Definitely not Kansas. 26 June

Today is our first full day in PNG. We awake bright and early, breakfast at the dining hall, joining Chris and Virginia again. They tell us they are off to do a photo shoot at the waterfall, of a PNG fellow dressed in full regalia. Our itinerary indicates that today will be "Tari Gap Full Day Bird/Nature". We are looking forward to seeing some Birds of Paradise. Benson meets us around dawn, and big surprise, doesn't seem very happy. We head off in the medium-sized white bus, PNG driver Michael at the wheel. We are on another mining road, this time to the northeast of the lodge. All along the road there is forest, although somewhat degraded by the presence of this mining road. We stop a few kilometers from the Lodge, and Benson indicates that there are Birds of Paradise here, way up in those trees. We squint. Backlit, we can make out the silhouette of a bird, but it's some 100 yards away, and up in a tree about 4 stories tall. We are told that it is a Twelve-Wired Bird of Paradise. But really, we can't see much. Then a Stephanie's Astrapia, but again it's tiny and we can't really get much of a photo. Finally, we see a King of Saxony Bird of Paradise, and get the best glimpse of this fellow.

My only useable shot of a male King of Saxony Bird of Paradise.
The long plumes emanating from his head are amazing!
They stay at the tops of tall trees (hence the grainy shot, from a
distance) and guard their territory from other males.

Here's a blog post from another traveler, which includes a nice close-up video clip of probably the exact same bird:  http://billofthebirds.blogspot.com/2010_11_01_archive.html


I do manage to get a barely passable shot of the King of Saxony.   Nevil, the resident birder, is overwrought with delight and excitement at the presence of the Birds of Paradise.  He looks at the image I captured on my Canon D7, and he exclaims, "you can get a better shot than that! Don't you know what you are doing? You do it this way!" He fiddles with my cameras dials, and I'm annoyed.   The shot availability is terrible anyway, and so I don't really care. But he is determined that I should get a good "ID shot". He shakes his head at my obvious photographic incompetence, and toddles off in search of an owl or some other rare bird. Rachel and I exchange glances,  grateful that we don't have to put up with him for the duration of our tour.

Raskols.   Notice the guy in the background -- he has a shotgun.  
The others have machetes.

The birds of paradise depart, and so Benson urges us back into the bus to continue on our journey. We travel for another few kilometers, and the bus pulls up to 3 logs that have been laid across the road. I immediately tense up and get worried. "Bad guys," I call out in alarm, as if Benson somehow might have missed this. Benson and Michael seem completely unworried. They both get out of the bus, and move the logs aside. Benson yells out to someone in the bush. I remark on this to Rachel. She is still in denial. "No," she replies, "Benson was just talking to Michael." I shake my head. Then, another bus, a blue local bus filled with day workers, both men and women, pulls up alongside us. Suddlenly, bad guys ("raskols") rush out of the bushes and surround the blue bus next to us. Benson yells at them furiously in Pidgin. We have no idea what he says, but we guess it's something like, "you guys get out of here, or I'll f-in' kill you." Some men from the blue bus start to emerge to defend themselves, but the raskols back off, and go back to hiding in the bush. The raskols look fierce, and either have their faces painted white, or are wearing masks. As we drive off down the road, I snap some crappy photos of the bad guys.  My hands are shaking. One is carrying a shotgun, and the other have machetes.

Benson seems downright happy, for once, and decidedly unperturbed. I am starting to freak out, umm, just a little. Benson casually remarks, "You know, I saved all of their lives. If we hadn't been there at that particular moment, those guys in the bush would have killed the guys in the blue bus."

Rachel and I are now visibly nervous. I say, "Ummm, we'd just like to go back to the Lodge. Can we go back to the Lodge now?" Benson is annoyed at my lack of confidence in his ability to monitor the situation. "No, no, no. As long as you are with me, you are safe. We are going to drive up here to a really pretty vista. You'll like it."

Adrenaline, pumping harder through my system, I persist, "Do we have to go back to the Lodge on that same road [where the roadblock was]? Can we go back to the Lodge a different way?"

Yep, Benson is definitely irritated.   I'm bruising his ego. "No." He says. "We must go back the same way. There is only one road."

Rachel and I sit in silence. Our minds are spinning. We have brought our money and passports with us, thinking that keeping this stuff on us is the safest place for them. Now that's looking like a really stupid plan. We quickly cast about the interior of the bus for places to stash money and passports. The fabric on the seats of the bus has a gap in it, and money could be stashed there. I decide (perhaps rashly) that Benson is the safest place for my stuff. I hand my money belt and passport over to him. He seems happy, for a moment.   Rachel has her own plan. She stashes some money in her zip pocket of her pants leg, some under the seat, some somewhere else.

We arrive at the lovely vista spot. I am really not looking at the vista.  I barely remember it.    My mind was busy thinking about survival strategies. After a few cursory minutes where we appear to be admiring the scenery, but are in fact thinking that we may soon be raped and killed, we ask to return to the Lodge. Benson scowls and reiterates, "You are completely safe with me. Don't worry."

Of course, his words do not really steady us much.

We head back down the road, back to the blockade, in silence.

The logs are back. We approach slowly. Suddenly, we notice another van full of Papua New Guineans coming in the opposite direction. Raskols stream from the bush, with very large rocks, small boulders really, which they fiercely hurl at the windshield of the blue bus. This effectively smashes the unprotected windshield of the oncoming bus, so while it hasn't caved in, the driver cannot possibly see out of it.   The driver decides to gun the engine, and hope that the axles of the bus don't snap as the vehicle struggles to drive over the logs.    This manuver slows the bus down, the raskols attack in fury, but are unsuccessful.  Not a good time for photos, so you'll just have to take my word for it.   Smashed front windshield and all, the bus crosses the logs, gains momentum, and scuttles away.   Away from the angry attackers who are now looking at us.   Crap.


We on the floor of the bus, peering out towards the scene unfolding ahead in great alarm.   Benson snaps, "Get down.  Get down."  Rachel and I hunker down on the dirty bus floor, clutching at each other with white knuckles.   We are desperately clinging to the hope that the raskols will somehow be too afraid of Benson to attack us.


All is quiet outside.   One of the raskols approaches the bus and says something to Benson angrily.   Benson opens one of the front windows and tosses out a machete, which klinks softly as it hits the road surface.  Great.  That appears to have been the only weapon in the bus.   This does nothing to quell my fear.   Why on earth would Benson reliquish our vehicle's only weapon?  But Benson is unswervingly calm.


After another Benson-raskol exchange, mysteriously (and mercifully) the raskols remove the barriers from the road, and the Obama-bus sails through, without further incident.

Safety grate on a well-equipped and 
protected anti-Raskol vehicle

Michael drives on down the road, completely unruffled.   My curiosity gets the best of me, and I ask Benson why he threw out the machete.  "Because I took it from him [the raskol], and he wanted it back," Benson replies, over his shoulder.  He assures us, again, that we were never in any danger.  We notice several buses passing us, and unlike the bus window we just saw smashed to smithereens, they all have metal grates over the windshields.   Ah, yes, now we get it.


We pass two police jeeps, rushing up the road towards the raskols.   Benson notes he called the police on his cell phone, but that the police won't find them, the raskols will be long gone by the time the cops arrive.


We head back to the relative safety of the lodge.   Later, I hear gossip (unsubstantiated, but probably true) that Ambua Lodge has been attacked at points in the past, and everyone in it has been robbed.   I gather this has happened at least once, maybe more.


Rachel stays in the dining hall, and I'm alone when I head to our thatched roof chalet at Ambua.   On the path to our room, I'm transfixed suddenly by the sight, a few feet from me, of a glorious, giant hummingbird moth a few feet from me.   I stop to watch it, and perhaps get a photo, when suddenly, a black and white bird swoops down in a blur and plucks the moth away.   Gone!   Instantly!   I remember the sound occurred when the bird grabbed the moth, a sort of buzzing and crunching sound, almost metallic.   After our run-in with the raskols a mere hour before, I was quite on edge, and I think I jumped about a foot in the air, and let out a scream.   Papua New Guinea:  Land of the Unexpected.   Yes, indeed.


Holy smokes!   It's not even lunchtime, and actually we have hardly been in PNG for 24 hours.   Time has suddenly taken on a twilight-zone dimension.   It feels as though we've been here for at least a week.  Rachel concurs.


Lunch is unremarkable, but better than yesterday's barely edible noodle concoction.  But we do tell the others in the lodge of our morning's adventure.   Everyone who listens is generally wide-eyed, and concerned.   One of the older guys working on the Exxon airstrip, an Australian named Roland, tells us that he's been in PNG for around 20 years, and he's seen some bad stuff.  He recounts that at one point, some Papua New Guinean shoved a gun against his skull, and pulled the trigger.   There was nothing in the chamber.  He doesn't know if the attacker knew that or not.   We disclose to Chris and Virginia the incidents that occurred out in the Tari Gap.   Chris seems almost jealous of our extraordinary good luck, to have had such an ordeal.

Huli woman with massive biceps.   She is
wiping her baby's mouth with a bit of moss.

After lunch, Benson informs us that plans have been made for us to visit some of the local villages.   The villagers (in several places) will give us a demonstration to explain how people live here.  First we head to the first village to meet some women, to help us understand what life is like for women here.  Ummm.... not that great, I have to say.   Benson explains to us (as was pointed out to us upon arrival) that there are three things that are important in Huli life (which is all from a man's perspective, naturally):   land, pigs and women, "in that order", he declares, with emphasis.   In fact, women are regarded somewhere far to the south of pigs.   Benson leaves us, as he is not really allowed here in the women's area.   We relax.   We meet a group of women, and for once, we don't feel like the locals are going to kill us.   They emanate kindness, compassion and goodwill.   We relax a little more.  Just a little.   And they are very hard workers.   They have biceps like bodybuilders.     No wonder, of course, they work like fiends.


We notice that most of the women are not wearing tops... we learn that once a woman has had a child, she no longer needs to wear a top here in the Southern Highlands.   However, young women who have not yet had a baby cover their breasts.   Older women seem to want to cover up though, but no one comments on that to us.  In a group photo, some topless women slide a bilum over their chests to hide their breasts, but they all seem rather casual about the whole thing.   No one has the means to buy a bra, and it seems unlikely they would see any use for it anyway.  We notice that when their babies pee or poo or dribble food, their mothers wipe them with bits of moss from the forest.   There's not a bit of trash or litter anywhere in the village.

A group of Huli women.   All of their skirts are carefully handmade strips of dried grass,
that have been dyed halfway, to give a lovely two-toned effect.  These skirts are not just for show, for tourists, they are
actually what the women wear as their regular daily clothing.  The skirts are really
like works of art.

Here the the woman the others called "Work".   She does indeed work
feverishly to plant this large sweet potato bed.

The people here are subsistence farmers.   So we watch one young woman, whose name we are told, simply, is "Work" because she works so hard.   She labors mightily to plant sweet potatoes, a staple crop for the people here, in raised beds.   The bed, about 15 feet wide and 20 feet long has been prepared for planting.   She flings herself with fervor to the middle of the bed, where she plants a sweet potato start, and again, and again, and again, until the whole bed is planted.    The energy it took her to plant this bed is startling.   She apparently works like this all day.   We see no evidence of men working in the fields, not today, not ever.   We are informed that the women do all the hard work here, and the men, well, it's not clear what they do besides sit around and chew betelnut.  And grow their hair for wigs.  And start clan wars.


Huli men have characteristic wide noses, although, curiously, the women do not seem to have this facial trait as much.    We like the women a lot, and we wish we could communicate more easily with them.  Our world and theirs are so very different, and they seem pleased to show us their way of life.   We are humbled by their graciousness.  They do speak English, to some extent, but they are rather quiet on the whole.


Benson motions to us to come along the trail, where we are going to see more important stuff:   men of course.   I must point out that Benson has told us he has two wives (it's common to have one, two, three or more wives in the Highlands).   He says his first wife is lazy, and he has no use for her.   She has a few children.   He explains that one can tell a good wife by looking at her hands.    Soft hands (like us American loser women):   bad.   Calloused hands:  good.   His second wife, he declares, is a hard worker.   He explains that in PNG men have to pay a "bride price" for wives.   Here in the Southern Highlands, a good wife costs 30 pigs.   A really good wife costs 50 pigs.   The "bride price" is paid to the bride's parents.  And pigs cost anywhere from 200-500 Kina each ($75-185 USD).  We explain that in America, the bride's parents have to pay for the couple's wedding, but they do not pay the husband anything.   Yep, Benson's convinced now, Americans are really dumber than shit.   By the way, here in the Highlands, a woman is not allowed to own land, although we later learn that the Ambua Lodge grounds belonged to Benson's mother, and he inherited it from her.   PNG, we are learning, is a land where nothing is what you might expect.

Huli Wigman shows us the wig he's in the process or growing.   Note
the blanket stitch in red, all along the rim of the wig.

The same Wigman demonstrates how one must sleep in order
to keep the wig in perfect shape whilst growing it
out.   Motel 6 is lookin' real good.

We head down the trail and across some vegetable gardens and through some gates to meet the Huli Wigmen.  We've heard a lot about these guys, and are expecting great photo ops.   We are not disappointed.   It seems a little weird, and doesn't really make a lot of sense, but guys come to the Wig School, to study with the Wig Master, to learn how to grow their hair into Wigs, which they then harvest, and sell.   It's apparently quite an art, and so that they hair doesn't get matted down, they have to sleep a certain (very uncomfortable-looking) way (see photo above).  It takes a couple of years to grow a really good wig.   We smell marijuana smoke, but we are assured it's "just tobacco."   (We hear from others that their local tobacco does indeed smell like marijuana.)   Yah, right.    But unlike the women, the guys are doing pretty much of nothing, just sitting around and posing for photos.    Growing and selling a wig is probably not the best way to earn a living.    But we see no evidence of them doing anything else. 


Before dinner. we chat again with cute helicopter pilot, Dave.   He's a sort of maverick.  But what else would you expect from a Harley-ridin', helipcopter-pilotin' laddie who works in dangerous countries and sports a large croc tooth around his neck?   He tells us he's from Vancouver.  He likes Rachel and offers her a ride in the helicopter.   As she has never been in a helicopter before, she's delighted to accept.  She and I are traveling together, and I suppose,  are a sort of "package deal", so Dave remarks, later, that, "oh, and you're invited too."  (Meaning me.)   Of course, I'm well aware that I'm just the middle-aged friend of Rachel's (I'm actually roughly the same age as Dave, mind you) and I am not in the running for any actual offers of helicopter rides.   I'm practically invisible at 51 (which, as far as I can see it, a feature, not a bug, in this country.)   Dave arranges for us to have a heli ride tomorrow.   Rachel is thrilled, and I'm pretty happy too.   We find out later that helicopter rides in PNG are insanely expensive, even more than in say, Hawaii.   The going rate is around $1000-$3000 per hour, per person.   We ask Dave if flying helicopters is hard.  He laughs and explains that the landing bit is tricky, "it's like balancing a marble on a beach ball."

I chat briefly with the lone Australian woman who works with the crew; I think she said she was doing environmental assessment.  She seems a bit hostile in general, and refers to the locals as "monkeys" (which horrifies Rachel; as for me, I see her point, but wouldn't have said it that way.)   I later learn that the crew cannot leave her at the work site overnight, far too many threats of rape and violence.  In hindsight, I wish I had gathered her thoughts on PNG.   But she seemed to have less than no interest in speaking with me, so she drifts off to another conversation.


Nevil, the crazed birdman, chats with us briefly.   He asks us, "Are you birders?"  Clearly, we are not.   He is confounded.   "Well, what are you then?"


Resounding silence.