We have a short day here, mostly we just have to pack, eat and leave. But before we go, we still have our photo-shoot of John's crocodile scars.
We are sorry to have to leave Karawari Lodge today, but Rachel and I both felt that 4 days here was a good amount of time to stay, especially as we were the only tourists here, and got extraordinary one-on-one care and attention. About the Karawari: loved, loved, loved it. However, how ironic that the one place we felt the safest in PNG is among the communities of all the cannibals?
We leave all of our wonderful Sepik-Karawari carvings to be sent to me in California at some unspecified future date, for some unspecified dollar amount. Yikes. I hope they arrive, and I hope it doesn't cost an arm and a leg! (Get it?) So we leave our wonderful treasures on the long heavy wooden table in the main hall of the Karawari Lodge, and hope we'll see them again.
{Include photo of jeep with no eyes}
We eat our usual delicious breakfast of fruits, muffins, eggs, bacon and toast, pack our things, and drive past the old jeep "no eyes, can work" one last time. A short boat trip to the air strip, and before you know it, we are aloft again, heading back to the Mt. Hagen area. The flight is brief, and then we are back in "civilization": the safety net is gone again. We land at the Mt. Hagen airport, surrounded by the customary chain link, razor wire, and myriad of colorful bilum bags hanging from the other side of the chain link, where local women sell them, asking around 50 Kina [$20 USD] for a regular bag (although one can haggle them, depending on the quality of the bag, as low as 20 Kina [$8 USD]).
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| John Fairfull, and crocodile scars |
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| John's back, showing the crocodile skin scarification. |
We leave all of our wonderful Sepik-Karawari carvings to be sent to me in California at some unspecified future date, for some unspecified dollar amount. Yikes. I hope they arrive, and I hope it doesn't cost an arm and a leg! (Get it?) So we leave our wonderful treasures on the long heavy wooden table in the main hall of the Karawari Lodge, and hope we'll see them again.
{Include photo of jeep with no eyes}
We eat our usual delicious breakfast of fruits, muffins, eggs, bacon and toast, pack our things, and drive past the old jeep "no eyes, can work" one last time. A short boat trip to the air strip, and before you know it, we are aloft again, heading back to the Mt. Hagen area. The flight is brief, and then we are back in "civilization": the safety net is gone again. We land at the Mt. Hagen airport, surrounded by the customary chain link, razor wire, and myriad of colorful bilum bags hanging from the other side of the chain link, where local women sell them, asking around 50 Kina [$20 USD] for a regular bag (although one can haggle them, depending on the quality of the bag, as low as 20 Kina [$8 USD]).
We are gathered from the airport by our driver (Anise) and guide (Raymond) for Rondon Ridge. They are pleasant enough fellows, although as with every man in PNG, their body odor is quite strong. Actually, the stench is really, overwhelmingly, just-before-gaggingly strong. We are in an enclosed jeep with them, as opposed to the open-air jet boat, or the giant bus in Ambua, so we can't really escape the odor. We try not to think about it, and open the windows whenever we can. Raymond carried Rachel's camera bag (in which we had combined our equipment, and thus had only one bag) for the next 2 days, and Rachel noted that long afterwards, even in Sydney, every time she carried that bag her clothes reeked of PNG-man-smell. The gift that keeps on giving. Even Rachel, used to the abject poverty of Madagascar, after 3 years there, is blown away by the stinky armpits. And we both agree that even as poor as the poorest people appear in PNG, Madagascar is by far still the poorest country we have ever seen. She remarks to me in private that no matter what, the Malagasy try to bathe every day, and so despite the most dire poverty, they are reasonably good-smelling. I recall Tim Flannery remarking in his wonderful book Throwim Way Leg that one of the striking differences between the indigenous Papuans in West Papua (basically the same as the people in PNG) and the invading Indonesians who are now in charge is that the Papuans take terrific care of their rivers, trees and environment, while they do not take such meticulous care of their own bodies. On the other hand, the Muslim Indonesians have seriously mucked up the environment, polluted the rivers, chopped down the trees, eroded the land, but they take immaculate care of their own bodies.
We tell Raymond that we want to change a little money, and could we please stop at a bank in Hagen? We are well aware that this is one of those times when we are definitely not safe, and we figure it's broad daylight, and we are with Raymond, so it's probably a good idea to do it now. There are guards outside the bank, guards inside the bank, and a set of two locked doors to get through to enter. Pretty much everywhere we go we see guys dressed in the familiar brown jumpsuits that are embroidered with the logo "Guard Dog Security." We stop, change some of our "too-big-for-village commerce" 50 Kina notes into smaller denominations, stash the change in our money belts, hidden at our waistbands, and exit the bank without incident. We then tell Raymond that we'll be coming back through Mt. Hagen again in a week, and staying one night at the Quality Inn Hotel Highlander. Does he know it? He nods and offers to have the driver take us there to show us, as it isn't far. We accept. In a few minutes we drive by an unprepossessing wall, topped with razor wire, and a sign advertising the hotel. Looks "safe" but kind of dingy, to put it mildly. Hellhole Guesthouse in Baghdad would be more apt. We have been tipped off by other whites who've stayed there that it is indeed safe, pleasant, and we'll have no problems there. We can only hope.
We later learn that somewhere around 2007, an Australian pilot was getting a 50 Kina note (about $20USC) from an ATM machine in Mt. Hagen, and he was killed on the spot for it, by a robber.
{include shot of Mt. Hagen town}
{include shot of Mt. Hagen town}
Then we head up to a ridge high above Hagen Town, for our next-to-last stop on the Trans Niugini Tours portion of the trip, Rondon Ridge Lodge. We are delighted to see that the lodge is practically brand new, and absolutely lovely, apparently designed by an Australian architect. Modern lines, with the interior showcasing cultural artifacts and carved objets d'art from the Sepik River region. It affords a stunning vista, out of the wide clear glass panorama windows, down across the lush green Waghi Valley. The lodge is relatively far from Hagen Town so it seems reasonably safe. We are offered lunch, which is pleasant but forgettable (nothing New Guinean about it all, just basic Aussie fare) then introduced to our guide for the afternoon. He's an older man named Joseph. He's sort of solemn, and at times, hard to understand, but he seems pleasant enough. He's graying at the temples, maybe in his late 50s? He owns a large orchid garden that's about 20 minutes up the trail, but he says we don't have time to go now, we'll go there tomorrow morning.
{include shot of interior of Rondon Ridge Lodge}
{include shot of interior of Rondon Ridge Lodge}
Joseph takes us up on walk, through degraded forest, to look for birds of paradise, which are actually much higher up the trail, in whatever is left of the original forest. The walk takes about an hour and a half, and it's getting to be late afternoon when we get there. Rachel lags behind at one point, and while she is by herself she sees a large rat-like creature, similar to an opposum. She later learns that it's a bandicoot. Unfortunately, she did not have time take a photo of it, as it disappeared into the undergrowth before she even had a chance to reach for her camera. I'm having serious bandicoot-envy. This moment is important: this is the only time that either of us spots an endemic wild animal in our 20 days in Papua New Guinea.
On the way, and near the top of the trail, Joseph shows us the amazing "display area" for the Macgregor's Bowerbird. Not a nest, but a place where the male Bowerbird can show of his skill of stick-stacking and moss-and-stick ring-making. I guess it's actually called a "maypole" bower. Fascinating and bizarre.
{include photo of Bowerbird area}
(Weeks later, Rachel is delighted to find an article in Nat Geo [July 2010, pp. 68-81] featuring bowerbirds, with shots by Tim Laman, her ex-boss at Brandeis! In fact, the crazy thing is, the photo in Nat Geo, we are certain, is the EXACT same display area that we are photographing today!) (The photo by Laman that is similar to our own is on page 77.) We finally reach the part of the trail where the Birds of Paradise often roost. We sit in silence, listening, watching. We can hear them, and by far the most astounding call is that of the brown sicklebill, which sounds exactly like machine-gun fire. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. Evidently, Japanese soldiers in WW II thought that these birds were the sounds of their enemies firing at them! Occasionally, we see a bird of paradise through the dense canopy. Just a glimpse, and they hide, way up in the canopy, hard for my measly 400mm lens to capture their images. We can hear the call of the black sicklebill, not like a machine gun at all, just birdsong. Also, it's nearing dusk, so lighting conditions are pretty lousy for photographing backlit birds 200 yards away. We often hear the song of the Helmeted Friarbird, an unremarkable-looking bird with a lovely call, very common throughout PNG. Saved from extinction by virtue of its very dullness -- no one would ever make a lovely hat out of its drab gray and tan plumage. Its head is similar to a vulture's, so it's no beauty-contest winner. And it's not big enough for much of a meal, unless you were absolutely desperate. We attempt to get some "sound footage" of the calls. Each time we make a recording, Joseph coughs or makes grumbly old-man noises. Rachel, in her most polite-est voice, liltingly coos, "Ummm, Joseph? We are trying to record the bird calls, so can we all be really quiet?" Joseph nods. Rachel and I start our videos rolling, and of course, Joseph makes an array of throat-clearing noises throughout each of our 5 or 6 recordings. Perhaps he's a heavy smoker and/or betelnut chewer, and he just can't help it. Still, I have happy memories of sitting there in the quiet of the forest, listening to these rare birds singing their engaging songs. Joseph explains that the area that we walked through to get up here is all degraded second-growth forest. He explains that German loggers came in in the 1950s and took out almost all the trees. Apparently this tiny patch that we are now sitting in, is old-growth forest that was left alone for some reason (probably some tribe with really sharp spears owned it.) The Birds of Paradise only like to roost and court in the very tallest trees, and the trees in the lower down, degraded forest are not suitable for them.
We watch the light in the west fade to dusky pink through the trees. Rachel, ever vigilant, has brought her headlamp, and we share the light going down the trail, to return to the Lodge, just as night is falling. Joseph tells us we need to meet him at 6am the following morning, to spend a few hours looking at his Orchid Garden, which is about a 20 minute walk from the Rondon Ridge Lodge.
{include photo of Bowerbird area}
(Weeks later, Rachel is delighted to find an article in Nat Geo [July 2010, pp. 68-81] featuring bowerbirds, with shots by Tim Laman, her ex-boss at Brandeis! In fact, the crazy thing is, the photo in Nat Geo, we are certain, is the EXACT same display area that we are photographing today!) (The photo by Laman that is similar to our own is on page 77.) We finally reach the part of the trail where the Birds of Paradise often roost. We sit in silence, listening, watching. We can hear them, and by far the most astounding call is that of the brown sicklebill, which sounds exactly like machine-gun fire. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. Evidently, Japanese soldiers in WW II thought that these birds were the sounds of their enemies firing at them! Occasionally, we see a bird of paradise through the dense canopy. Just a glimpse, and they hide, way up in the canopy, hard for my measly 400mm lens to capture their images. We can hear the call of the black sicklebill, not like a machine gun at all, just birdsong. Also, it's nearing dusk, so lighting conditions are pretty lousy for photographing backlit birds 200 yards away. We often hear the song of the Helmeted Friarbird, an unremarkable-looking bird with a lovely call, very common throughout PNG. Saved from extinction by virtue of its very dullness -- no one would ever make a lovely hat out of its drab gray and tan plumage. Its head is similar to a vulture's, so it's no beauty-contest winner. And it's not big enough for much of a meal, unless you were absolutely desperate. We attempt to get some "sound footage" of the calls. Each time we make a recording, Joseph coughs or makes grumbly old-man noises. Rachel, in her most polite-est voice, liltingly coos, "Ummm, Joseph? We are trying to record the bird calls, so can we all be really quiet?" Joseph nods. Rachel and I start our videos rolling, and of course, Joseph makes an array of throat-clearing noises throughout each of our 5 or 6 recordings. Perhaps he's a heavy smoker and/or betelnut chewer, and he just can't help it. Still, I have happy memories of sitting there in the quiet of the forest, listening to these rare birds singing their engaging songs. Joseph explains that the area that we walked through to get up here is all degraded second-growth forest. He explains that German loggers came in in the 1950s and took out almost all the trees. Apparently this tiny patch that we are now sitting in, is old-growth forest that was left alone for some reason (probably some tribe with really sharp spears owned it.) The Birds of Paradise only like to roost and court in the very tallest trees, and the trees in the lower down, degraded forest are not suitable for them.
Photo "postcard" from montane forest... at the end of this clip you can
hear the rat-tat-tat-tat-tat of the Black Sicklebill (bird of Paradise)... sounds like a
machine gun.
We watch the light in the west fade to dusky pink through the trees. Rachel, ever vigilant, has brought her headlamp, and we share the light going down the trail, to return to the Lodge, just as night is falling. Joseph tells us we need to meet him at 6am the following morning, to spend a few hours looking at his Orchid Garden, which is about a 20 minute walk from the Rondon Ridge Lodge.
A quiet dinner, with lukewarm white wine. The lodge, as with Karawari, is being operated just for us. We accept it now... that's just how it is. We are told that some 6 more people will join us tomorrow. This lodge is run by electric hydropower, and as we are now in the dry season, the water holding tanks are low so the power at the lodge is very limited. And white wine cannot be kept chilled. Alas.
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A still from the film First Contact. This shot kind of says it all. |
The manager of the Lodge, Paul, asks us if we have seen the film, First Contact, about the first Australians that came to PNG in 1933. We have not, so he arranges to show this film via a tape in the lodge, which will start at an appointed time, on the TV (!!!!) in our room. I think Rondon Ridge Lodge was the only place where we watched any TV in PNG. The film is depressing, a black and white documentary about the discovery of the PNG Highlands by the Leahy brothers, Australian explorers, looking for gold. Basically, the locals (the film is set largely in the very area in which we are now seated) are portrayed as ignorant, stone-age savages, who believe the whites are the spirits of their ancestors. That is, until they sagely note that the white "spirits" have to use a toilet just like they do. So it all comes down to shit, in the end. Basically, they every advantage of the locals to scout for gold, and to frighten and terrorize the locals with their guns as a sort of Aussie colonialist sport. Of course, their poor stone-axe wielding "hosts" haven't a chance. The film documents colonialism and racism gone wild. We watch about 2/3 of the film before we shut off the TV, tired, and with only 7 or so hours before we need to meet Joseph, at dawn.
After Karawari we went on to Rondon Ridge, which was nice, and we had some good photo ops with the Mudmen and got to see more BIrds of Paradise, a lovely orchid garden, and a number of colorful villagers and scenes. We stayed there 2 nights, and on the first night we were the only guests. The second night, there was one other couple. Jeez, the place was uncomfortably crowded!
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