by Dennis James
The Angorogho guesthouse, where we stay that night, is a large thatched hut on stilts with four rooms at the seaside end of the village. Comfortable sleeping pads, pillows, and mosquito netting are provided.
We had previously misplaced our walking sticks before we left Brooklyn and ask Donald if one of the villagers could cut a couple of straight trimmed branches for us. The next morning, at breakfast, Donald presents us each with a polished hardwood stick, a taller one carved at the top in the figure of a man with a hat and a shorter one carved as a smiling woman with her hair in a topknot. He had stayed up much of the night fashioning the sticks. We were so touched by his generosity that we carried them home, overcoming hassles with the airlines.
Kwafururu and Tumari
We say good-bye and good luck to Donald, his family, and the rest of the villagers, who have gathered under a spreading tree in the center square and we begin our trek to Tumari Point with Clarence, his wife, two young daughters, and two cousins, one also named Donald. The hiking is strenuous, with a lot of steep ups and downs in the rain forest, slippery footing, and long stretches through high kunai grass. Midway through the trek, we pass through the village of Kwafururu.
The villagers have been expecting us (the single exception to the long list of modern appliances that the New Guineans don’t own is the cellular phone, which they use to great convenience), and once again we are greeted and surrounded by a sing-sing group of extraordinary vivacity, led by the village elders. The footwork is especially intricate. The villagers have constructed a palm frond gate through which we pass into the village square, where we are “attacked” by a costumed and painted warrior wielding a seven-foot spear. Barbara takes pictures while I collapse on a canopied platform. I have lunch with Phillip, one of the elders in costume, who has been trained as a nurse. Dozens of village children come to see the waitman, the Tok Pisin lingo for white man. After lunch, villagers bestow upon us beautiful necklaces of cowrie shells and sing-sing us off into the bush, where we pick up our trek to Tumari.
An hour later, we reach the contact point on the shore and board outrigger dugout canoes paddled by Tumari villagers. Two paddlers move each canoe steadily against a stiff easterly wind. Tufi Coast villagers can paddle an outrigger for hours. They learn to paddle about the time they learn to walk. They have their own canoe by age five and are taught how to build one not long after. The dugout canoes are narrow so that the paddlers can place their feet one behind the other. There is a four-by-four-foot deck lashed onto the middle of the craft for supplies or passengers. The outrigger ensures a very smooth, swift ride.
Sitting on the deck and leaning back against my pack, I enjoy the scenery and fall asleep. I awake as we approach the beach landing for Tumari village. It is late afternoon. We wade in and are welcomed by a delegation who escort us to the village center. We are seated on chairs in the middle of a clearing and adorned with leis of white frangipani flowers. The guesthouse is still under construction, but the village has a large pavilion in the middle of the village green—a raised, roofed platform, with open sides. It is used for various village activities, for guest accommodations, and for villagers to hang out in. In the very center of the platform is a tent of mosquito netting with some sleeping pads, pillows, and covers. “That’s us,” I say.
By now, it is dark, and having reconnoitered the village’s latrine and a hastily screened-off bathing spot complete with wash tub and ladle, we take a bucket bath, change clothes, and have dinner on the platform while being attended to by ten or twelve villagers who chat and ask questions. A white-crested cockatoo, the size of a chicken, lands abruptly on the platform next to us and looks us over. The villagers laugh and reach out to pet him, obviously a semidomesticated bird.
Discussion with the villagers continues into the night. They talk about farming, tourism, religion, families, and fishing, both here and in the US. An important fishing event is the annual tuna run in which an entire shoal of tuna—thousands of them—come around the point and stop in the cove of the Tumari bay for several days, sometimes weeks. The villagers accept this as nature’s bounty and deploy nets every day during the run to take in hundreds of fish, a mere dent in the shoal. Many are eaten shortly after the day of the catch, but most are cleaned and smoked to provide the village with needed protein for the rest of the year.
Finally, we beg off to retire to our gauzy chamber. Several small groups linger, chatting, laughing, and singing late into the night until they fall asleep elsewhere on the platform. As I drift off to sleep, I think about the diminutive tuna scout in Wewak and wonder if he has scouted Tufi. I hope not.
In the morning, Phillip, a Tumari elder, joins our group as we set out from Tumari on the final leg of our trek to Kwafundi Bay. The trek culminates in our predicament on the lava rock cliff above Koruwe Bay, where we skirt the edge with the sheer drop and attempt to descend.
The squeal of a pig jolts me out of my musings as it races along the top of the cliff. I fear for a moment that young Donald, who is carrying me, will drop his cargo, get his spear, and chase the pig. It turns out to be a domestic pig that had gotten out of its pen. It bolts away, chased by a dog and followed closely by its owner.
We overcome the obstacles of the shrub in the trail by main force, with Donald and Clarence lifting me over the bush. The rest of the descent is less tricky as the cliff slopes outward. Shortly after we reach level ground, Barbara expresses relief at finishing in one piece and promptly slips on loose stones, falling on her rear end. Nothing hurts except her dignity. Clarence’s wife and daughters come skipping down behind us, having negotiated the cliff face with enviable ease.
Our hike ends at Koruwe Bay, where we board a waiting outrigger canoe. It glides swiftly over the calm waters of the bay, but when it turns the corner out of the bay into the open sea, the wind rises and whitecaps appear. The paddlers work hard for two hours. Clarence and Phillip go ashore and walk along the shingle to ease the load and allow a shallower draft so the canoe can run close to the beach where the headwind diminishes.
Finally, we reach Kwafurina Bay and, once again on calm water, the outrigger skims the surface, headed for Banafe Island. The canoe glides over live coral reefs that coil and uncoil in the current like so many heads of Medusa, showing colors of magenta, gold, and, of course, coral. Our bow paddler says there are many lobster beds in the Bay, and I long to tear off my clothes and swim among the creatures of this glistening silence—but there is no time. Tomorrow, the boat will come to return us to Tufi Resort, and then we will travel by plane to Port Moresby for the long flight home. The day for diving was lost at Popondetta, though it was a day gained in hanging out with the New Guineans.
We circle the island, which doesn’t take long. It is a little more than one hundred yards long and fifty yards wide, shaped like a loaf of bread, rising steeply about fifty feet out of the water. As we circle, we see, silhouetted against the sky, feathered headdresses of the Kwafundi dancers. We approach the small dock at the end of the island as they begin their chant of welcome: “Oro. Oro. Oro.”
The path from the dock is steep and it takes a few minutes to stretch our old bones after the long canoe ride. The singers and dancers escort us to the lovely hut on stilts where we will stay. We meet the Chief, Smith, his wife, Ethel, and their extended family. The whole Kwafundi clan has turned up for the occasion, but only Smith and Ethel and their immediate family live on the island. There isn’t room for anyone else. The rest live on the hillsides of the bay.
Smith and Ethel join us for dinner. We talk with Smith about Tufi, the island, and tourism. Except for a small patch on the island, all of the clan’s gardens are on the mainland. Smith calls it Smith Island, since his family has been its only inhabitants for eighteen years. He built huts and planted gardens and all the trees. Before they arrived, it was just an uninhabited mound covered with kunai grass. Ethel, who does not speak English, smiles.
Smith also built four guesthouses, which an Australian developer promised would
be filled. But no tourists came. The developer died, and his heirs were uninterested in the venture. The guest huts crumbled from disuse and disrepair. But, at the urging of the Tufi Resort and Ecotourism, the agency that arranged our trip, Smith rebuilt two guesthouses. We are the first tourists to visit.
In the morning, we pack our trekking gear and get ready for our motorboat pick-up from Tufi Resort. The entire extended family comes from the bayside to see us off. Clarence’s wife bids us a tearful good-bye. She and Barbara have bonded, despite the fact that they don’t speak a common language.
I walk to the end of the island and look north up the bay toward the sea. The water is as still as a forest pond. Three children, on their way to school in their outriggers, dart across the bay like water bugs. I turn to take in the whole view—swaying coconut palms; black lava-rock cliffs with dark mangrove swamps at their base and rain forest at their summit; green mountain peaks rising out of the morning fog; beached dugout canoes; small groups of thatched huts near the shore, each bordered by a garden of orchids. I wonder if this will look the same in ten years. In five years. In one year.
But I have seen this. I have been here and will go back, if not in fact, then in memory.
The outboard arrives with William, the supervising guide at Tufi. He is anxious to verify that we are, as represented on numerous cellphone calls he has made throughout the trip, alive and whole. We sit in the back of the open boat, draped in oilskins, and head for the ocean. The craft slices through the calm bay waters for a few minutes, then bangs its way for an hour through six-foot waves on the sea. It spends half its time in the air as does my sore butt, which slams down on a metal seat with every bound. We reach the Resort inlet, and the torment subsides.
During our lunch with the resort manager, a hornbill, a cricket bat–sized beak masquerading as a bird, lands on our table looking for scraps. It is, apparently, a regular guest. We are able to take a brief rest and shower before the assistant manager drives us to the landing strip, which begins at the water’s edge and ends a few hundred yards inland at a sand dune. The plane coming in looks like it is going to surf the last few yards, but it lands smoothly on the tarmac. It is time to say good-bye.
On one of the stops on the way to Port Moresby, four fully-costumed, painted, and feathered sing-sing dancers board the plane. Their bonnets, made with bird of paradise feathers, are too tall for the window seats so they have to sit on the aisle. As they change seats, their ankle shells rattle.
The trek is over.
Afterthoughts
What did we find in Papua New Guinea? A beautiful country, with dramatic mountain ranges swathed in deep-green rain forest, and a profusion of exotic multicolored orchids, lilies, roses, and other rare flora. We also found a beautiful people—generous, hardworking, and proud of their culture.
Papua New Guinea is a country at a significant crossroad. It may become just another third-world country tied to the juggernaut of the global economy, with foreign private investment financing poorly regulated, exploitative, and environmentally degrading mining, logging, and fishing industries, facilitated by corrupt elected officials. Some might say this is inevitable: the country cannot advance without foreign investment. Who else will build the infrastructure (roads, railways, mine shafts, oil drills) necessary to lift New Guinea into the modern world of consumption, which everybody wants?
Or does everybody? The reason for New Guinea’s historically slow development—its geography and stable subsistence economy—may be the factors that enable the country to successfully resist such inevitabilities. The people have developed ways of life that are stable, relatively healthy, and aesthetically satisfying, relying solely on their own wits, the renewable resources in the bush around them, and a mutually supportive social structure. Unlike the peoples of many of the newly minted third-world countries with extensive colonial histories, the New Guineans we spoke to did not appear to aspire to the economic and social status of former colonists. They would like more schools and health clinics and some modest sources of income, but they are not starving; they have shelter and beautiful surroundings. And they have patience.
They have the space and time to develop their resources themselves—or not.
Many of the young New Guineans we met have no intention of leaving their villages.
They know what has happened to their colleagues who have disappeared into Port Moresby slums. Even though they are fluent in standard English and familiar with auto engines, outboard motors, and iPhones, they will stay home.
Will they remain passive if their way of life is threatened? Will the Tumari villagers look the other way if the Spanish trawlers come for their tuna? I don’t think so.
Algeria:
BLOOD, SAND, AND NATURAL GAS
Why Algeria?
Algeria is, after all, a repressive police state facing a militant Islamic opposition movement. It is on the State Department Travel Advisory List, and there are almost no foreign tourists.
So, why Algeria? Because it has a beautiful Mediterranean coastline and a lush coastal plain; a countryside studded with the ruins of Roman cities; Arab, Berber, and African cultures; the Great Erg, the Sahara’s sea of sand; the Tuareg-inhabited South; the M’zab culture of the East; and Algiers, with its Casbah, corniche, harbor, seafood, couscous, and French urban design and architecture.
And because it has a lengthy and heroic history of resistance to colonization that inspired anticolonial revolutionary movements throughout the third world.
There are also almost no foreign tourists.
When visiting Algeria, you have to take some chances and be ready to operate out of your comfort zone. Algerian tourism is not ready for prime time, but prime time isn’t ready for Algeria, either.
Habibi and Mr. Cool
Friday, October 7, 2011, is a very pleasant day in Brooklyn for our departure, with temperatures in the low seventies. Barbara and I do a light workout and go through the pack list. The cab driver to JFK International Airport is Palestinian, and we engage in a lengthy conversation about Jerusalem, where his family lives, and Gaza, where we had visited with a UN-sponsored delegation in 2009.
We arrive at JFK in plenty of time for our 3:40 p.m. flight. The Lufthansa check-in attendant issues boarding passes, then looks at our passports for an inordinate amount of time, her face gradually assuming an expression of concern.
“Wait a moment. I need to talk to my supervisor about something,” she says and walks off with our passports. They include our visas, which we had obtained weeks before from the Algerian Embassy in Washington, DC. My sense of well-being vanishes and is replaced by the needle-stick onset of anxiety. Time goes by. When she reappears, her expression is unchanged.
“We can’t let you board. There is a problem with Dennis’s visa. The expiration date is August 23, 2011.” I look. She’s right. It is clearly a typographical error, since the date of issue is also August 23, 2011, and this visa is good for ninety days. The Embassy clerk must have absent-mindedly retyped the issuance date on the expiration date line. We all agree with this explanation, but the airline would be fined if they let me board with an expired date on a visa.
I ask to see her supervisor. Minutes later, a tall, slender, impeccably suited African American man comes up to us. He is Mr. Cool, soft-spoken, exquisitely courteous, calm, and ever so slightly bemused. But he is adamant—I cannot board with the visa as is. He hints at a solution. The error can be corrected by the issuing entity. A suitable letter from the Embassy, admitting the error, faxed to his office, would suffice. Within seconds, I am on the phone with Rita, the travel agent in Seattle who had made the visa arrangements and with whom we have done much business. Fortunately, she is in the office. Within seconds, she is on another phone to the Algerian Embassy. I can hear her side of the conversation, which is in Arabic. I hear her repeat one of the five or six words I understand, habibi. Sweetheart. They break off for Habibi to draft a letter on Embassy stationary. Many calls are made, and Habibi kee
ps saying he will fax the letter momentarily.
By now, the flight is boarding, the stress is mounting, and Mr. Cool keeps checking the fax machine but there is nothing from Habibi. Barbara leans on the counter and holds her head. I pace back and forth. Silently, I recite the traveler’s mantra, “Roll with the punches.” I think, Is there a later flight? If so, what is the ripple effect on our connection in Frankfurt? On our accommodations in Algiers? More calls are made. Finally, at 3:10 p.m. the fax comes through and Mr. Cool springs into action. Moving like a gazelle, he whisks us past all the passport and ticket checkpoints and through Homeland Security, shucking his shoes and jacket like everybody else. We arrive at the gate with two minutes to spare. He smiles and nods politely as we thank him and stagger into the 747, carrying all our gear, stunned by this narrow escape from an early trip implosion. Ma Salaama. Good-bye, Mr. Cool.
Algiers and Sidi of the North
Twelve hours later, on Saturday, October 8, we land in Algiers. We are greeted by Sidi, who will be our guide and driver for most of our trip. In Tamanrasset, in the deep South, we will have another guide named Sidi. So I refer to them as Sidi of the North (Sidi N) and Sidi of the South (Sidi S).
Sidi N is an affable but tough sixty-eight-year-old Arabic grandfather with five children and many grandchildren, the oldest of whom is eighteen. He speaks excellent English, French, and some of the Berber dialects. Sidi N knows everyone and everyone knows him, a great asset in our travels. He is resourceful, responsible, and caring. At the same time, he is casually racist, misogynist, and reactionary—a walking contradiction. He denigrates the hygiene and work habits of the “blacks” from Niger; yet, when he meets a Nigerien whom he knows, they immediately embrace and he praises them to us. He speaks disapprovingly of female drivers yet abhors the restrictions imposed on women by Islamic fundamentalists. He disparages the Palestinians as troublemakers yet identifies intensely with the Algerian struggle for independence from France. His strongest pejorative is calling someone a “vagabond,” which, we infer, he equates with “bum.”