for women". Ha! No wonder. Apparently, there's a fancier bar, up on the 4th floor. We inquire about where dinner is served. The barmaid points to an elevator in a side lobby, and we head up. We are ushered into a blissfully quiet and elegant dining room, and we order drinks. Our last dinner of the vacation! What a brilliant trip its been. We toast to a splendid expedition. Appetizers, dinner and dessert were all amazing. Highly recommend this place. We ordered something called "bug", which I'd never heard of, but which is a must in Sydney apparently: fresh water crayfish. Yum! We finished off by sharing a passionfruit soufflé, which was divine.
Besides the soufflé, here's what we had: Sydney "bug" in tangy pink cream sauce, scallops with proscuitto and peas, gnocchi-sized polenta in a light sauce with chestnuts, lovely green salad, and some of the best mojitos we've ever had.
Then back to our hotel, and we both fall blissfully asleep in the amazing Four Seasons beds, with their feather soft duvet and covers. Ah, luxury!
We are determined to the make the most of a our last full day of vacation. We get up early, and have a nice breakfast at the buffet. Then we head off in search of a taxi to take us to the Featherdale Wildlife Park. Unfortunately, the taxi is going to cost just under $100 each way, but our time in Sydney is ticking by quickly. We could save a bundle and take public transit, but that takes at least 1 1/2 hours, and a taxi gets us there is half that time. Taking a taxi will practically ensure that we make it back in time to be at our mandatory 3pm Bridge Climb rendezvous. So at 8:04am, off we go in a cab. Our driver, Sam, glad of a sure fare in low season (Sydney's winter) says he will be there to fetch us at 1:15pm when we need to return back to Sydney city center.
We make it to Featherdale the minute it opens, at 9am, and we head directly to the koalas. We've heard that one can have one's photo taken here, and that it's a nice experience. We are not disappointed. For about 10 minutes, we have these lovely little koalas all to ourselves, and we get some decent shots of us posing next to a koala on a perch, happily munching eucalyptus leaves. Then a queue of other tourists starts forming, so politely dodge off to the next creatures. It turns out that in New South Wales, where Sydney is located, you are not legally allowed to hold a koala. However, in Queensland (e.g., Cairns) you are allowed to hold a koala. I'm told they tend to leak on one, so maybe the NSW rule isn't such a bad idea.
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| Kris with Koala at Featherdale Wildlife Park |
Rachel and I are like kids in a candy store here... this is a wonderful little place! I've done a bit of reading about zoos in the Sydney area, and the other choices (we have time for only one zoo today) were the Taronga Zoo in central Sydney (which boasts the feature of being able to photograph giraffes with the Sydney Opera House in the background), and also the Sydney Wildlife World, where I've read that you can pose with koalas, but you have to pay for professional photos to be taken, and the animals are not roaming free as they are at Featherdale. Not all the animals are roaming free here of course, but there are enough unusual ones that it's worth the price of admission just for that! Emus, wallabies and kookaburras wander amongst the visitors here, along with various other birds that fly in for the handouts. In addition, you can hand feed kangaroos, pat a cassowary on that blade thingie on his head (really!), as well as wombats, and various other critters. There are cake cones and a green alfalfa-type mix to purchase, specifically for animal feeding, and all the animals seem to love those cake cones. I think we fed the cassowary about 20 of them! You can get reasonably close to Tasmanian devils, and there's a nice exhibit of dingoes too (but you can't feed these two species; they tend to bite). Evidently, this Park has one of the best collections of Australia's indigenous creatures. And of course, there's the "quality time" with the koalas. What's not to like? In fact, with a mere 4 hours there, Rachel and I are beside ourselves trying to figure out what to photograph, and for how long. If you like animals, I highly recommend this place; don't forget to get there as soon as it opens.
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| A sweet little Tassie Devil, with the light shining through his little red ears. |
After a wolfed-down lunch and some delicious ice creams (which of course we could not buy for 3 weeks in PNG), we head back to our waiting taxi driver (he's there, right on time), and dash back to Sydney. We go back to our hotel (briefly) do divest ourselves of some of our camera equipment. Then we walk the short distance to the BridgeClimb office, finding that we still have 40 minutes to spare. We wander around the area, which is pleasant, clean and safe. What a wonder!
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| Cassowary close up. Don't you love his long eyelashes? |
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| Cassowary portrait. That little thingie on the top of his head is very strange, like a dinosaur. And that middle toe of his foot is the killer... will rip your guts out. |
At last, it's 3:00pm and we check in for our climb. At 3:15pm our guide, a woman named Alex, meets us and we all introduce ourselves. A few Americans, some Canadians and a group of Danes. Two of the people in the group have done the climb before. We don our rather unattractive official "Sydney BridgeClimb" suits, get a quick training demo. We're all given breathalizer tests. Whew! Good thing Rachel and I didn't get bombed at lunch. Then we hook into the safety line that we'll be linked to for the duration of the climb. We climb up a series of stairs and ladders, and in what seems like no time at all, we are climbing up, up, up, high above the harbour. The height factor doesn't bother me, as there are guard rails everywhere, and we're always attached to our safety line, of course. We stop for a photo shoot from our guide about 3/4 the way up, with the opera house in the background, and a beautiful sky filled with the pinks and oranges of dusk. The tour has been timed so right when we get to the top, we watch the sun set. Gorgeous! The climb up really wasn't that hard. Well, especially not as we just hiked some 30 km over one of the toughest trails through the rainforest, a sort of "mini-Kokoda". We bask for awhile in the last glow of the day, and watch the red eye of the sun blink shut on another brilliant day. More photos, ka-ching. There's a bit of a wind up here, and it's cool, but not freezing. We've been supplied with fleece jackets and hats to keep us cozy, and they are generally all one needs. More photos at sunset and then we start to climb back down the bridge.
An outdoorsy, athletic Aussie woman, our BridgeClimb guide, Alex, tells us a little about her work experience: river raft instructor in Oregon, ski instructor in Colorado for awhile, happy now with her BridgeClimb gig. She's almost certainly gay, and hits on Rachel a little, inquiring casually to Rachel if I'm her "auntie". Way to go, sistah! Dissin' me to my girlfriend, huh? We laugh about this uproariously over dinner. People are always curious about our friendship. I suppose it does look a bit odd, a 51-year old woman traveling with a 26-year old woman who is not her relative. But Rachel and I are just really good friends, and we love each other dearly. I'm only sorry that this is our last night on the trip, and after tomorrow, we will be on opposite coasts of the US. Boo hoo!
At any rate, we finish up the climb in a rather leisurely fashion, posing again for one last photo-op as we descend, and the lights of the city of Sydney glow like jewels against the velvet-black sky. As we've been stripped of all of our belongings, including our cameras, we are dependent upon the images captured by the BridgeClimb camera, which naturally cost a fortune. We really have little choice, at the end of the trip, but to purchase 3 of the best images from the Climb, one of each of us "solo" and of course, one together. We gather up the DVD of the photos, and a few trinkets from the trip, and head back to the hotel.
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| Rachel and Kris on the Sydney Harbor Bridge, after the sun has set. Amazing views from this vantage point! |
We are elated that the whole "climb experience" all worked out, and that the weather, considering that it is Sydney's winter, was absolutely perfect, much better than expected. It could easily have been pouring rain in buckets on our heads. And also, that the climb was so easy! We head back to our hotel. In the dark. All alone. Without an armed bodyguard. We have not a care in the world! We get cleaned up for dinner, and head to a place that I read about on the Internet, called "The Establishment." It got great reviews on TripAdvisor, which I've found to be extremely helpful in planning trips. We are dressed rather shabbily, each in our one "nice" outfit. It's too cool for my thin Ralph Lauren skirt from last summer (my "official" one nice outfit), so I opt for fleece, safari pants and running shoes. Rachel manages a skirt and flip flops and a great deal of shivering. It's 8:30pm, and we look more like lost hippies than the beautiful people (mostly dressed in black) who are packed into the first floor bar of The Establishment. Sydney's finest, many look like uptown office workers celebrating a Thursday-after-work. The place is chock-a-block with people, looks like a rave. I find out later Thursday night is when they serve "free champagne for women". Ha! No wonder. Apparently, there's a fancier bar, up on the 4th floor. We inquire about where dinner is served. The barmaid points to an elevator in a side lobby, and we head up. We are ushered into a blissfully quiet and elegant dining room, and we order drinks. Our last dinner of the vacation! What a brilliant trip its been. We toast to a splendid expedition. Appetizers, dinner and dessert were all amazing. Highly recommend this place. We ordered something called "bug", which I'd never heard of, but which is a must in Sydney apparently: fresh water crayfish. Yum! We finished off by sharing a passionfruit soufflé, which was divine.
Besides the soufflé, here's what we had: Sydney "bug" in tangy pink cream sauce, scallops with proscuitto and peas, gnocchi-sized polenta in a light sauce with chestnuts, lovely green salad, and some of the best mojitos we've ever had.
Then back to our hotel, and we both fall blissfully asleep in the amazing Four Seasons beds, with their feather soft duvet and covers. Ah, luxury!
We spend the day on 3 flights: Hagen-Sydney. 14 July
"May we remind you that smoking, and the chewing of betelnut is prohibited on this flight." Public address directive on the Air Niugini flight from Mt. Hagen to Port Moresby.
A rather long and dreary day, punctuated by 3 flights: Mt. Hagen-Port Moresby, Port Moresby-Brisbane, Brisbane-Sydney. Only the 2nd one, to Brisbane was a tad late. So Rachel has 2 flights left to make the wedding in Washington DC on time. It's looking good that she will be wearing a slinky blue dress in the Greek Orthodox Cathedral in DC on 18 July.
We started the morning off in Hagen, not sad to leave dreary Mt. Hagen. In Port Moresby we gather up our luggage, to recheck it for the two Australian flights. While on the plane flying to Moresby we noticed a big group of whites on a National Geographic tour. Each of the leaders and participants wore a big numbered, laminated tag, identifying them. While this is probably a somewhat safer way to travel than as two lone women, we can't imagine that we would have had nearly the same trip as we did had we gone with a group. Even after considering the drawbacks, we are glad we've arranged the trip as we did.
While waiting to retrieve our luggage in Moresby, I chat with an American-looking couple (who actually live in the Bahamas) and learn that they were just at Ambua Lodge a few days ago. I tell them about our raskol experience, and they look quite alarmed. No, no, they say, nothing like that happened to them. They mention that one of their tour leaders is standing nearby and that I might like to chat with him about our experiences. I introduce myself to him. His name is Stuart Pimm, and it turns out he's a Professor at Duke, and knows Anne Yoder! He's on the board of the Duke Lemur Center. Small world, or what? I show him that, in fact (tied around my waist as it's too hot now in Moresby for a fleece jacket) I'm in fact wearing the Duke Lemur Center Jacket that Anne presented me with. He thinks this is brilliant. We exchange some info about our trips, and he tells me that the group is off next to Rabaul (East New Britain, PNG) for a Mask Festival. (I looked up photos of this on the Internet just now, and it looks like a wonderful event.) Stuart is English, and he tells me that he's in the Nicholas School of the Environment at Duke, and Chair of the Conservation Biology Department. I explain that Rachel is just about to head off to Yale's Masters in Environmental Management program. He clucks his tongue and smiles broadly, sorry to hear that "another one got away." He tells me his website is www.savingspecies.org
A quick search on the Internet reveals that he's an avid birder, and knows a great deal about birds, biodiversity, conservation, global warming, etc. One of his quotes: "We have a moral responsibility to protect the world's 'special places' - those riches in biodiversity and most threatened by human advances.' -- Dr. Stuart Pimm
I only chat with Dr. Pimm for a few moments, then quickly introduce myself to the photographer in the group, Chris Rainer (who is a Nat Geo photographer, and well-known.) He's a nice guy, and I also see on the Internet that he's quite busy as a photographer. We chat briefly and I return to Rachel, who is slightly annoyed that I've been off having all the fun 20 or 30 feet away, while she waits for the luggage (and faithfully guards our hand luggage). Our bags come ofs the conveyer belt just then, and we quickly move on to check our luggage for our next connection. I'm truly sad that we both couldn't have chatted with Stuart and Chris; I do think she'd have enjoyed those connections. So sorry, Rachel!
I must admit that we generally get along quite well, better than one might expect. Rachel has to be one of the kindest, most generous, most easy-going people I've ever met. We're actually a lot alike, which is surprising, as you might think we'd get on each other's nerves. But, remarkably, we don't. We laugh together constantly. And I can honestly say that we really have not had a cross word with each other the whole trip. One for Ripley's.
We have an uneventful flight to Brisbane, change planes running slightly late, and make the connection for Sydney. We arrive in Sydney, meet our driver, and about 10pm, we arrive at the gorgeous Sydney Four Seasons Hotel. We are shown to our room, a choice appointment on the 11th floor, in a glassed corner that overlooks (on the left) the Sydney Harbor Bridge (which we will climb tomorrow) and (on the right) the Sydney Opera House. And a dazzling array of lights, not to mention the lovely harbor and a vast nighttime sky. Stunning, stunning view, and we are delighted. We collapse into our beds, and dream pleasant dreams.
A rather long and dreary day, punctuated by 3 flights: Mt. Hagen-Port Moresby, Port Moresby-Brisbane, Brisbane-Sydney. Only the 2nd one, to Brisbane was a tad late. So Rachel has 2 flights left to make the wedding in Washington DC on time. It's looking good that she will be wearing a slinky blue dress in the Greek Orthodox Cathedral in DC on 18 July.
We started the morning off in Hagen, not sad to leave dreary Mt. Hagen. In Port Moresby we gather up our luggage, to recheck it for the two Australian flights. While on the plane flying to Moresby we noticed a big group of whites on a National Geographic tour. Each of the leaders and participants wore a big numbered, laminated tag, identifying them. While this is probably a somewhat safer way to travel than as two lone women, we can't imagine that we would have had nearly the same trip as we did had we gone with a group. Even after considering the drawbacks, we are glad we've arranged the trip as we did.
While waiting to retrieve our luggage in Moresby, I chat with an American-looking couple (who actually live in the Bahamas) and learn that they were just at Ambua Lodge a few days ago. I tell them about our raskol experience, and they look quite alarmed. No, no, they say, nothing like that happened to them. They mention that one of their tour leaders is standing nearby and that I might like to chat with him about our experiences. I introduce myself to him. His name is Stuart Pimm, and it turns out he's a Professor at Duke, and knows Anne Yoder! He's on the board of the Duke Lemur Center. Small world, or what? I show him that, in fact (tied around my waist as it's too hot now in Moresby for a fleece jacket) I'm in fact wearing the Duke Lemur Center Jacket that Anne presented me with. He thinks this is brilliant. We exchange some info about our trips, and he tells me that the group is off next to Rabaul (East New Britain, PNG) for a Mask Festival. (I looked up photos of this on the Internet just now, and it looks like a wonderful event.) Stuart is English, and he tells me that he's in the Nicholas School of the Environment at Duke, and Chair of the Conservation Biology Department. I explain that Rachel is just about to head off to Yale's Masters in Environmental Management program. He clucks his tongue and smiles broadly, sorry to hear that "another one got away." He tells me his website is www.savingspecies.org
A quick search on the Internet reveals that he's an avid birder, and knows a great deal about birds, biodiversity, conservation, global warming, etc. One of his quotes: "We have a moral responsibility to protect the world's 'special places' - those riches in biodiversity and most threatened by human advances.' -- Dr. Stuart Pimm
I only chat with Dr. Pimm for a few moments, then quickly introduce myself to the photographer in the group, Chris Rainer (who is a Nat Geo photographer, and well-known.) He's a nice guy, and I also see on the Internet that he's quite busy as a photographer. We chat briefly and I return to Rachel, who is slightly annoyed that I've been off having all the fun 20 or 30 feet away, while she waits for the luggage (and faithfully guards our hand luggage). Our bags come ofs the conveyer belt just then, and we quickly move on to check our luggage for our next connection. I'm truly sad that we both couldn't have chatted with Stuart and Chris; I do think she'd have enjoyed those connections. So sorry, Rachel!
I must admit that we generally get along quite well, better than one might expect. Rachel has to be one of the kindest, most generous, most easy-going people I've ever met. We're actually a lot alike, which is surprising, as you might think we'd get on each other's nerves. But, remarkably, we don't. We laugh together constantly. And I can honestly say that we really have not had a cross word with each other the whole trip. One for Ripley's.
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| The view from our room at the Four Seasons. WOW! That's the Harbour Bridge on the left (the one we climbed), and the Opera House in the middle right. |
We have an uneventful flight to Brisbane, change planes running slightly late, and make the connection for Sydney. We arrive in Sydney, meet our driver, and about 10pm, we arrive at the gorgeous Sydney Four Seasons Hotel. We are shown to our room, a choice appointment on the 11th floor, in a glassed corner that overlooks (on the left) the Sydney Harbor Bridge (which we will climb tomorrow) and (on the right) the Sydney Opera House. And a dazzling array of lights, not to mention the lovely harbor and a vast nighttime sky. Stunning, stunning view, and we are delighted. We collapse into our beds, and dream pleasant dreams.
Back to Mt. Hagen. 13 July
It isn't entirely clear that we will be able to take off from Lumi and arrive in Mt. Hagen today as planned. Lumi (Gloomy Loomy, Jim calls it) has to wait for a plane to arrive, either from Wewak or Mt. Hagen. And the plane in the other location won't take off unless the weather in Lumi is decent, and there's some blue sky. The plane definitely won't fly out to fetch us if there's any chance of rain when they ring up. So there has to be a window, of about 4 hours, where the weather is acceptable. After some mildly intense nail-biting and casting about for Plans B (Jim could drive us 8 hours to Wewak, but there's some concern that the axe-wielding maniac might attack us; from Wewak we can easily get a plane to Moresby...) and C (Jim says the Chief of Police in Lumi needs to go to Wewak this week, and he could take us there, and we'd be relatively safe from maniacs with weapons). In order for Rachel to participate in the wedding of her friend, Alexandra, on July 18th, we must make all the connection exactly from here on out. (I sure hope Alexandra appreciates the trouble we went to to ensure that Rachel got to the church on time!) And there are still 5 flights after this next one, in order for Rachel to get to Washington DC on time. I on the other hand, would be just as happy to stay two or three more days in Australia, but not at the expense of Jim and Jean's time and energy, which our delay in Lumi would tax.
The day of our departure from Lumi arrives, and lo and behold, the weather cooperates, and there is a window for air travel. It's a bit tricky to get in and out of Lumi, especially in the rainy season, but one never knows, even in this current dry season. A few days ago, it poured rain. Jean uses her cell phone to contact MAF in Mt. Hagen (and hour and a half's flight from Lumi) and they tell us a plane will be there to fetch us sometime after 1pm. So we can take our time packing.
We set aside everything we can to give to Jim and Jean. Although, stupidly, I forget to give them my small cache of extra AA lithium batteries. Which of course, are extremely valuable here, and not available in the local "store" (pretty much nothing is for sale there anyway). I kick myself for this, as I cannot send them batteries in a care package from home.
Rachel and I are both in need of baths today. After another exhausting hike yesterday, we were in no shape to do this last night. So we get a large bucket of (cold) water from one of the big tanks near the guest house, and a smaller scooper, and we pour cold water on each other's heads in the guest house shower stall. We are screaming from the cold (no serious heat and humidity in Lumi) and laughing. Jim and Jean, who are thankfully not too nearby, may not have heard us.
Jean and Jim are busy, Jim is running a training course in the training center, attached to the guest house. As I pack, I can hear him teaching a course on "How to Use a Stopwatch", in Pidgin. "Ok, pressim button!" I hear him exhorting the class, and the class laughs at something. He laughs a lot too.
We are ready to go, and Jean assembles some of their staff to help us with the luggage, back the 1 km road to the airstrip. We chat all the way to the airstrip, of course, then round the bend and there it is.
After a brief wait, Jean is the first to spot the tiny shape of the plane approaching from the southwest, and we hear it's engine buzzing softly in the distance. In no time, we are on the plane with a nice pilot from Switzerland, Philip. Wistfully, we wave goodbye to our new friends in Lumi, and zoom down the runway to Mt. Hagen. The 2-hour flight is uneventful, and as we are the only passengers, and I seem interested in planes, the pilot allows me to sit in the co-pilot's seat. Even over the roar of the engine, I can hear him just fine, and from time to time he points out various things below... landing strips for MAF and others. Mostly, the strips are either for missions or mining operations. But, as in all of our other flights, the endless carpet of green forest below is virtually undamaged, that is, until we approach the Waghi Valley, the seat of the oldest tradition of agriculture in the world. From the flights we have taken thus far, we have the (erroneous) impression that PNG's forests are relatively unscathed. Jim has told us that there are big oil palm plantations on the north side (ocean side) of the Torricellis (which we have not seen), and we are also told that the large PNG islands of New Britain and New Ireland have been virtually deforested for oil palm.
When we arrive in Mt. Hagen at the MAF (Mission Aviation Fellowship, founded by Christian mininsters) terminal, we wait for our pre-ordered transport to the Quality Inn Hotel Highlander, and, despite 2 phone calls to their dispatcher, the transport never arrives. We are not going anywhere in Mt. Hagen without a guard or chaperone, and we continue to wait patiently behind the big iron gate that separates the MAF terminal from the public. Finally, our pilot, Phillip, comes forward with a friendly Nova Scotian man named Greg. They say they have a car, and are happy to drive us to our hotel. Normally, we would be very circumspect about accepting a ride from relative strangers, but in this case, as I've trusted my life to Philip once today already (to fly us to Mt. Hagen) and since they are both clean-cut, Christian white men, we jump at the chance faster than flies heading to honey. We hop into their well-used vehicle, and they drive us through town, cheerfully chatting with us to all the way to the hotel. We ask if they are both Christian, and they say, oh yes, of course, all the pilots at MAF are. Further, Greg grins cheerfully points out that, "You don't come to PNG unless you have a very strong calling to Jesus Christ." Yah, I think we understand what he means. Me, a fallen-away agnostic Catholic, and Rachel, a non-practicing agnostic Catholic-Jew have had some moments where we might have been, dare I say it, praying to someone out there.
Although the exterior of the Hotel Highlander is downright depressing, inside it's not too bad. Except for the vast area where a major renovation is taking place. And there's even a bonus that they have a captive tree kangaroo. We're not sure of the species, I'll have to find out from Jim. Her keeper comes out and finds us taking photos of her in the cage, and explains that her name is Oy-Oy. He says that during the day, they let her out, and she wanders the property, mostly hanging out in a tree. She can't get out, razor wire everywhere. It's not the greatest life for a tree 'roo, but not the worst either. She's reasonably safe, and they have left various greens out to feed her. Which she hungrily accepts.
Our room is pleasant enough, and quiet enough, like a motel 6. There is a restaurant here, and a bar filled with the usual men (who we try to ignore), no women. We order our usual 2 glasses of white wine. An Australian man named Andrew joins us at the bar, and we have a nice conversation for a while. He's about my age, and is a geologist. He quickly figures out we are just to the right of tree-huggers, and he makes apologies for working with "the enemy". Remarkably, he doesn't tell us anything particularly alarming about PNG, just the usual. Rachel and I beg off, and head to a dinner table, then to sleep well, before the onslaught of flights tomorrow.
The day of our departure from Lumi arrives, and lo and behold, the weather cooperates, and there is a window for air travel. It's a bit tricky to get in and out of Lumi, especially in the rainy season, but one never knows, even in this current dry season. A few days ago, it poured rain. Jean uses her cell phone to contact MAF in Mt. Hagen (and hour and a half's flight from Lumi) and they tell us a plane will be there to fetch us sometime after 1pm. So we can take our time packing.
We set aside everything we can to give to Jim and Jean. Although, stupidly, I forget to give them my small cache of extra AA lithium batteries. Which of course, are extremely valuable here, and not available in the local "store" (pretty much nothing is for sale there anyway). I kick myself for this, as I cannot send them batteries in a care package from home.
Rachel and I are both in need of baths today. After another exhausting hike yesterday, we were in no shape to do this last night. So we get a large bucket of (cold) water from one of the big tanks near the guest house, and a smaller scooper, and we pour cold water on each other's heads in the guest house shower stall. We are screaming from the cold (no serious heat and humidity in Lumi) and laughing. Jim and Jean, who are thankfully not too nearby, may not have heard us.
Jean and Jim are busy, Jim is running a training course in the training center, attached to the guest house. As I pack, I can hear him teaching a course on "How to Use a Stopwatch", in Pidgin. "Ok, pressim button!" I hear him exhorting the class, and the class laughs at something. He laughs a lot too.
We are ready to go, and Jean assembles some of their staff to help us with the luggage, back the 1 km road to the airstrip. We chat all the way to the airstrip, of course, then round the bend and there it is.
After a brief wait, Jean is the first to spot the tiny shape of the plane approaching from the southwest, and we hear it's engine buzzing softly in the distance. In no time, we are on the plane with a nice pilot from Switzerland, Philip. Wistfully, we wave goodbye to our new friends in Lumi, and zoom down the runway to Mt. Hagen. The 2-hour flight is uneventful, and as we are the only passengers, and I seem interested in planes, the pilot allows me to sit in the co-pilot's seat. Even over the roar of the engine, I can hear him just fine, and from time to time he points out various things below... landing strips for MAF and others. Mostly, the strips are either for missions or mining operations. But, as in all of our other flights, the endless carpet of green forest below is virtually undamaged, that is, until we approach the Waghi Valley, the seat of the oldest tradition of agriculture in the world. From the flights we have taken thus far, we have the (erroneous) impression that PNG's forests are relatively unscathed. Jim has told us that there are big oil palm plantations on the north side (ocean side) of the Torricellis (which we have not seen), and we are also told that the large PNG islands of New Britain and New Ireland have been virtually deforested for oil palm.
When we arrive in Mt. Hagen at the MAF (Mission Aviation Fellowship, founded by Christian mininsters) terminal, we wait for our pre-ordered transport to the Quality Inn Hotel Highlander, and, despite 2 phone calls to their dispatcher, the transport never arrives. We are not going anywhere in Mt. Hagen without a guard or chaperone, and we continue to wait patiently behind the big iron gate that separates the MAF terminal from the public. Finally, our pilot, Phillip, comes forward with a friendly Nova Scotian man named Greg. They say they have a car, and are happy to drive us to our hotel. Normally, we would be very circumspect about accepting a ride from relative strangers, but in this case, as I've trusted my life to Philip once today already (to fly us to Mt. Hagen) and since they are both clean-cut, Christian white men, we jump at the chance faster than flies heading to honey. We hop into their well-used vehicle, and they drive us through town, cheerfully chatting with us to all the way to the hotel. We ask if they are both Christian, and they say, oh yes, of course, all the pilots at MAF are. Further, Greg grins cheerfully points out that, "You don't come to PNG unless you have a very strong calling to Jesus Christ." Yah, I think we understand what he means. Me, a fallen-away agnostic Catholic, and Rachel, a non-practicing agnostic Catholic-Jew have had some moments where we might have been, dare I say it, praying to someone out there.
Although the exterior of the Hotel Highlander is downright depressing, inside it's not too bad. Except for the vast area where a major renovation is taking place. And there's even a bonus that they have a captive tree kangaroo. We're not sure of the species, I'll have to find out from Jim. Her keeper comes out and finds us taking photos of her in the cage, and explains that her name is Oy-Oy. He says that during the day, they let her out, and she wanders the property, mostly hanging out in a tree. She can't get out, razor wire everywhere. It's not the greatest life for a tree 'roo, but not the worst either. She's reasonably safe, and they have left various greens out to feed her. Which she hungrily accepts.
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| Tree Kangaroo at the Hotel Highlander, Mount Hagen, PNG. |
Hike to Solette, then to Lumi. 12 July
We awoke the next morning around 8am, having been allowed to actually sleep in. The villagers did not make much noise that morning (as they would customarily do), probably not a coincidence, and we were grateful. We arose, had breakfast of sorts, and we tri-pla meri chatted for some hour and an half. Finally, Jean said we really had to go, and it was back on the trail.
Jean made the executive decision that we were not going back the way we came, but rather, via the other, less difficult route which included Soulete village, and thus past the more problematic village of Yongite. The trouble with Yongite, Jim had explained, is that when they had told Jim and Jean which parts of the forests and mountain they owned, they had sort of fudged the boundaries. Now someone from TCA had come with a GPS unit to get the exact measurements of Yongite Village's property and they were furious, threatening to fight. Evidently, they very nearly smashed the GPS unit in anger. I think the issue is that they thought if the map boundaries showed that they did not, in fact, own a big swath of the forest where the rare Tenkile tree kangaroo lived, they might not then be eligible for conservation rewards such as water tanks, and chickens and rabbits for farming. However, Jim said they got it all wrong, and that their assumptions were incorrect. Jean thought the whole situation was a tempest in a teapot (or perhaps a molehill out of a mountain) and it was decided that we would return to Lumi via a path that ran right near Yongite village. She hired "bodyguards" (men who were their friends, with machetes) to accompany us, should there be any problem.
But first we hiked about 3 hours to friendly Soulete, and there we were feted yet again by the locals, who tried to outdo Miwettem's outstanding sing-sing performance of the previous night. Somehow, the message got through a a few hours before that we were coming, and in just a very short time they gathered up their sing-sing song-and-dance party gear and got ready for us. Another fantastic event was presented for us here. Rachel and I will treasure this sing-sing always! In Solette, there was one man who I just loved... he had a lesser bird of paradise on his head, and he had these weird shell circles around his eyes that looked rather like makeshift Steampunk glasses. What a trip!
Hilda, one of Jean and Jim's remarkable liaisons in Soulete, helped to sing another song to us, about TCA (Tenkile Conservation Alliance) and saving the tree kangaroos. We felt so happy and honored, and pleased to be part of the celebration. Hilda helped to prepare a nice lunch for us in Soulete. It started to rain a bit while we ate, and everyone crowded underneath a tarp, but it was all good.
The words to the song the villagers sing to us:
Welcome, welcome to you tourists!
We tried to make it down the trail as quickly as we could, beating the sunset by about half an hour. One of the Thomas's assistants, Francis, handed me a welcome Otter Pop (actually frozen!) on our return to the compound. Hot, sweaty and tired, that frozen pop sure was delicious! Jim and Jean have a solar refrigerator, but Jean said the freezer part of it is dicey, so I'm not sure how they got hold of a frozen Otter Pop, but color me happy!
Jean made the executive decision that we were not going back the way we came, but rather, via the other, less difficult route which included Soulete village, and thus past the more problematic village of Yongite. The trouble with Yongite, Jim had explained, is that when they had told Jim and Jean which parts of the forests and mountain they owned, they had sort of fudged the boundaries. Now someone from TCA had come with a GPS unit to get the exact measurements of Yongite Village's property and they were furious, threatening to fight. Evidently, they very nearly smashed the GPS unit in anger. I think the issue is that they thought if the map boundaries showed that they did not, in fact, own a big swath of the forest where the rare Tenkile tree kangaroo lived, they might not then be eligible for conservation rewards such as water tanks, and chickens and rabbits for farming. However, Jim said they got it all wrong, and that their assumptions were incorrect. Jean thought the whole situation was a tempest in a teapot (or perhaps a molehill out of a mountain) and it was decided that we would return to Lumi via a path that ran right near Yongite village. She hired "bodyguards" (men who were their friends, with machetes) to accompany us, should there be any problem.
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| Rachel poses with a beautiful (but dead) bird of paradise in Soulete village. |
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| Man with a lesser bird of Paradise on his head performs a dance in Soulete |
The words to the song the villagers sing to us:
Welcome, welcome to you tourists!
Ohhhhhhhhh, Tree Kangaroos
Ohhhhhhhhh, Tree Kangaroos
Tree Kangaroos open the doors from TCA
Tree Kangaroos open the doors from TCA
TCA can bring tourists to our village
TCA can bring tourists to our village.
After thanks and goodbyes (and some giant bear hugs from some older ladies, which took me and Rachel by surprise; Jean remarked that this was all the love and attention these older women got), we headed down the hill. Presently, we passed by Yongite Village. All was quiet, not a soul in sight. It was so quiet there, it was actually creepy. But we were in luck. Not a bit of trouble. A couple of kilometers past Yongite, Jean thanked the squadron of bodyguards who had accompanied us thus far, and waved them goodbye.Hilda and friends sing a song about TCA (Tenkile Conservation Alliance.) |
We tried to make it down the trail as quickly as we could, beating the sunset by about half an hour. One of the Thomas's assistants, Francis, handed me a welcome Otter Pop (actually frozen!) on our return to the compound. Hot, sweaty and tired, that frozen pop sure was delicious! Jim and Jean have a solar refrigerator, but Jean said the freezer part of it is dicey, so I'm not sure how they got hold of a frozen Otter Pop, but color me happy!
Hike to Miwettem. 11 July
Well, we tried to get organized early, as we knew it was going to be a long day. Unfortunately, we didn't leave Lumi til roughly 10am. I handed over my photo equipment to the porters, and off we went. I really didn't pull my cameras out til we reached Maiwettem Village, some 15 kilometers from Lumi.
Evidently, there were two paths we could have taken. But Jim relayed to us news of some problems in the village of Yongite, saying that things were tense there, and we needed to avoid that area. Apparently, that was the "easy" trail, so we had little choice but to take the "more difficult" trail.
The hiking started out well enough, hiking on what Jean said was actually the old Sepik Highway. Ha! I suppose you could see how it might have been a single land side road, at some point in the distant past, but a Highway? It was reasonably level, rocks and stones had been laid down on it. Which actually made the walking much harder, trying to balance one's feet on the stones. But I suppose this was for drainage, and since the area is awash with rain much of the year, it must be a neccessity. Miles of the Sepik Highway, which abruptly ended, and then we were on The Trail From Hell. Designed by an absolute sadist, 20 yards up slippery, narrow, steep clay steps (practically straight up), then 20 yards down the same sort of nasty footing. Repeat. Repeat again. We must have done this 50 times, I don't know. At one point (ok, maybe more than one point), I asked Jean weakly, "will we have to do this much more?" She smiled kindly. "Yes, I'm afraid so." When we weren't going up and down these slippery shark's teeth hills, we were crossing creeks and streams. I cannot remember how many streams we crossed either. I had two able-bodied local men helping me, John and Jacob. Thank God for them! They held me steady on the slipperiest bits, and kept me going. I hold them dear in my heart! At one point, after a stream crossing, Jean mentioned to me that one of the tribes living nearby had discovered a vast quantity of gold in their stream. Evidently, two wily (and audacious) Australians got wind of the gold bonanza there, which up til then had been known only to the villagers there. Jean related that one could go into the stream with a snorkel and swim mask on, and just grab onto large nuggets in the stream. Anyway, these two shady Aussie men were all over that, and the cannily set up a small scale mining operation in the village, I believe with some sort of modest sluicer. After they had consolidated their gold sluicing efforts, they packed up their loot, and told the villagers they needed to take it to a bank and get payment for it, after which they would definitely return and give the villagers 1/2 of the proceeds. The two men high-tailed it back to Australia, and have never been heard from again.
But back to the killer trail. At the end of it, I was covered in mud and rain and sweat. Plus I slipped and fell at one of the many creek crossings, and got soaking wet, even water in my waterproof boots. Jean lead Rachel and me up there, and we we arrived up at the village, the villagers told us that aside from Jean, Rachel and I were only the 2nd and 3rd white women ever to climb that trail! Jeez, no wonder we thought it was hard! My back was kind of shot after that, and I was a bit worried about it. Grateful though, that somebody lent me their 4-inch foam pad, so that I didn't have to just set the sleeping bag on the hard surface of the hut we slept in. Also grateful that the local schoolteacher, who had a slightly nicer house than the others in the village, lent us his hut for the night. We set up mosquito nets above the beds, and surprisingly, slept very comfortably and well. Nothing like utter and complete exhaustion to help one sleep.
The villagers in that village (Miwettem) feted us with a brilliant arrival "sing-sing" (song and dance show), and told us that we were the first tourists ever to visit their village! They all dressed up in their best garb (made of leaves from the forest, bark, moss, "paint" made of mud and clay, bird of paradise feathers, shells and other natural objects and danced barefoot for us in the 2-in deep mud. They threw flower stamens at us in joy, made us beautiful flower necklaces (sort of like Hawaiian leis) and fed us wonderful local food. Four guys with guitars and a ukelele (there is absolutely NO place within a 10-day walk to buy a musical instrument or strings, we're talking waaaaaaaaay off the beaten path) came out and sang in English a delightful tune: "Welcome, American Tourists!" which Rachel got a video of:
Here are some of the lyrics they are singing:
"...villages
Jean, Rachel and I ate our respective dinners quietly and happily in the teacher's house, about 8 wooden steps up off the ground, and high on stilts. Jean was not happy the food arrived on the cooler side (I think she was worried we wouldn't like it) but we were starving and delighted to have anything at all. The dinner, mixed greens, sago pancakes, sago "breast implants" (which we were shown back in the Karawari, but hadn't yet tasted) and a wonderful and delicious sago mash-up (sago bits, sliced green onions, spices and a few other things) was consumed with absolute relish. There was a bit of hot water provided for us (from the wonderful water tanks that Jim and Jean helped the village to install), and Rachel graciously gave me a packet of her Emergen-C, which I made into sort of a hot, flavored, vitamin-C tea, which I happily downed with sheer delight. Quite honestly, there is nothing like being filthy, hungry and exhausted to make one appreciate the little things in life. We ate on the floor of our makeshift bedroom, having changed out of our sopping wet, mud-caked hiking clothes and boots into mercifully dry clothing for sleeping in. We talked, and giggled and generally enjoyed the heck out of our tri-pla meri (3 women together) adventure. Jean disclosed that Jim had privately remarked to her that he had never seen two girls (me and Rachel) giggle so much. He thought we were like giddy schoolgirls. Of course, that sent Rachel and me into gales of laughter yet again.
Rachel and I remarked to each other in private that as poor as the people in PNG seem, they are still not as poor as the truly destitute souls in Madagascar. Hand's down, the poor old Red Island has to be the most impoverished place we've ever witnessed.
Evidently, there were two paths we could have taken. But Jim relayed to us news of some problems in the village of Yongite, saying that things were tense there, and we needed to avoid that area. Apparently, that was the "easy" trail, so we had little choice but to take the "more difficult" trail.
The hiking started out well enough, hiking on what Jean said was actually the old Sepik Highway. Ha! I suppose you could see how it might have been a single land side road, at some point in the distant past, but a Highway? It was reasonably level, rocks and stones had been laid down on it. Which actually made the walking much harder, trying to balance one's feet on the stones. But I suppose this was for drainage, and since the area is awash with rain much of the year, it must be a neccessity. Miles of the Sepik Highway, which abruptly ended, and then we were on The Trail From Hell. Designed by an absolute sadist, 20 yards up slippery, narrow, steep clay steps (practically straight up), then 20 yards down the same sort of nasty footing. Repeat. Repeat again. We must have done this 50 times, I don't know. At one point (ok, maybe more than one point), I asked Jean weakly, "will we have to do this much more?" She smiled kindly. "Yes, I'm afraid so." When we weren't going up and down these slippery shark's teeth hills, we were crossing creeks and streams. I cannot remember how many streams we crossed either. I had two able-bodied local men helping me, John and Jacob. Thank God for them! They held me steady on the slipperiest bits, and kept me going. I hold them dear in my heart! At one point, after a stream crossing, Jean mentioned to me that one of the tribes living nearby had discovered a vast quantity of gold in their stream. Evidently, two wily (and audacious) Australians got wind of the gold bonanza there, which up til then had been known only to the villagers there. Jean related that one could go into the stream with a snorkel and swim mask on, and just grab onto large nuggets in the stream. Anyway, these two shady Aussie men were all over that, and the cannily set up a small scale mining operation in the village, I believe with some sort of modest sluicer. After they had consolidated their gold sluicing efforts, they packed up their loot, and told the villagers they needed to take it to a bank and get payment for it, after which they would definitely return and give the villagers 1/2 of the proceeds. The two men high-tailed it back to Australia, and have never been heard from again.
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| We arrive at Miwettem, and the villagers greet us with a huge banner made of bamboo and greenery, and a sing-sing. Man on far right is Jacob, who helped me up the mountain. Rachel is second from right with flower necklace from villagers, Jean in pink shirt and flower necklace on left. |
But back to the killer trail. At the end of it, I was covered in mud and rain and sweat. Plus I slipped and fell at one of the many creek crossings, and got soaking wet, even water in my waterproof boots. Jean lead Rachel and me up there, and we we arrived up at the village, the villagers told us that aside from Jean, Rachel and I were only the 2nd and 3rd white women ever to climb that trail! Jeez, no wonder we thought it was hard! My back was kind of shot after that, and I was a bit worried about it. Grateful though, that somebody lent me their 4-inch foam pad, so that I didn't have to just set the sleeping bag on the hard surface of the hut we slept in. Also grateful that the local schoolteacher, who had a slightly nicer house than the others in the village, lent us his hut for the night. We set up mosquito nets above the beds, and surprisingly, slept very comfortably and well. Nothing like utter and complete exhaustion to help one sleep.
The villagers in that village (Miwettem) feted us with a brilliant arrival "sing-sing" (song and dance show), and told us that we were the first tourists ever to visit their village! They all dressed up in their best garb (made of leaves from the forest, bark, moss, "paint" made of mud and clay, bird of paradise feathers, shells and other natural objects and danced barefoot for us in the 2-in deep mud. They threw flower stamens at us in joy, made us beautiful flower necklaces (sort of like Hawaiian leis) and fed us wonderful local food. Four guys with guitars and a ukelele (there is absolutely NO place within a 10-day walk to buy a musical instrument or strings, we're talking waaaaaaaaay off the beaten path) came out and sang in English a delightful tune: "Welcome, American Tourists!" which Rachel got a video of:
Part 1 of the "Welcome American Tourists!" video.
Here is Part 2 of "Welcome American Tourists!"
Here are some of the lyrics they are singing:
"...villages
Torricelli Range.
Miwettem village
Lumi, Sundaun Province
Welcome, welcome,
American Tourists
We welcome you
Telikan?
Welcome, welcome
Welcome, welcome,
American Tourists
We welcome you
Telikan?
Welcome to some of our villages
Torricelli Range,
Miwettem Village..."
Jean, Rachel and I ate our respective dinners quietly and happily in the teacher's house, about 8 wooden steps up off the ground, and high on stilts. Jean was not happy the food arrived on the cooler side (I think she was worried we wouldn't like it) but we were starving and delighted to have anything at all. The dinner, mixed greens, sago pancakes, sago "breast implants" (which we were shown back in the Karawari, but hadn't yet tasted) and a wonderful and delicious sago mash-up (sago bits, sliced green onions, spices and a few other things) was consumed with absolute relish. There was a bit of hot water provided for us (from the wonderful water tanks that Jim and Jean helped the village to install), and Rachel graciously gave me a packet of her Emergen-C, which I made into sort of a hot, flavored, vitamin-C tea, which I happily downed with sheer delight. Quite honestly, there is nothing like being filthy, hungry and exhausted to make one appreciate the little things in life. We ate on the floor of our makeshift bedroom, having changed out of our sopping wet, mud-caked hiking clothes and boots into mercifully dry clothing for sleeping in. We talked, and giggled and generally enjoyed the heck out of our tri-pla meri (3 women together) adventure. Jean disclosed that Jim had privately remarked to her that he had never seen two girls (me and Rachel) giggle so much. He thought we were like giddy schoolgirls. Of course, that sent Rachel and me into gales of laughter yet again.
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| These are the sago gelatinous mounds (what Jim calls "breast implants") that we were served in the village. The are about as tasty as they look. Maybe less. But we ate them anyway. |
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| Delicious fried plantains (left) and mixed local cooked greens (right) in the village. We were happy to eat these! |
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