The Long Struggle to Port Moresby- The surprises of Papua New Guinea

Current Location: Port Moresby (Capital City of Papua New Guinea… voted in
the Economist 2005 as the worst city in the whole world to come on a
business trip!)

“Nothing will ever be attempted if all possible objections must first be overcome� - Samuel Johnson

“Expect the unexpected… I mean itâ€?. This was probably the best possible advice I could have been given prior to crossing Papua New Guinea (PNG) with my bicycle – from its Indonesian border in the north west to the capital city in the south east. I thought this trip would take me 3-4 weeks… it has ended up taking over 7. Other emails I received in my approach to this little known frontier land included:

So what is this boundlessly unique and exotic country like? Six months ago, all I knew was that the people spoke lots of different languages (in fact, around about 700 languages spoken by less than 10 million people), there is lots of gold (and all sorts of other minerals, which is being exploited by various foreign multinationals) and that there are lots of rainforests and mountains (I was definitely right about this) I have also since discovered that, like many other former colonies (but perhaps even more so), it is struggling to transform itself from the traditional ways of tribal villages to the modern world of governments, laws, guns, jobs, money and roads.

It is no wonder that this change is proving painful. Just 100 years ago a large chunk of PNG’s population had had no contact with the outside world and still used stone-aged tools. The people were loyal to their own tribes and customs – but often hostile to the neighbouring village. Before there was no money – and even today it is perfectly possible to live a healthy village life without it. As the saying goes: “if you stick something in the ground here, it growsâ€?. Thus there is an abundance of locally growing vegetables and fruit. The coastal roads are lined with coconut trees and if I thirsted as I pedaled, I could merely mention this to a friendly looking passerby, and he would scamper up a tree and return moments later with an armful of coconuts with which to fill my water bottles – before announcing with a grin that he was the local pastor (I’ve never seen an English vicar climb a tree like that!). Other things like herbal medicines are available too – the plant sap which was poured in my infected tropical ear seemed to do just as much good as the painful penicillin injections in my buttocks!

Perhaps it is because the land provides such bounty, and because nothing needs to be stored for winter (there is no winter) and because everything rots so quickly, that the culture is not geared to forward thinking and to quickly producing a successful economy? In the cities however, people have less space to grow their own food, and discontent grows. Politicians often slide into blatant nepotism. AIDS is also becoming a serious issue.

Through the sea…

Anyway, one of the results of a country being in such a state of fragmented discombobulation is that many of the bored, frustrated young men have turned to gang crime – deadly characters which are known in these parts as “rascalsâ€?. During my first weeks in PNG I was again and again warned of the rascal threat, and in the middle of many a night in some hidden forest village, I would wake up with horrible imaginings of being ambushed, while thinking to myself: “what an earth am I doing here?â€?. My only consciously close encounter with rascals came as I bumped through the potholes of a string of villages along the “main roadâ€? on the north coast. Whenever I spotted groups of local youths who fitted my imagined picture of rascals I would usually reply to their cheers and yells that I should stop, by waving, smiling and shouting “good afternoonâ€? in my friendliest possible way – and by not stopping but rather zooming on and out of their lives. On one
occasion as I turned to wave and smile to a particularly menacing posse, I managed to crash my bicycle into the ditch. In an instant they were up on their feet and sprinting towards me. I saw them just meters away as I wrenched myself and bike back onto the road and took off as fast as I could… I only just escaped into the distance, leaving a trail of dust behind me. (Of course, I have no real idea if their intent was to harm me, or just to come and have a chat… but such was my fearful state of mind at that point).

Bush track…

The rascal menace aside, the terrain, climate and roadlessness of PNG were a challenge in themselves… enough to make this the hardest adventure I have ever done alone (Siberia in winter was harder, but I was with Al during that). The ride through PNG began with a timber merchant?s road through the rainforest… within half a day I was panicked by the jungle that enveloped me on all sides. It hummed and flapped and sank deeply and darkly out of sight – I felt it could consume me and no-one would ever know. To make matters worse there were periodic junctions in the road where I didn’t know where to turn, and there were no more villages to ask the way. Fortunately, having run out of water, I eventually found a loggers camp where a couple of the local lads agreed to walk with me (the muddy road was often unrideable anyway) for two days to get back to the coast. Once there, we followed the beach road… which essentially is not a road, but a beach. Here, I pushed and waded and sweated my way past the postcard perfect breakers and sands. Some days I had to hitch dugout canoes across rivers, other days to walk up to my armpits in saltwater, the bike lifted high over my shoulders. I spent my nights in village huts, eating cooked bananas and freshly caught fish and wild pig. One night I spent floating down “the Mighty Sepic Riverâ€? in a motor boat I hired to get me past the crocodile infested Mangrove swamps. Finally I was riding into Lae, the second city. It was on this road that I had been warned that I would most likely be “rascalledâ€?, so I was glad indeed when a variety of local guys with bicycles offered to escort me ? I felt a bit like Forest Gump – cycling down the open road with my silly beard, accompanied by a friendly throng fellow riders to protect me!

Along the beach…

After a ferry ride along a 200 km stretch of roadless coast I attempted my final challenge of PNG: the Kokoda Trail. This is essentially a bush track through the Owen Stanley Mountains which is one of the only land links between the north coast and the Capital. It achieved great fame and significance in World War II as the Japanese plundered their way south towards Australia. In the end, just a handful of inexperienced, young Ozzy recruits had to defend the trail against the vastly outnumbering Japanese force. It must be said that they were heroes to stop the Japanese passing. The trail itself is now a popular trekking route with tourists (one of the few successful tourist endeavours in the country), though it is famously
grueling with nine huge ascents and descents through the high jungled ridges.

I was initially very uncertain as to whether it was plausible to carry or push my bike over it (especially as this was the rainy season when tourists didn’t walk the trail), but thanks to the enthusiastic advice and encouragement of the tour company Kokoda Trekking Ltd (see www.kokodatrail.com.au for details of their excellent tours) I decided to give it a go. On my first attempt with a local guide we got about a third of the way before we were forced to turn back by a ravenous swollen river which had destroyed all the tree bridges, and which admitted no passing. I felt very disappointed and worn out and was on the verge of giving up but thankfully, another eager, local guide, Tom Hango, was up for the challenge and encouraged me to make a second attempt. This time the rivers were lower and the sun had his hat on as we climbed and we stumbled through the valleys and mountains and villages where a bicycle had never before been seen. Swamps, fallen trees and 2000m high ridges would present daily challenges, but with Tom carrying my heavy pack and me struggling to maintain my footing with a bike hanging off my shoulder we made steady progress. Each night we camped next to friendly streams or villages perched amidst the great mountains and then eventually, after seven long days, we crashed out of the forest and wearily onto the firm surface of a real road. I cycled with relief the final 50 km ride into the Port Moresby -we had made it!

Carrying my bike over the Kokoda

The swollen river

So I am pleased to say that have had a predominantly positive experience of this country, with all its uniqueness, kindness, adventure and risk. I cannot say how big the risk was that I took coming here alone and on a bicycle… I think it is a sad trait of human opinion forming that the behaviour of the few will always shape the reputation of the masses… thus I think that PNG’s dangerous reputation is based on just a small proportion of the population. The people I actually met took great care of me, without exception. If you stay in close contact with the local population, travelling fast and in daylight, the risks are greatly reduced… and in fact, I believe that if we pray for protection there is also somebody who looks after us. If I was not a Christian I doubt I would have had the guts to come through PNG. It is also important to realise that everything in life
is a risk, and we never know how many near misses we have in life… and as a friend recently wrote to me (who had in fact quit his well paid management consultancy job in London in order to dig up anti-personnel mines for a charity in the Sudan)… “it’s a bit scary if you think about it too much, but like everything in life you need to play the probabilities a little – otherwise we would sit in a padded room all day, eating sterilized food and die at 120 of old age with nothing to show for it!â€?

Now as my visa ticks quietly away, I look out of the window of this apartment at the lazy sea stretching south to a dark and empty horizon, but which (according to my map) eventually reaches Australia. It is there where I hope to go… all I need to do now is find something that floats that will take me there.

As always, I really appreciate your emails, prayers, and generous donations to Viva Network and their tireless work with children at risk around the world (please go to www.justgiving.com/cyclinghomefromsiberia if you would
like to support them).

Happy belated 2006 and God bless,

Rob