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.

The Flight from Hell

The Piaggio comes back two days later to pick us up to fly back to Wewak. This time I sit next to the pilot and Phil is at the back. We take off and about a half hour into the flight, there is a solid black cloud wall directly ahead of us. The pilot is on his radio talking to Wewak and starts banking out to the sea, trying to get around this black wall. We fly parallel to the wall for some time out over the ocean but can’t see an end to this wall. The pilot is constantly talking to Wewak. He turns to me and says, it’s no use, the storm is right into Wewak and we can’t get through. Then he adds, but we’re too far out of Vanimo and haven’t got enough fuel to get back there, we’ll have to try to land here someplace.

Great. I think. We’re going to crash and die horribly amongst the dense bush in New Guinea. The pilot turns around and heads towards land, getting closed and closer to the ground. From the altimeter I can see, we’re now about one hundred metres above sea level. He is trying to fly below the storm to Wewak, but it’s no use, the storm is too dense and the trip is now quite rough, bumping and weaving through the air and still the pilot is talking to the control tower in Wewak. He is told to land at a private air strip belonging to a copra plantation about half way between Vanimo and Wewak.

Pilots in Papua New Guinea are great aviators. They know their stuff. This one is no exception. He gets us safely onto land and taxis towards a bush hut at the end of the air strip. We get out and go into the hut, just as the deluge comes down. The pilot jumps back onto the plane and taxis the plane off the grassy runway and up a grassy knoll opposite the hut. He secures the plane with ropes and runs over towards us. He is soaked. He tells us that the runway can get flooded and he had to bring the plane to higher ground to safe it.

Copra Plantation

A landrover drives up to the hut. It’s an employee of the plantation who has been told by Wewak that one of their planes would be landing on the airstrip. He takes us to the plantation about twenty minutes away where we are greeted by the plantation manager, his wife and children. They have prepared rooms for us and we settle down for a nice meal.

One thing about the Territory, a deluge comes quickly and stops quickly and by the time we go to bed the rain has stopped.

In the morning, we are driven back to the airstrip, the pilot hoping all the way, the plane is ok and the strip dry. He tells us that another pilot had to do the same and couldn't take off for a week as the runway was flooded. But in our case, all is well and we climb back onto the Piaggio for our return to Wewak.

Next Stop Vanimo

I organise a flight from Wewak to Vanimo which is an outpost to the north-east on the Irian Jaya border. To get there, we have to board a Piaggio, an Italian made airplane that has the propeller at the back, pushing the plane trough the air, rather than pulling it like conventional airplanes. It seats about eight people and takes about an hour and a half to get to Vanimo. Phil and I are the only two passengers and Phil sits up front next to the pilot. I stretch out at the back.

Ansett Piaggio takes us to Vanimo

  Vanimo has an Australian Army Base, a pub, a gaol. and a timber logging company. The only air conditioning is in the army base. We book into the pub, next to the gaol not far from the beach. Vanimo is a pretty place especially at sunset, when the sun shines low on the horizon through the coconut palms  near the beach. I take lots of photos.

We only stay a couple of days in Vanimo changing the motor bearings of the air conditioning unit at the army base. Our spare time is occupied drinking on the verandah of the pub, watching the prisoners next door working in the yard of the jail. It’s the only jail I have ever seen, where there are no walls just huts. The prisoners all wear blue overalls with strange markings on them.. I ask the publican why they are not escaping. They’re too well fed, he says and in any case, where would they go? Very strange that.