A Day out near Muschu Island. 8 July

The Boutique Hotel is actually quite nice; although the rooms are rather spartan, they are spotless.   The architecture and art is on the modern side, although someone has take the time and trouble to beautifully display and label artifacts from the region.   We notice a display of large round ring-shaped seashells on a leather cord, labelled as shell money for bride price in the Lumi area.    Also of note is an amazing piece of costumery (a sort of string band collar with a panel that would cover the center part of one's chest):   it is entirely crafted of fruit bat teeth, all lined up together in a giant pattern, not unlike chain mail.   A lot of fruit bats went into the design, clearly.   We learn later that all the photos in the hotel have been done by Jean Thomas, and I think it was her friend Michelle who did the interior design here, and all the lovely artifact decorations.

We've arranged for a boat driver, a local fellow by the name of Clement, to fetch us this morning, and he is supposed to meet us at the front desk between 7:30am and 8am.   But he doesn't actually show up until 9:30am.  I'm a bit annoyed, as we wanted to get started early. He is from the nearby island of Muschu, and when he eventually arrives he is dressed in a tattered shirt and battered shorts.  He wants about 450 Kina to take us to Muschu Island, snorkel around in various spots, then take us to Kairuru Island.   Rachel and I both realize this is far too much for the trip, and we haggle with him, only bringing the price down to 400 Kina ($150) to take us out til 5pm.  We agree to this, knowing this his price is highway robbery.   Really, we have no other choice -- either go with Clement now or spend the day in the hotel doing nothing.  (Later, Jim tells us that 100 Kina would have been about the right price, but that seems awfully low, given that boat fuel is quite expensive.)   But we tell our guide that we will only pay him 200 Kina now, and he must bring us safely back to the lobby in order to collect the other 200 Kina.  He nods in agreement.

We walk the ten minutes down the hill the harbor, passing a few knots of locals on the way.  They look at us suspiciously.   We do not feel comfortable enough to take any photos here in Wewak town, so we have none. When we near the boat, we realize this isn't going to be the luxury cruise we had envisioned.   Our guide has no food for us for the day, no water.    We opt to stop at a grocery store along the way.  Luckily, there is the equivalent of a 7-11 near the boat launch.    There isn't much I trust to bring with us, that wouldn't precipitate a trip to the hospital.   So I opt for bottled waters, some diet Pepsi, and an assortment of biscuits.   Two packets of "Wupa" biscuits which look rather like plain, sugared English ones.   Or so I hope.  And some sort of sandwich cookies, which end up tasting like banana, even though they are not packaged as such.    I notice a post office nearby, and ask if we can stop there.   Sure, says Bernard, no problem.   Less boat fuel used up that that way, and more boat fuel money in his pockets.   Rachel and I buy a few stamps, some for each of us, and some to give to my cousin David, an avid philatelist.

Some of the stamps I purchased in Wewak town,
on our way to Muschu Island

So now we are ready to go, right?  Not quite.   We learn that Clement still needs to buy the boat fuel to get us out to Muschu, some 45 minutes away.   He hitches a ride to "somewhere" in the back of a pickup, and actually returns some 10 minutes later with a plastic jerrycan of fuel.  "Zoom" we hear someone call it.  Soon we are boarding our grand sea-going vessel, a tiny rowboat with an outboard motor.   All aboard the HMS Lik Lik Pinis, and off we go.

In a short time, we are out on the ocean, Wewak growing smaller on the horizon.  We near a small island (Raboin Island, I think Jim told me later) and Clement tells us this would be a good place to change into our swimsuits.   Seems reasonable to us.   We hop out and wade through the water and up onto shore of this sun-kissed atoll, certain that we're going to have a terrific day.   The island seems blissfully uninhabited.   We find a grove of palms and bushes to change behind, hidden from view.   As soon as we are undressed, a merciless, thick black cloud of mosquitoes descends upon us and begins to exsanguinate us.   We struggle hurriedly with our full-length body swimsuits and only get bitten a few dozen times.   We limp back to the boat.   Some enchanted island.

Clement has brought along his daughter, Christina, who is around 11 years old.   She sits dully in the front of the boat, staring into space.   We offer her some diet Pepsi, and some potato chips.    She's grateful for the food.   I try the Wupa biscuits.  God, they are beyond terrible.   Like Saltines but mixed with mud and glue.    I casually offer the entire lot to Christina.  She's happy to eat them.   While we are out on the water, with the wind whipping through her hair, and not a care in the world, Rachel gets splattered by some betelnut juice that Clement, upwind, spits out.   Way gnarly.

Christina holding some dead fish in a pretty
lagoon on Muschu Island.

We finally gets us to the snorkel spots off of Muschu; he says there are 6.   We stop at various places, including the wreck of a boat from WWII (all that is left is the outline of boat, right at the shore).  Rachel notices various small dead reef fish at the boat, including one pretty little angelfish with no eyes in its sockets.   We theorize about what happened to them... poison?  Perhaps the wreck is leaking toxic chemicals?   Did the boys near the wreck kill them somehow?

Rachel, showing one of the very sad, dead fish we found at a wreck
at on Muschu Island.

But we soldier on, and the next snorkeling place is much better, lots of pretty reef fish.  Although I have to admit, the snorkeling is not all that brilliant here, just ok.  We don't see many particularly unusual fish, although at one point Rachel spots a glorious school of cuttlefish, and one even leaves a watery cloud of black ink in the water;  it dispersed like an animated 3D painting.   I'd never seen that before.  At one point, we were out snorkeling around the reef, not near land at all.   Clement suddenly begins shouting to us from the rowboat.   "Get out of the water!   Get out of the water!"   We manage to haul ourselves back onto the boat, and ask if there is some poisonous or problem fish here.

"No!"  He points out in the distance, out on the reef where four tiny figures stand.   "See those guys?   They are dynamiting the reef.   So you need to get out of the water."   We are dumbfounded.
"Is that legal?" I ask.
"No."
"They just do it to kill the fish, to eat?"
"Yes," Clement explains, "and to get the coral, to make lime for chewing betelnut."  We watch for a few minutes, but see nothing.   We turn around to ask Clement something, and we must have missed the explosion.  We never heard it.   Now I really, really, really think betelnut chewing is disgusting.   Someone tells me later that the shock waves from the dynamite might have killed us.

We continue on, going all around Muschu Island.   We end up somewhere near where Clement's small guesthouse is on the island.   He drops us off out on the reef, about 1/4 mile from the island, and says he'll be back shortly.  As far as we could tell, he had no intention of returning.   We swim for a bit.   Rachel notices a place where the coral has been violently disturbed, as if dredged:   a 4 foot wide swath is cut through the coral, going towards the shore for a long way.   Overall, I'd have to say the snorkeling experience around Muschu was just so-so... it might have been nice 10 or 20 years ago, but now the coral is degraded.   Eventually, after about 45 minutes and a rather unexciting snorkel experience, we swim to shore.   We are nervous, and we have no idea where Clement is.  We try to stay calm, but we are both worried.   What if bad guys find us?  We find some kids on the beach, and ask them if they know where Clement's guesthouse is.  They smile shyly, giggle and point down the beach.   We walk 5 more minutes, and find him, casually cutting up a pineapple with a big sharp knife.   He offers us some.  It is very clear to me and to Rachel that Clement never had any intention of coming back out to the reef to pick us up.

We realize now that there is absolutely no time to go to Kairuru Island, it's too late in the day.   We resign ourselves to a raw deal, and eat more pineapple.

I'd like to point out that, except for two white tourists who are arranging to go down the Sepik River on a tour, at no time do we see any other whites or tourists in Wewak, and we were the only whites on Muschu Island.

We asked Clement if there are raskols out on the ocean (here) that attack tourists.   "Yes," he said casually.  "But they've only attacked my friends, never me.   And I carry a gun."   With his bare feet, shirtless chest, tattered shorts, and small bag full of betelnut fixings, we wondered where on earth his gun might be.  But we didn't ask.

Eventually, having given away those awful Wupa biscuits to some local kids (and to some local fish), we head back for town.  Clement does indeed get us safely back to our hotel, and we do pay him the balance for the trip, trying not to think about how badly he ripped us off, or worse, how he'll jack up the prices even further for the next unwitting tourists.

(Later on, in Lumi, we recount our experiences in Wewak town and Muschu Island to Jim and Jean.   They were the ones that suggested coming out to the island.   They seem slightly shocked that we went out there alone.   They don't say it, but imply such an adventure might be unsafe, unwise.   Jean notes that they were hoping to meet up with us in Wewak and take us out to the islands themselves, but their schedule didn't allow it.   They also tell us that Clement massively ripped us off for the trip.)

Back in the relative safe haven of the clean and Teutonically-efficient Boutique Hotel, we clean up for dinner, and head downstairs.  The hotel, like the Airways Hotel in Moresby, surrounded by sturdy fences, razor wire, guards with guns, dogs.  One Aussie businessman we met on the plane told us there was no nicer or cleaner hotel in PNG.  The hotel is actually kept too cold; it's positively glacial in the hotel's lobby, bar and restaurant.  But it's a pleasant change from the heat and humidity.   Rachel and I share a nice glass of white wine and discuss our hopes for our upcoming trip to Lumi.   We notice a large group of women coming in to dinner, all whites.    I flag one down, and she comes to our table.   We ask if she is a tourist here.

"No" she says pleasantly.   "We are a big group of missionaries."     She explains that they are not staying at the hotel, but have just come here to eat dinner.    They all work sort of independently, in far-flung little communities and they come together like this occasionally.  She tells us she is German.  We wish her a pleasant evening, and she rejoins her friends.

We head off to bed, grateful to have survived another day, and looking forward to adventures in Lumi tomorrow.