We fly to PNG, and arrive in Tari. 25 June

I check my Facebook account first thing in the morning, and notice I've gotten a few comments about our arrival in Singapore.   Giles remarks:  "surely, darling, you're at the Shangri-La, best place in town (Valley wing)."  Maybe next time we'll stay at the "Shang". 


After an overnight flight from Singapore to PNG, we arrive in Port Moresby. Later, we hear from a well-traveled Aussie that Port Moresby is considered the second most dangerous city in the world, after Baghdad. Perhaps an exaggeration, but from everything we gleaned on our trip, it's definitely not place to wander around in. Especially not if you are a single white woman. From America.   Without an armored car and bodyguards.

Ahh... but more on that later.   We arrive in Port Moresby on time, but we have to run the gauntlet, as our connecting flight to Tari, in the Southern Highlands of PNG, leaves in a scant 1 hour from the time our Singapore flight lands. Our tour agents, Trans Niugini Tours, have pre-arranged for an rep to meet us, and help us dash to our connection as quickly as possible. So we meet Steven, a capable fellow who kindly helps us run like hell with our bags to the Tari flight, which we make with about 3 minutes to spare before take off. The flight's captain knew we were on our way, and waited for us. We plunk down in our seats and buckle up for take-off. So far, so good.


Rachel and I are seated in different rows.   She gets the chattier guy.   Both of our seatmates work for Doctors Without Borders (Médecins Sans Frontières ), a humanitarian medical organization.    But my seatmate, a reporter, is a bit withdrawn, so I actually learn more from Rachel later on.   She says that her seatmate, a physician, tells her some pretty harrowing stories.   It was at this point that Rachel decided to make a running list of all the PNG horror stories we heard.   It does, in the end, make quite a thick volume.   The doctor tells her about his work.   He says that he's been working with domestic violence cases in the city of Lae, PNG's second largest city.  Population density is highly correlative to strife here, so Port Moresby is the worst, followed by Lae.  (Although there's plenty of violence in the hinterlands, no worry about that.)   He says that he treated a woman in Lae who had been hacked to bits by her husband.   Part of her brain was leaking out of her skull, and some intestines were coming out of her abdomen.   Miraculously, she was still alive.   Note to self:   avoid Lae.   He also points out that he had a male worker who seemed wonderful; helpful and kind, always on time to work, a dedicated employee.   But he too, beat his wife to a pulp.   The moral of the story is:   we are in a very weird place, and violence is the norm here.

The flight is about 1 1/2 hours, and then we touch down at the Tari airstrip. Immediately, we realize we are in a completely different world. Out the dingy jet windows, we can see that the airstrip (not really an airport, just a strip, surrounded by chain link and barbed wire) is completely surrounded by Papua New Guineans.

Villagers come out to see the big plane land in at Tari airstrip

There appear to be about 1,000 people clinging to the fence around the airstrip, in very bright clothing, accented with multi-colored bilum bags, and eyeing us and our plane very intently. Their bilum bags can be small (as a in a purse) or very large (big enough to hold a toddler), and are either slung over the shoulder, or in the case of the large ones, tied on to the forehead, and draped down the back, filled with cargo/children/sweet potatoes, etc. Most people are holding colorful golf-sized umbrellas... a good bet against intense sun (we are basically just south of the Equator), and also against ferocious and inevitable downpours. We notice that people are staring at us, some with undisguised malevolence.  (Later, we are told that PNG people generally don't hide what they are thinking, they wear their hearts on their sleeves, so to speak.)    We aren't quite sure what to think, so we give them the benefit of the doubt -- maybe it's just curiousity? We naively think that it must be market-day, and hence all the people. We meet our guide and driver, who confirm this, but also tell us that the people have come to see us, to see the big plane land. Apparently, plane landings here are a big deal.   Months later, I learn that my suspicions that something is wrong here are correct:   these people here maintain something of a cargo-cult mentality, and are hoping our plane will crash and they will be able to run off with the cargo inside, and our luggage.   (For more on this, see my entry from Dec. 17, 2010 entitled "Reflections After the PNG Trip.")

We don't notice many other white people at first.  Then, a couple who was on the plane with us approaches the Trans Niugini staff at the airstrip, and we learn they are also going to Ambua lodge. They are a couple of New Zealanders: photographer, Chris McLennan, and his traveling companion, Virginia Woolf. (Really.) Virginia won a photo contest in NZ, and the prize was getting to travel with Chris on his next trip and help him out with his photo shoots as an assistant. All four of us are bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to capture some images.  So it turns out it's just the four of us boarding the bus to Ambua Lodge. We board the waiting Trans Niugini Tour (TNT) bus. We ask if it's ok to take photos of the crowd and the surroundings. The staff says, "yes, yes, of course. Take as many photos as you wish." So all four us pull out our DSLRs and begin to snap away. Within a few minutes the crowd becomes angry, and someone hurls a rock violently at the bus, which makes a lound "thonk!" on the metal siding of the vehicle. We all haul our cameras back in side. Suddenly, an argument erupts between the crowd and the driver:

Driver: (in English) "Hey! This is a public place! You get away from here or I'll come and kill you and your whole f@@@ing family!"

Man in Crowd: (shouts something we cannot understand, in Pidgin?)

Driver: "Yes, that's right! I'll kill you, you bastards!"

Rachel and I exchange nervous glances. We are definitely not in Kansas anymore.

Obama's image and slogan on our tour bus vehicle are
at once comforting and bizarre.  There are no seat belts in the bus.

So we are ridin' on the Obama-bus through Papua New Guinea.    The bus makes its way slowly through the crowd, and our cameras are all nestled safely in their bags, out of sight. We sit still, and watch the people as we pass by.  We are like young children, wide-eyed, alert and taking everything in.   Time takes on a new dimension, slows down.   So many things to absorb.    The guide points out our lodge, far in the distance in the hills overlooking Tari town, along the wide gash of tawny soil that is the "mining road".   All along the way colorful flowers burst forth:   sunflowers and purple bougainvillea.   There are also fields of sweet potatoes, the staple starch here, and sugar cane, bounded by the ever-present casuarina trees and banana trees.   Already, we can tell that there is far less deforestation here than in Madagascar, probably because the staple is sweet potatoes, and not rice, a much more destructive crop and land-intensive crop.   In addition, Rachel is quick to point out, sweet potatoes contain more vitamins, and are more nutritious.

Caterpillar grader, smoothing out the mining road.   Vehicles courtesy of
Exxon Mobil.

As we drive, our guide tells us that we ought to know the most important thing to keep in mind when in Papua New Guinea.

"We here value three things above all else:   land, pigs and women.   In that order."  Nice.

At around 2pm, we arrive at Ambua Lodge, and are shown to our room, a lovely round-walled, thatch-roofed cottage, with a delightful view across the Lodge grounds and down the valley to the south and the west. We are introduced to our guide, Benson. He doesn't seem very happy, but we figure he might take some warming up to.   He says we have time to have lunch, then go to a couple of waterfalls nearby.

Our guide, Benson, and Rachel

The food at lunch is ghastly, possibly the worst of the entire trip, but we are joined by the New Zealanders, Chris and Virginia, and we are grateful for the for pleasant conversation.  They head off for their own private photo shoot.

We thought that we were going birding this afternoon, but Benson keeps waffling about what our agenda will be.  "Yes, we'll go look at the birds.... no, they're all sleeping."   "Ok, let's go to the waterfalls ... no, it's starting to rain, so we can't."   Incredibly frustrating.   In the end, we insist on doing something, so grudgingly in an increasingly sullen mood, he says we can go to the waterfall.   We head off to the south with Benson, on our way to explore the waterfalls. Rachel and I pepper him with questions, which does nothing to improve his sour mood.   Each time he answers questions, he stops walking and turns to face us. So it takes a really long time to get to the waterfall. We aren't sure: maybe it's a cultural thing here, and we are blowing it? Maybe it's required to look people in the eye when you are talking to them? We try several times, but each time we ask a question, Benson stops dead, and talks to us. At one point, Benson rushes on ahead, probably hoping we might fall off the trail and disappear down a ravine.  We lag behind, following him with our bags of equipment. Did I mention that he doesn't seem to happy about us?

Kris, on the suspension bridge

We finally make it to the waterfall. It's about 4pm now, the light is starting to dim, and we are in the forest. The waterfall is pretty, but ... it's just a waterfall. Then we head to a lovely handmade (of all natural materials) suspension bridge. We marvel at it's construction. Benson seems preoccupied and cranky.   His eyes are bloodshot, probably from incessantly chewing on betelnut. He tells us that it's too late now to go to the other waterfall, and the larger suspension bridge, and we must head back. We're tired anyway, and glad for the excuse to go and relax in our room, or at the bar.

We trudge back to the Lodge (the waterfall and suspension bridge are actually on the Lodge grounds). Rachel stays in our room to take a shower, and I head up to the bar, eagerly anticipating a pleasant glass of wine. The Lodge dining room and bar are hopping, filled with whites. But it doesn't take long to figure out that besides Rachel, me and the two New Zealander photographers, we are the only tourists. In fact, the New Zealanders are here on a photo assignment, so they are not exactly tourists. They have pre-arranged for an assortment of paid photo shoots, and will not be joining us for any of our excursions. Who are the other guys in the place? A few chats at the bar reveals that the place is filled to capacity by workers from Exxon Mobil, who are developing a new airstrip nearby. There are meager lodgings at the airstrip so they are all staying here: supervisors, civil engineers, environmental assessment personnel, managers, surveyors, and a helicopter pilot who ferries them back and forth between the work site and the lodge. Apparently, it's a 3-hour drive from the work site, or a 15-minute heli ride, so the heli pilot is busy transporting staff and equipment back and forth all day long. There is a lone woman, a blonde Aussie, in the lot. Otherwise, all lads. Rachel, attractive, single and 26, feels that we have descended into a shark tank with some very hungry fish.

At the time, we don't question why on earth a luxury lodge would be filled with construction-site workers. We just figure, ok, they do things differently here.

Wine is white, good and chilled. I'm happy.  At the bar, I chat with some of the Exxon workers.   I like Caleb, a New Zealander man, tall and good-looking with strawberry-blonde hair, looks a bit like Spencer Wells.  I find out later he's a PhD in Anthropology, who we jokingly remark "has sold out to the dark side" and is helping Exxon figure out how to handle the locals.  (Not an easy job, by the looks of things.)   He's very funny, and always has a good one-liner, a lot like Peter, actually.   Then there's Nevil, a rather annoying manager from England, who seems to irritate everyone in the whole unit.   He's a birder, and anyone who loves birds and animals must be ok, right?   Hmmmm.   We'll see.

Just before dinner, I see a guy in the main hall of the lodge all dressed up in full Huli (local tribe, very fierce, warlike folks) regalia.  He looks great, and I ask if I can take photos.   So I take some shots.   But there's something about the guy that doesn't seem right.   He looks kind of high, and his behavior is just slightly odd.   He has a disconcerting, faraway expression on his face.  I don't think about it too much.   But it's one of those things that you ponder later, after your brain has had time to process things.   Much later, after we'd returned home, Rachel tells me he sidled up to her, and asked her if she wanted to "walk down to the waterfall" with him.   She was creeped out.

Creepy Huli guy who asked Rachel to go to the
waterfall with him.