by John Darnton
Looking down from the Cessna, I saw Port Moresby rapidly disappear. The snaking brown roads ended, then the last swatch of tin roofs. We passed over a muddy brown river, lowlands, and forested hills that rose rapidly to the mountains. Occasionally there were clusters of tiny huts nestled in the valleys, and then all signs of human habitation dropped away. Our companions pointed out the sights, at first hard to distinguish in the undulating green landscape. There were the Goldie River and a crocodile farm, and Owers Corner, the beginning of the Kokoda Trail. There were Mount Victory, where the Japanese were pushed back; the swampy Lake Myola, where the Allies dropped supplies; and Iora Creek, where the Australians and the Japanese took turns spilling blood on the ground for the right of ownership. Finally, wrapped in a veil of swirling mists, was the most mysterious landmark of all, dubbed “Ghost Mountain” by the American soldiers who encountered it. MacArthur had ordered them to cross the mountains on a native trail, the Kapa Kapa, even more treacherous than the Kokoda. It took them alongside the supernatural-looking 9,500-foot peak. The trees and vines were shrouded in glowing moss and phosphorescent fungus, so that everything shimmered in the constant darkness, and they could hear but not see subterranean rivers. Many American soldiers agreed with the natives that the place was haunted. After forty-two exhausting days, they arrived at their destination on the coast, meeting up with troops that had flown there in thirty-five minutes.
These tales were well known to Carl and Samu. It was hard to say whether they were reciting them for my benefit or simply because they enjoyed them. The stories clearly formed a pivotal chapter in their island’s history, the dramatic appearance of the outsiders, whose “cargo,” a term encompassing everything from wristwatches to jeeps, transformed New Guinea. Coming after the missionaries, the arrival of foreigners uprooted centuries of village life, triggered a migration to the cities, and, after independence from Australia in 1975, brought the era of international exploitation. Now precious timber and minerals were being carted away by the shipload to China and elsewhere.
In what seemed like no time, the plane passed over the mist-shrouded summit and began its descent on the other side of the mountains. We reached the savanna lowlands and then the coastal mangrove swamp. Our destination was a bare strip outside Popondetta. Flying over it, I saw half a dozen puzzling constructions, large horseshoe-shaped earthen mounds positioned around the strip like opened claws. Erik explained that they were revetments built over sixty years ago to shelter American fighter planes from aerial bombardment. The Cessna put down gently and we climbed out onto the strip. Thirty feet away, off to one side, was the blacked carcass of a B-25 Mitchell bomber. The scars of the long-gone war were everywhere.
Waiting for us was Dale McCarthy, a beefy Australian in a safari jacket, dark glasses, and a duck-billed cap. McCarthy was in charge of trucking palm oil along a desolate stretch of highway frequented by bandits and getting the barrels to sea. He was our host and guide. I had reached him through another e-mail contact, an Australian colonel who knew that part of the coast. It was immediately clear Dale was the right man for the job. He exuded a sense of command. As a seemingly self-appointed “police chief” of the area—a designation attested to by the block-letter print on a blue cap and a revolver in the glove compartment of his truck—he knew how to negotiate with the local clans. He also ran a small fishing lodge called Bendoroda, where we would stay as we ventured out to Pongani. Even in the best of times, Pongani was difficult to reach, a long trip down the coastal road and then a three-hour trek by foot. But because a bridge on that route was washed out, the only way to get there now was by boat along the shore.
Five minutes down the road, as Dale was extolling the fish that fall all over themselves for the privilege of being caught in the waters around his lodge, the sky opened up and discharged a rain the likes of which I had never seen. As the poet Karl Shapiro had prepared me, it was as if a gigantic bucket in the heavens had overturned. The windshield wipers on the truck were black streaks across an uninterrupted flood wash of water—we felt we were looking through the portal of a washing machine. Eventually, we reached Dale’s boatyard on Oro Bay, pulled over, and jumped across exploding puddles to the shelter of a large metal hangar. Inside we had to yell above the noise—it sounded as if a dozen drummers were pounding on the roof with clubs and chains. Dale stood at the open door and stared at the solid wall of water. When I walked over to him, he frowned.
“Keeps up like this, we won’t be able to get there today.”
“So we could wait—go tomorrow,” I ventured hopefully.
“Oh no,” he replied. “It’s been set up for today. I sent a runner in from Popondetta. You can’t change it.” He shrugged. “Around here, you don’t just wander into a village without advance word.”
He walked deeper into the hangar, leaving me to wonder about the improvident turns fortune could take in this part of the world. My throat tightened. I suddenly thought that the whole expedition might come to nothing. I realized how much I wanted to reach Pongani, how much I was counting on getting there. I wandered back inside, sat down on a crate, and brooded anxiously.
Luckily, the rain lasted only a few hours. When it let up, Dale used a crank to launch his twenty-one-foot center-console outboard, the Kekeni, down the rails and into the water, and we climbed aboard. Around us rainwater was evaporating in bursts of steam. Across the bay a wooded hill sloped to the water; in the center was a forty-foot-wide gash in the earth, the path for bringing down the magnificent logs of cedar, mahogany, and rosewood from the higher forests. Looking behind us, I could now see Mount Lamington rising out of the clouds. It looked calm enough at the moment, but in 1951 it had rained down fire and superheated gases, killing about three thousand people. A comparable eruption today would probably kill more, I figured.
We set out along the coast, moving south. Over the drumming of the motor, Dale talked about his dream of establishing ecotourism—a steady stream of adventurous types who wanted to fish and to slash their way through the jungle discovering the hidden war relics. “They’re scattered everywhere. This was the training ground for the U.S. soldiers all through the campaign to retake the Philippines. I’ve come across jeeps and motorbikes and trailers. Back there in the bush, there are thirty-two amphibious DUKVs, a P-38 on blocks, and the Japanese sandman (the nickname for a particular P-38). In 1986, an American airman who had eight kills came all the way back to visit his downed aircraft.”
The trip to Bendoroda took an hour. On the way, we passed by Pongani and swerved toward shore so that the villagers would know we were still planning to come. I felt a throb of excitement. I could see some rusty metal roofs and thatched huts, but no people or signs of life. We sped on and about fifteen minutes later arrived at Bendoroda, a village on the mouth of the Bendoroda River. It was home to about two hundred people, who were accustomed to foreigners. Dale, in partnership with Augustin Begasi, a son of the chief, had set up his lodge here. Small groups of fishermen from around the world had come to snag black bass and black snapper in a catch-and-release program.
We were greeted with a “sing-sing” by the chief and half a dozen others, who chanted and banged drums as they led us through an archway of palm fronds stuck into the sand. Children scattered at our approach but then followed us around, not timidly. They were used to arrivals like ours. Like most of the adults, they wore cast-off Western clothes—shorts and T-shirts emblazoned mostly with the names of sports franchises and American universities. The welcoming ceremony was dramatic and seemed heartfelt enough, though I had to admit that, having seen the same ceremony on a video made by an Australian TV network, I had the nagging sense that this performance was something of a ritual done for tourists. It reminded me of those times in Kenya when we would hand over shillings to spear-carrying Masai warriors so that our girls could pose next to them—something, we were to discover later, that our children detested.
The lodge itself was basic, erected on stilts, with walls and ceilings made
of woven sago leaves. There was an open-air veranda at the front for eating and drinking; connected to this was a covered walkway that led to six small rooms. There was a generator for electricity, a belowground compost heap for a toilet, a makeshift shower fed by a bucket of water, and mosquito netting free of holes. Our lunch, prawns and salad, was surprisingly good. Afterward, we got back in the boat and set out for Pongani.
As the boat hurtled away from shore, my excitement began to mount. The sun was out now and the wind whipped against my face. I felt my senses come alive and my mind focus. Carl trained the camera on me for a minute or so and then, seemingly out of respect for my privacy, swerved away to shoot the shoreline. Nina reached over and placed her hand on mine. It struck me that I was following the same route my father had taken in the King John that fateful morning. Our boat was using a depth sounder to avoid reefs, while his boat had used human spotters lowering lead lines from the bow, but the path was the same. The mountains in the distance, now clearly visible, with rings of mist around the lower slopes, were the same mountains he had seen. The empty expanse of the sky, the choppy water—both were the same. We rounded a promontory, entered a wide bay, and drew closer to shore. The tree line, the listing coconut palms, and the pale yellow beaches were the same. The odd thing was that it all looked ghostly familiar. I felt I had seen it somewhere before. In fact, I undoubtedly had—in my mind’s eye. Perhaps I was extrapolating from old black-and-white photos I had seen, photos that showed GIs unloading supplies from boats, wading ashore through waist-deep water with crates on their shoulders or carrying wounded men on stretchers. I could have picked the spot out from a thousand similar spots in an instant.
We passed the mouth of a river, the Songada, and drew closer to Pongani. Now I could make out the thatched huts—there appeared to be about a dozen of them—and people. They were crowded close to the water’s edge, small dark shapes seemingly looking at us. I felt my heart race. We were less than half a mile from shore, approaching fast. It occurred to me that perhaps we were not far from where he had been when the King John lifted anchor and moved toward the beach. In another five minutes, we drew closer and I was actually there, right where he had been when he was taking notes—his last notes. I looked up at the sky, still cloudless, as blue as it had been on that morning long ago. I sought out the southeast, where the plane had come from. Now I was certain I was at the very spot where the bombs had dropped, where the two ships had frantically tried to outmaneuver them, where Fahnestock had leapt up to man the .50-caliber machine gun … where my father had been killed.
Odd thoughts occurred, odd sensations. I remembered touching the rock in Jerusalem where Muhammad was said to have ascended, and entering the tomb where Christ’s body had been placed, and walking beside the funeral pyres of the Ganges in India. I remembered viewing the battlefields of Gettysburg and Vicksburg, the graves of Normandy with their white crosses and Stars of David extending as far as the eye can see, and the gaping cavity where the World Trade Center towers once stood. Was it so unthinkable that these places released something into the ether, some form of energy, a cosmic hiccup at the moment of so significant a transfiguration? After all, my mother had insisted that she, on the other side of the world, knew of our father’s death the instant it occurred. Hardly credible, I had often thought. But what if? What if his spirit had vaulted into another life through a tear in the sky? If that was so, then I was at that very portal. I felt an overwhelming awe. The light from the sky seemed too strong, the wind too sonorous, my skin too sensitive. I could feel the hairs on my arms bending in the hot breeze.
The translator interrupted my thoughts, telling me to look toward the figures onshore. They were leaping up and down. Pongani is not Bendoroda, he said. The clan here was unaccustomed to visitors. Perhaps some of them had never encountered white people. At that moment I noticed that the movement on shore was coordinated; the natives wearing ceremonial dress were swaying in a slow, undulating dance. From a distance all I could see were brilliant colors, brown bodies with splashes of red and white. I heard the sound of drums and chants. “I will tell you what to do at every step,” the translator said. “And, oh—there might be a spear charge. If they charge at you, do not flinch. Don’t worry—they won’t hurt you.” I hoped it would happen.
We came closer still and I could make out the village more clearly. I counted a dozen huts, three with tin roofs. Freshly cut palm fronds were sticking above the water to form a channel for our boat, and Dale carefully steered through them. The chants and drumming became louder. Ten young men danced along the shore, moving gracefully forward and backward in time to the drums as the waves lapped at their ankles. They were in full native regalia and carried spears decorated with feathers. Beaded headbands on their foreheads held brilliant red-and-white plumes, plucked from birds of paradise. The plumes cascaded around their faces. Their foreheads and cheeks were streaked with white paint. Necklaces of shells and tusks swayed on their chests, and brown capes—made from pounded tree bark called tapa—swung from their shoulders. Around their midriffs they wore brown skirts made from the same material, with boldly painted black designs. Bracelets of woven grass adorned their arms and ankles. The impression they made was overwhelming—a welcoming ceremony that implied acceptance but carried just a hint of menace. It seemed to say, You can come onto our land, but at our sufferance. And you must behave while you’re here.
Behind the dancers, men and women swayed to the drums, many also in native dress. Some of the women were bare-breasted and had red hibiscus blossoms in their hair. A number of the men wore Western T-shirts and shorts. They were solemn, not smiling. Weaving through the crowd were the drummers, pounding on thin, hollowed logs covered with animal skins. The rhythm was steady, accentuated every so often by a piercing sound—a man blowing into a conch shell. The crowd was shouting something over and over again. “Oro! Oro!” they repeated—words that meant, our translator told us, “You are welcome.” He said we should yell it back, and we did.
The shouts increased as we stepped off the boat and the crowd became even more excited. The dancers became more frantic; they ran up and down the beach faster and faster, until they turned and came at me full speed with spears drawn. I stood my ground and they passed within inches. The crowd yelled even louder. “Oro! Oro!” We yelled back. The charges were repeated two or three times. Finally, the dancers stopped. We were guided up the beach, through a passageway of palm fronds decorated with red and white flowers. Around us the villagers pressed close, a jumble of children and men and women whose teeth were missing or blackened or red from chewing betel nuts. They stared at us fixedly, especially the children. I felt something else underlying the boisterous welcome; it was difficult to pin down—a communal sense of expectation, perhaps, or some indefinable tension.
A trio of women held up flowered leis and we bowed to have them placed around our necks. They smiled, crying, “Oro! Oro!” A woven mat suddenly appeared before us and our translator told us to step onto it. We did. Another mat appeared in front of us. We took two steps onto that one and the one behind us was quickly whisked away and placed ahead. The process was repeated and we moved like this, from one mat to another, advancing slowly up the beach. I saw ahead of us a long open hut and the mats guided us toward it. When we reached it, our translator caught up with us.
“The chief is there,” he whispered to me. “Go inside and greet him, but do not touch him.”
I did as instructed, clamoring up one side to enter the hut. Nina followed me, and the others in our group followed her. Men and women from the village crowded in after us, and still more stood outside, pressing their faces close. The drummers still played, and from time to time someone would cry “Oro! Oro!” and then everyone would shout it for a minute or so. It would die down and then someone would start the chant all over again. The chief was sitting cross-legged near the entrance, dressed in black shorts and a blue-and-white short-sleeved sports shirt. His hair was gray and his back stooped. He thru
st his hand out, and after a moment’s hesitation, disregarding the translator’s instruction, I shook it. He then shook hands with Nina and everyone else in our group. He smiled kindly and we all sat down. I glanced over at him again, trying to size him up. He had large ears, heavy wrinkles, and a band of tattoo dots across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Through the translator I asked, “Are you old enough to have any memories of the war?” His answer was hard to make out over the din and the continuing shouts of “Oro!” which still resounded every so often. The chief seemed somewhat confused, but I couldn’t be sure that this wasn’t from some error in the translation from English to Motu and back again. Our translator suggested that the chief was “too elderly” to understand.