I acquire a valuable native carving

The MV Koro takes us from Bogia to Madang

The skipper of the MV Koroi, the larger boat that takes us back to Madang is European. There are four more passengers on board for this fourteen-hour trip. A European doctor and his wife and two teenage kids, who are leaving the medical station at Bogia after having served there for some years.  It’s on dusk when we sail away from the Bogia jetty. Soon we are all sitting around a large table in the galley the six passengers and the white skipper and are served a meal by the native cook. Phil and I tuck in, we’re starving, we haven’t eaten since we left Madang early in the morning. The food is good and the skipper offers us a beer from his own supply.

We have a chat for a while then disappear with the other passengers into our respective cabins. The sea is fairly calm and I soon drift off and am woken up early in the morning with the boats activities.

I get dressed and start exploring the boat. On the upper deck I find lots of native artefacts of all kinds. Similar to the stuff I had seen at the Catholic Mission in Wewak, but better and more interesting.

I make my way back down to the galley where Phil and the others are already sitting waiting for breakfast. During breakfast I ask the skipper about the artefacts. The doctor answers, 'They’re ours'. He explains that during his stay in Bogia he had been given these items from time to time by patients for medical services. I ask him if he wants to sell any.

'No', he says.

'Not even one', I ask.

'Certainly not', he insists.

'Shame', I say.

After breakfast, I go back up on the upper deck and have another look at the artefacts. There is one particular large mask that fascinates me. I pick it up and have a close look at it, when the doctor stands beside me. 'I told you, they’re not for sale', he says. 'I just love this one', I answer, 'it’s fascinating. I’ll give you twenty bucks for it'. 'Put it down', he says.

He goes back below deck and I enter the wheel house where the captain and a Native steer the boat towards Madang. The captain points out a landmass in the distance and tells me that’s where Madang is, another four hours and we’ll we there, he says.

New Guinea Mask I bought on the boat

When we disembark in Madang, the doctor and his family are trying to get all their luggage and artefacts into a taxi. Phil and I grab our toolboxes and get off the boat. The doctor has no success getting everything into this taxi and his wife tells him, 'I told you not to bring so much stuff with you'.

I am watching with amusement. There is no way he can get all this stuff into one car. The doctor looks at me and I say, 'I told you, I’ll give you twenty bucks for it'.

He picks it up and hands it to me. I give him twenty dollars and Phil stands there with his mouth open. He wasn’t with me when I had the conversation with the doctor on the boat.

I know I have a great mask with much greater value than twenty dollars. 

Will Vodka do the trick?

At the local telephone exchange we find a problem with one of the compressors. It has stopped working and Phil diagnoses that the compressor cannot be fixed and needs to be replaced. We phone Port Moresby and Dave ask us to try to find one in town, otherwise they will have to send one up from Port Moresby but that would take a few weeks.

The chap at the telephone exchange tells us of this local refrigeration bloke who has a small shop who might be able to help.

Two bottles of Vodka do the trick

Alex, is a short fat Russian with a heavy accent. ’Of  course I have a spare compressor here, I veel sell it to yooh’, he says. We agree on a price but he insists he wants a bottle of vodka as well. He has drunk all the vodka in Madang, there is none left.

I phone Dave and tell him to send a cheque and a couple of bottle of vodka or there is no compressor.

Two days later, the cheque and the vodka arrive and Alex is over the moon. ‘You veel help me drienk a biottle of vodka’, he insists. By the time we have finished one of the bottles, we are unable to lift the compressor into the hire car. We drive home to the motel and go to bed.

Next morning, Phil and I are feeling terrible but when we get to Alex’s shop, he is in full swing, not a sign of what happened last night. Russians must be used to it. We pick up the compressor and are on our way. I am seriously considering going into the import business. Importing vodka to Madang. I’d make a fortune.

Could I Be in Love?

Back at the Smugglers Inn, there are a lot of new guests; all the rooms are full to the delight of John and Marcia. There is a tour up from Australia in their own charter plane, an Ansett tour complete with captain and three hostesses. The staff is setting the dining room for the tour group and a large table on the verandah for the airline crew and Phil and me. There is not enough room in the dining room so Marcia sits us with the crew. We don’t mind.

Having a chat with an Ansett Hostie

I sit next to an Ansett hostess from Tasmania. She lives in Launceston but has been transferred to Papua New Guinea for a while. She is very nice and we get along fine. I find out that she hasn’t got a boyfriend and when she asks me I tell her that I haven’t got a girlfriend either. Gradually the others disappear to their rooms and we stay and chat on the verandah overlooking the lagoon until the early morning.

When they leave the next day, we exchange addresses and she asks me to visit her in Tasmania one day. Of course I will, I promise.

Another Adventure

I am in charge of this trip so I have to do the expense sheets every week for the company. I have to send them down to Port Moresby to Dave Scott for approval. One week, I make a mistake of 5 cents in our favour. I wasn’t aware of this until I get a letter from Dave telling me I made a mistake of 5 cents in our favour and asks me to correct the mistake next week. The letter has a 7-cent stamp on it. I’m beginning to wonder! Of course, next week I forget and the expense sheet still shows 5 cents in our favour. I get another letter from Dave with another 7-cent stamp on it telling me I still had a mistake of 5 cents in our favour, he wants me to fix the problem and adds …don’t do that again. Maybe I should enclose two 7-cent stamps with my next expense report for his troubles.

We’re at the bar one evening and John is telling some other guests that he is organising a trip to a native village and a walk in the jungle. He asks Phil and myself if we want to come too. Of course we agree. Saturday morning we’re in John’s Landrover, six of us driving out of town into the hills of New Guinea. We’re parking by the side and start walking up into the mountains, for about an hour when we come to a village amongst the coconut trees.

Village near Madang

It’s different from the village we visited in New Britain near Rabaul. This one is much larger and in front of most of the huts, there are native women engaged in making pottery. They are making all sorts of pots, vases and things. John explains they work for the Madang tourist shops, selling these items to visitors, mainly Americans passing through on boats.

The huts are about a meter off the ground on bamboo poles, the roofs are made with banana leaves and the windows are just holes in the walls. Each hut has a set of timber stairs to get down. The huts are built all around the village square

There are lots of children in the village gathering around us, chattering and showing off. Typical of children everywhere in the world. The mothers are in their huts keeping an eye out for the children. There is a large village square and it looks very clean.

We continue up the hill to a lookout from where we have the most glorious view over Madang in the distance and over the ocean. But what amazes me the most is all the little seashells everywhere on the ground. I point it out to the others and nobody has an explanation of how these millions of seashells got on top of this mountain, not even our host John Barlow. Most of them are crushed but there are still lots of them intact. An incredible sight.

Women making pottery for American Tourists

I am intrigued by this. We ponder the question for some time. The only solution we derive at is that at some time in the past, the mountain must have been formed by a volcano, lifting the landmass up high similar to that small island in Rabaul harbour that came up out of the water in 24 hours as many local people tell you.

We return back to the village and the other visitors buy some pots from the native women and finally walk back to the Landrover and drive into Madang again, it was another great day.

Am I going to drown?

We love it here at the Smuggler's Inn, in Madang. It’s a great place and we’re becoming very friendly with the two barmaids at the Smuggler's Motel. One day to escape the heat, we decide to go swimming with the two girls. They want to go to the town’s swimming pool, but I suggest we go for a swim right here in the lagoon. Phil says, No way, it’s too rough. The girls agree but I say, come on, it looks great. And climb down the rocks into the water. It is great. I have a mask and snorkel with me and look down into the water. The corals are fabulous and the coloured fish look beautiful up close. The other three are up on the verandah and don’t join me.

Beautiful corals ad fish everywhere

I am enjoying myself in the water and when I look up again, I am about 50 metres from the shore. I think it’s time to swim back to the motel but I am not moving at all. In fact I am being swept out further and further. I start to panic and swim as hard as I can towards the shore but no success. I am still the same distance and am not moving forward at all. I try harder and am still not moving. What’s happening? Why am I not moving?

By now, there is a small gathering of people on the verandah in the distance. I can see John Barlow talking to his native boys I guess, urging them to come to my rescue, but I can see them shaking their heads.

I am doomed. I’ve come half way around the world. I’m twenty-five years old, and I’m going to drown off the coast of Madang. This is terrible. I’m not ready to depart this world, I don’t want to die.

I remember having read somewhere that if you’re in situations like this, not to panic and swim under the waves to stop being pulled out to sea.

I tread water for a while to calm down and relax. It works. I try again, swimming towards the shore and every time a wave comes back I dive under it. When a wave comes behind me I really swim hard. The method works. I am getting closer to shore. There are a couple of policemen now on the verandah, including a white Officer. Everyone is urging me on.

I keep on doing the same and am now only about twenty metres from the rocks. The sea is still very rough, and as I am only a few metres off the rocks, a very strong wave smashes me against the rocks.

The policemen drag me up the rocks; I am covered in blood from being smashed against the rocks. The white police inspector abuses me for being so foolish as to go out into the bay in such rough conditions. He says ‘Who the hell do you think you are, Tarzan, or something’. I don’t mind being abused I have never been so glad to be abused by coppers. All to try to impress a girl. Phil just shakes his head.

Next day, we finally hear from the wharf, our bearings have come back from a round trip to Singapore. They forgot to unload them on the way from Australia. I hope the bearings enjoyed the trip. Good-bye holidays, we’re finally back at work.

Madang My Favourite Town in New Guinea

             A few days later, we’re on the plane to Madang.

Madang is another nice place in New Guinea. We book into the Smuggler’s Inn Motel on the lagoon. It’s an idyllic place. The motel is run by Marcia Barlow and her husband John. There are about 12 rooms in a separate building, a bar and a dining room in the main building plus a large verandah overlooking the lagoon. There is about a metre drop from the verandah to the water and we can see the corals below the water line with beautiful coloured fish swimming amongst them.

The Smuggler's Inn, my favourite motel in New Guinea

Phil and I move into our rooms and go to the bar for a couple of drinks. The barmaid is gorgeous and we are both drooling. We meet John and Marcia and have a drink with them. They tell us where to go to hire a car.

Next day, we head for the wharf to pick up our motor bearings. Our paperwork says we should pick up a small wooden box about the size of a suitcase. At the wharf, we advise them of the consignment note and they look around everywhere for this crate. After some considerable time, we are advised the crate is not in Madang. We go back to the motel. Several phone calls to Carriers in Port Moresby and the shipping agency in Port Moresby we are told the crate should definitely be on the wharf in Madang.  Back to the wharf with our confirmation that the crate must be there. They look again and insist it is not on this wharf. They however suggest they will look into the matter.

Without motor bearings, we can’t do any work. Each day we phone and each day we are told, no news yet. We’re on holidays again. The Smugglers Inn is the best place for it.