LET THE PORT MORESBY ADVENTURES BEGIN...CHAPTER FIVE.... (Last chapter of this tale...the tale-ender).

Above are self-explanatory images of Bomana Cemetery, Papua New Guinea

Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels During World War 11

Still in relaxed, celebratory mode, and not wanting the evening to come to a close, after we left the hotel restaurant, a couple of members of our merry band of tourism “experts”, as well as the PNG Avis host, David and his wife, returned to my hotel room for a “night cap” rather than head to the cocktail bar.

Perhaps the knowledge in my room I had an unopened bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label I’d purchased at the Cairns’ Duty Free Shop, rather than my inspirational company, was the bait!  Whatever the reason, no arm-twisting or urging was necessary.  Mr. Walker Black was enticement enough.

Once ensconced in my room, everyone settled comfortably as if we were all friends of old.  Taking no prisoners, we did damage to that bottle, the soda, ice and cold water from my bar fridge.

My initial intentions had been to take the duty-free, unopened, full bottle of JW Black back to Hinchinbrook Island for my personal use – for me to leisurely sip, at will, if and when I felt like doing so after a long day and night’s work. However, that plan was thwarted, rapidly.  All that was left of Johnnie after my guests left was a depleted, empty bottle...a "dead marine".

Over animated, friendly conversation and much laughter, the bottle and its individual accompaniments had been demolished.

We visitors to Papua New Guinea did learn a lot about the lifestyle of ex-pats in Port Moresby that evening and early morning.

Life in Moresby wasn’t a glamorous life. It was an existence surrounded by danger and alertness.

Lyn, the wife of David, Avis’ Area Manager, explained, even though she was “accepted” among the Nationals’- the womenfolk, she felt an underlying animosity at all times.  She and her fellow ex-pats learned to recognise they would never be completely accepted.  They acted politely, knowing there was a demarcation line, one over which they never stepped.

It had been a very pleasant evening, spent with great company, both in the restaurant, and back in my hotel room draining the Scotch bottle. 

An early morning was ahead for us, as was a long day.  Finally, somewhat reluctantly, we called it “a night”. 

Knowing the next day we had planned trip to the start of the Kokoda Trail, as well as our return flight to Cairns later in the afternoon, we broke up our little party about 3 am.

Rising early, a little heavy with the effects of the previous evening, I was feeling very dehydrated. Raiding my bar fridge produced no results as all the water, ice and soda had disappeared, a result of our late-night frivolities.

Deciding a long cold or lukewarm shower would restore my sensibilities, I relished the thought of standing under the shower nozzle, allowing the water rush over my weary body in an attempt at restoration.

No such luck!

The water pouring forth from the shower was boiling hot.  It was impossible to stand under it. I tried everything, but there was not a drop of cold water flowed, or trickled, from the taps or nozzle!  Nothing!  Nought! Zilch!  Water, water, everywhere...but not a drop of cold water!

After our shenanigans of the previous evening, I didn’t even have any cold water in my fridge to splash on my face.

Darting my hands back and forth under the boiling water in the shower, I somehow managed, with great difficulty, to have a “spot” wash. I was by no mean refreshed, but I think the shock of the steaming water managed to wake me up a little.

Dressing quickly, I hurried down to the lobby to meet up with my fellow motley crew, who were milling around with rather strained looks.

Everyone, I discovered, had suffered the same problem as I had.

The whole hotel had no cold water! No cold water! I’d heard of running out of hot water, but never cold water!

Have you ever tried to shower under boiling water?  From personal experience, I can assure you it is impossible to do!  Take my word for it...

So, there we were…a hung-over, bedraggled, bleary-eyed, unwashed band of banditos (well, we were from south of the border)...kind of ready for the day ahead.

Once we were gathered together, and saw the funny side of it, we decided nothing was going to faze us.  We would not be beaten or defeated!  We remembered our “one for all, all for one” mantra.

Breakfast was a hurried affair. Soon thereafte we were on board the “Avis Bus”, headed for the hills/mountains behind Port Moresby.

Driving through the city it appeared everyone and his dog, aunt, uncle, grandmother, grandfather and neighbours were out and about.  Old, rusted, battered Toyota utes were filled with smiling, black faces.  People were hanging out the vehicles’ windows and off the rear trays, waving at us as they went by.  After all...it was a public holiday.    

The crowds were making the most of the special day....Remembrance Day, 23rd July...

Before we left Moresby, our host took us to the historic Bomana War Cemetery, just outside the city limits on the road to Sogeri, our destination 46 kilometres (28.5 miles) away.

Arriving and disembarking at the war cemetery, our high spirits immediately lulled. An atmosphere of deep respect and sorrow took overtook our little party of visitors.

As we wandered sombrely throughout the beautifully maintained cemetery, I was not alone in my reverie. The Bomana War Cemetery is magnificent memorial to those who lost their lives fighting for the freedom and lifestyle we enjoy today.

Not one of us had dry eyes. It’s difficult to describe how I felt. Probably the best description is...it was an “out of body” experience. To this day I still become misty-eyed when I recall that memorable visit to Bomana Cemetery.

 

We didn’t talk among each other. We broke away to wander alone, to be with our own thoughts.  No words needed to be spoken. Words would be redundant.

A rotunda stands proudly and serenely on a hill behind the cemetery. It is the memorial to the men of the Australian Army and the Papua New Guinea forces, the Australian Merchant Navy and the Royal Australian Air Force who lost their lives during the Papuan operations; the brave men who have no graves.

The total number of burials at Bomana Cemetery is 3,779.  This war cemetery commenced in 1942.

Bomana War Cemetery is a credit to those who lovingly, respectfully and carefully tend to it.

I feel honoured to this very day to have experienced the unexpected time I spent at Bomana War Cemetery – time spent among the spirits of those brave men.

Climbing up the winding range, the views around us were stunning - awesome.

Down low behind us to the south was the dry, dusty savannah of Port Moresby.

In the valleys immediately below us on either side on the winding road, were deep crevices covered in dense foliage.  The shadows formed dark, metallic blues in their hidden ravines.

It’s only forty-six kilometers from Port Moresby to the Sogeri Plateau, around 800 metres above sea level, (I think!), but it seemed much longer. It was definitely cooler than down below.  

As mentioned previously, Sogeri is the starting point of the Kokoda Trail.

Halfway up the range, we noticed a Papua New Guinea “warrior” in all his decorative glory standing out on a small escarpment to our left.

Pulling our Toyota Hiace off the road, we climbed out and went over to him.

Standing there in his make-up and colourful, feathered head-dress, the New Guinea National told us we could take his photograph for 5 kinas. (Don’t ask me what the exchange rate was, as I haven’t got a clue now –it was probably equivalent to about two Aussie dollars).

Each of us paid him 5 kinas, per his rate, and had our photo taken standing beside him. 

The trick was, we used our own cameras and our films (the days before digital cameras).  The accordingly-garbed “warrior” had no expenses other than his vibrant regalia!   

(I have my photo here somewhere...and I must, when I find spare moment or two go in search of it).

With a broad smile on his face, the fellow waved as we drove off. We waved back, cheerfully. We mused it was no wonder he had a broad smile on his face, he was probably thinking, “Sucker tourists!”

One of our astute members said, “Did you notice his watch? It was a Rolex! He’s probably got his BMW parked around the corner hidden in the scrub!”

Never a truer statement had been made!

Of course the colourful “warrior” had a big smile on his face! All he had to do was stand there on the outcrop looking “pretty gruesome”, at no cost to him, while he reaped in the kinas!  A very enterprising young man....

Onward and upwards we continued, awed by the stunning magnificence of the scenery surrounding us.

Finally, we reached the “Kokoda Inn”.   We alighted our van immediately upon arrival. We were, naturally, pretty thirsty, so we headed post haste to the bar for a cold, cold beer!

Stuck or pinned to the wall behind the very primitive, rustic, but atmospheric bar were hundreds of paper monetary notes from throughout the years. As well as local paper currency were notes from other countries, including Australia, the UK and the United States of America.

The display became the hub of our conversation, as did our myriad questions about Kokoda and its history.

Outside the main building was a primitive zoo holding a large variety of bird and animal life, most of which I’d never seen before.

By this time, our merry band of wanderers was hungry. The after-effects of the previous evening had given us a hunger, as well as a thirst, both of which needed to be sated, and quickly!

Finding a long, wooden outdoor table, we promptly accommodated.  We ordered from the luncheon menu that consisted of steak and salad - and steak and salad.

Our chatter around the table was lively.  There was much to discuss as we’d enjoyed a most interesting trip up to our destination. We were also enthralled by our destination, where the air was crisp, clean and refreshing.

Our meals arrived without delay. The steak (?) was the toughest meat I, and the others had ever eaten! We didn't know what animal it derived from, and we dared not ask.

However, our high spirits weren’t going to be dampened by a piece of “meat”! We made no complaints as we chewed and chewed our way through whatever beast it represented. The salad was garden-fresh.  The company was great; lunch was fun. The history surrounding the area was almost palpable.

Finally, as all good things do, our happy jaunt came to its end. It was time to descend the range, en route back to Port Moresby and to our hotel.

There we gathered up our belongings and headed out to the airport for our return flight to Cairns.

Who would have guessed? Once more we had a two-hour wait for our delayed flight!

At the duty-free shop, I purchased a PNG wooden artifact, and I also bought another bottle of Johnnie Walker Black to take with me to my island home, this time intending to take longer to savour its mellow contents...alone, and over a period of time...not in one sitting only!

I think not one of us minded the delay in our flight, because it gave us time to come together as one as we happily discussed the events and the laughter we had shared over the past couple of days and nights.  We’d spent a unique, fun time; we’d been treated most hospitably.  

The people we’d met in Port Moresby, and up at the Kokoda Inn at the start of the Kokoda Trail, our decorated “warrior” and those in over-crowded Toyota utes had all welcomed us with beaming smiles and a ton load of goodwill.  

 “Manuel’s” innocent, well-intentioned antics would never be forgotten, not be me, anyway.

I never did see Graeme, our self-appointed expert tour leader again during my time in Papua New Guinea.  I shed no tears.  While I think of it, I can’t remember ever seeing him again...at any other tourism event.  Perhaps he’s still up in the Highlands somewhere, arrogantly bellowing at some poor body!  Or he's in a cannibal's pot....

My trip to and from Port Moresby, the short period of time I spent in Papua New Guinea will always remain fondly in my memory. I remember the fun and the laughter; the camaraderie, the bond we quickly formed. I will always remember the emotions I felt when I visited Bomana War Cemetery.  The people of Papua New Guinea deserve high praise for what they’ve achieved there.

The “mañana” attitude continued on our return flight to Cairns. Again, my silly sense of the ridiculous came into play.  And I spent most of the trip trying to conceal my amusement. I confess to being a people-watcher.  Why not?  People are interesting subject, to say the least.  

When a passenger asked for a drink, the flight stewardess would return to the service area...pick up the ONE drink, return to the passenger who had requested it.  Then, the action would be repeated – one person, one drink at a time.   The flight is only 1 hour 25 minutes in duration (the wait at either airport, in our case, both ways, was longer than our actual flights).  

I purposely make a point of the length of time spent in the air...because at the rate of knots the stewardess was taking to serve each passenger on board our flight a drink, someone, somewhere along the line was going to miss out!  Need I go on?  
There is humour everywhere, in everything, if you’re prepared to look for it.

My three day trip to Port Moresby was, in the best of ways, memorable, indeed.  Also, I’m very glad I was given the opportunity.

I can’t finish this story without sharing with you the poem written by Australian digger, Bert Beros.

At 4 am one morning, on the Kokoda Track, after having been in a stand-to with the enemy, the Japanese, Bert Beros wrote his poem in honour of the wonderful “Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels” who helped and guided our brave young men on the Kokoda Track during that horrendous battle.  As described in my previous chapter, the New Guinea “Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels” were answers to the prayers of the mothers of our diggers.

It is recorded that an officer sent a copy of the poem to his mother.

Impressed by the poem, at the time, she had it published in the Brisbane “Courier Mail”.

The Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels

Many a mother in Australia,
When the busy day is done,
Sends a prayer to the Almighty
For the keeping of her son,
Asking that an Angel guide him
And bring him safely back
Now we see those prayers are answered
On the Owen Stanley track,
For they haven’t any halos,
Only holes slashed in the ears,
And with faces worked by tattoos,
With scratch pins in their hair,
Bringing back the wounded,
Just as steady as a hearse,
Using leaves to keep the rain off
And as gentle as a nurse.

Slow and careful in bad places,
On the awful mountain track,
And the look upon their faces,
Makes us think that Christ was black.
Not a move to hurt the carried,
As they treat him like a Saint,
It’s a picture worth recording,
That an Artist’s yet to paint.
Many a lad will see his Mother,
And the Husbands, Weans and Wives,
Just because the Fuzzy Wuzzy
Carried them to save their lives.

From mortar or machine gun fire,
Or a chance surprise attack,
To safety and the care of Doctors,
At the bottom of the track.
May the Mothers in Australia,
When they offer up a prayer,
Mention those impromptu Angels,
With the Fuzzy Wuzzy hair.

Sapper H "Bert" Beros

- Bert Beros...1942

The End