Today is our last day at Ambua. We breakfast, and hail Caleb over to chat with us, before we blow out. He's available for a few minutes. He tells us a little of his work, trying to figure out how to keep the locals happy, and understand their culture and customs while still allowing Exxon to do their job. (I check out his cv online, and also Facebook friend him. Interesting guy, wish we'd had a chance to talk more). We exchange cards (I have a little "personal info" card, kind of like a business card. He quips that one ought to have a card made up as they did in the old days, a mostly blank white calling card, that reads a posh address, such as "No. 1, The Strand." I love that! I think I'll use it. Oh, right. I just did. We wave good bye and gather up our bags, heading to the landing strip near Ambua. At the strip we see the Australian couple, Margaret and Barry from last night. Margaret waves, and totters towards us across the coarse gravel near the airstrip in snappy new high scarlet heels. We are impressed. They are simply flying with us to the Karawari for fun, then flying back.
{Include photo of children at the airstrip}
After some quick goodbyes to the staff, we drive to the airstrip, about 10 minutes from Ambua Lodge. As usual, there is a small gathering of locals at the airstrip, mostly women and children. Today we're flying in an 6-seater Islander, similar to a Cessna. We were told by one of the Exxon lads that in the not-too-distant-past the locals would bring sweet potatoes and greens when a plane landed, "to feed the giant bird." I guess I can understand the fascination with flying machines - I surely have it. So we tip Benson and Michael, we climb into the giant white bird, the propeller whirs in action, and the small crowd of Hulis watch us roar down the runway in a cloud of dust, and take to the blue sky, banking to the North, and to Karawari. I can't say we are sad to go, although we are very excited about the images we've collected here.
The flight from Tari to Karawari takes about an hour or so, and Rachel and I snap pictures right the way along: rugged terrain, rainforest as far as the eye can see. A giant green canvas, undulating sharply into mountains, cleft and scored by deep ravines and riverine valleys. Occasionally we glimpse some steep limestone escarpments or landslide areas. Most of the interior of PNG is accessible only by plane. Both of us are glad to be airborne, for despite the slight danger of air transit, we see it as infinitely safer than traveling overland here and possibly running into more raskols. Shudder. Rachel, who has not flown quite as much as I have in small planes, is still enthralled with the process, and loves every minute. (I have to admit that I love it just as much now as on that first wild ride in crop duster on our ranch in California when I was about 10 years old.) As Rachel is about to start a Master's program at Yale, in Environmental Management (forestry and conservation) she is keenly interested in seeing what PNG's forests look like. We both agree that, unlike poor old Madagascar, PNG's forest cover is nothing short of remarkable, although of course, there are loggers and oil palm plantation owners who would change this in a heartbeat, if they were able to. In fact, I'm sure a number of gears are being engaged as I write to dismantle much of the existing forest in PNG. It certainly does feel as if a colossal phalanx of miners, loggers, plantation owners and commercial fishermen, especially from outside of PNG (Indonesia, Malaysia, China, as well as the US, Canada, Australia and Europe) are waiting like ferocious predators at the edges of the island, ready to snap up anything they can get their claws on.
{include photo of gold mine along the way to Karawari}
At one point our pilot, a cheerful PNG man named Sylvester, points out a gigantic gold-mining operation below, called Porgera, in operation since 1989. We can see, very obviously, the river that has been used for the disposal of the mine's tailings. It is effectively dead, which of course, is very depressing. We see a shining band of mud, with only small traces of water (or maybe no water at all, perhaps this was an optical illusion), that once was a mighty river. The dead river bed stretches on for miles and miles, to the east, and to the west. I later learn that the tailings at this mine are not just of sedimentary concern, but are also quite toxic, with large amounts of mercury, cyanide and other nasty heavy metals. A geologist we meet later on in Mt. Hagen explains that there's a way of making a "paste" of the tailings, and a method of leaving it on land to degrade, rather than gumming up a river. But of course, this method very costly, and therefore little-used.
After a relatively short flight, we touch down at the Karawari Airstrip. We've been advised by our photographer acquaintances at Ambua, Chris and Virginia, that Karawari is absolutely brilliant, a world out of time. So we have high expectations for the place. We are met at the airstrip by personnel from the Lodge, and transferred to a flat-bottomed "jet boat", with a tarp overhead for cooling shade. A short boat ride up the river, and we arrive at a muddy bank, where a jeep awaits. We are introduced to our guide, Chris, and our boat driver, Elvis, who will be with us for the duration of the trip. They are both from communities nearby to the lodge. The people here look decidedly different than the Huli; they do not have the extremely wide noses of the Huli men, nor do they have any facial hair, as Benson and many other Huli did.
We are taken by jeep on a short ride to the Lodge, a lovely wooden structure that was built along the lines of a Spirit House (a sort of church, if you will, prior to Christianization of the PNG culture). It is filled with a vast assortment of masks, Spirit House decorative bosses and carvings, kamangabbi (one-legged carvings that stand about 5 feet tall), and an amusing and highly unusual basketry "body mask" which hangs from the ceiling at just the right height for me and Rachel to duck into, and stick our arms out of, and make a number of silly gestures. As usual, we dissolve into gales of laughter.
{include photo of Rachel with her arms stuck out of the giant mask]
We wander about about in the main lodge, and we don't hear anything except the distant sound of the camp's diesel generator, and the sounds of or own voices and footsteps. We are told that we are the only guests here tonight, and in fact, more guests won't be arriving til take next week. Although we feel rather like Hollywood stars or royalty, we also feel a bit odd about this... after all, the locals (which includes the entire staff of the lodge) are all pretty much descendants of people who, a mere 60 years ago, would probably have cooked us for dinner.
Even though the Karawari region is supposedly the home of vicious cannibals, Rachel and I are struck now (and moreso at the end of the trip) by the fact that nowhere else in PNG did we feel as safe as we do here, smack dab in the middle of cannibal heaven. (Months later, I am stripped of my false sense of security here after talking to a conservationist who has traveled here many times, and declares that two white women traveling alone here were "insane.")
After we've tossed back the gracious offering of chilled juice, we are shown to our room (we were offered two separate rooms, but declined this generous offer, as we need to share but one computer). We're in Room #3, just a short walk from the main lodge, where the meals will be served. The room is simple but comfortable, and affords a lovely, if partially obscured view to the north, down the hill, and across the Karawari to the forest on the other side, extending out for miles of forest. It's fairly hot and steamy here, and of course, this simple lodge does not have air conditioning. There are no windows on the room, just a swath large screens across the wide windows, to keep the insects out. We notice that there are vents all around the perimeter of the ceiling, also screened, but many of the screens are broken. So at night, the room becomes something of a giant insect laboratory. The insects are drawn in by our lights. We do have mosquito nets on our beds, but moths and other insects still manage to find their way in, even to that inner sanctum. So I should reiterate that there is nothing, really, between us two white ladies in here, and all the men and animals out there.
Our days are to be spent mostly on the river, under the tarp stretched across the roof of the jet boat, cooled effectively by the river breezes, especially when we are zipping along. So despite the heat, we are reasonably comfortable.
As Chris and Virginia raved about the place, and also so as to make for a less frantic schedule, I inquire if we can modify our projected itinerary, so that we stay at the Karawari Lodge for 4 nights rather than 2, and we skip altogether our next destination, the Magic Mountain Guest Haus. After consulting with his manager at Trans Niugini Tours, the Lodge manager, Augus, tells us, yes, that this has been arranged. Hooray!
Augus explains that he has a pet cassowary, and if we are lucky, perhaps we'll see it. We are all ears. "Pet cassowary? Where is he? How do we see it? What's his name?" Augus, clearly not a big betelnut fan, smiles broadly, his white teeth gleaming. Although we hazard a guess that he probably chews a bit here and there.
{include photo of Angus}
Angus explains about the cassowary "We call him Robert-Bob. He runs free. Right now he's in the bush." Augus notes that it's presently the dry season, and Robert-Bob doesn't like to come to the Lodge during the dry season. He's collecting grubs in the forest, perhaps. We learn that Augus bought the cassowary as a chick from someone who'd killed his mother, and has had him for 14 months. I inquire as to whether or not Robert-Bob has injured Augus.
"Not yet." August smiles again.
Dinner at the Karawari is the best of any of the food we've had yet. It true that they are only cooking for two, so it's not that difficult, but still we are grateful. Better still, there's a wonderful young man named Elijah who is in charge of setting the table and bringing our food. He's good-looking, quiet, and has a gorgeous smile. Apparently not a betelnut man: stunningly perfect teeth. (I'm beginning to sound like a dentist, right?) Our gaydar is flashing, too. But we are told later that homosexulity is simply unknown here. Hmmmmmm.
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