Can My Pony Come Too?

by Rosemary Esmonde Peterswald

  Chapter 18

  Leaving the Nest for Papua New Guinea

  A few months after Rob left for Port Moresby things changed dramatically. Suddenly I was on my way to his side. After one too many drinks at the Officers’ Mess bar at Taurama Barracks, Rob had made a rash promise that he could break the Papua New Guinea triple jump record. In attempting to do so he had broken his leg. One evening he made a frantic and persuasive phone call to my parents, assuring them he couldn’t live without me.

  Exaggerating somewhat, he convinced them that he was almost wheelchair bound and desperately needed me there to drive him around. He forgot to mention the mere fact he had a Pacific Islands soldier quite willing and able to do this job for him. He seemed to have also forgotten that I was unable to drive myself, despite some valiant efforts from both my father and him. I could, in fact drive, but had been unable to find a policeman or driving inspector to agree with me.

  Days of persuasive arguments, standoffs and numerous phone calls took place. Eventually, my parents, worn down by it all, gave in and I found myself winging my way to my new life in the wilds of Papua New Guinea, where Michael Rockefeller, son of the American tycoon, Nelson, had disappeared not long before. It was rumoured that he had been eaten by cannibals, as had a patrol officer in the highlands. Yet cannibals were the least of my parents’ worries. Where I was going to live before marriage was much more on their minds. Young Catholic girls of nineteen didn’t live with their fiancés before marriage in those days. Certainly not young Irish Catholic girls. Eventually we sorted this out by organising that I would share a room with Diana McCarthy (the fiancée of Mike Battle, a fellow classmate of Rob’s) in a house belonging to Jan, a family friend of the Peterswalds from their Taree days. Jan was now married with two young children and living in the Moresby suburb of Boroko.

  After a sad farewell to my family (little did I know it would be thirteen years before I would see Viv again), I set off on the long journey. I stopped off in Brisbane to catch up with Eugene and stayed at the Salvation Army Hostel in the centre of the city. Eugene was stationed at the army barracks at Wacol preparing for his first trip to Vietnam. After buying some new dresses suitable for the tropics in the sales in Fortitude Valley, I flew on to Townsville, then Cairns and eventually Port Moresby.

  I was somewhat nervous and a bit apprehensive. After all this was only a short time since I’d been incredibly homesick boarding at Rose Bay, and here I was, off to the unknown to meet up with a man I’d only really known in depth for six months.

  Although we were engaged, it was a different matter to leave the bosom of one’s family and the security of things familiar, to start a totally different phase of life in a strange country, particularly for a fairly naive nineteen year old. I had long, brown hair with a fringe, which I’d had cut too short in Brisbane, so looked even younger than what one would have thought.

  I wore one of my new purchases – a yellow floral dress with cut away shoulders and falling well above the knee. I’d no idea what the army wives and girlfriends in Moresby would be wearing at the time; however, I soon discovered that my dresses were shorter than most, causing me a few anxious moments when Rob introduced me to the Commanding Officer at the Mess and I realised I should perhaps have worn something more staid.

  Jackson International Airport at Port Moresby was a series of long low-line iron and tin buildings in fairly barren land, nestled amongst rolling khaki hills, not dissimilar to Canberra in the dry season. In the distance the magnificent Owen Stanley Ranges rose majestically, the tips of the tallest mountains disappearing into the wispy clouds. The approach to the airport was over clear blue waters dotted with miniature islands surrounded by tantalising turquoise and ochre coral. On a number of reefs fishing boats trawled, and heading to the port were a couple of huge tankers. From the air, Moresby looked dismal, cold and overcast; however, on stepping out of the plane it was as if I was in the midst of a steaming sauna. I’d never experienced such heat and humidity before. By the time I walked down the stairs of the plane and squelched onto the scorching tar of the runway, much to my horror my hair had dissolved into a mass of lank tangles, much like a string mop, and my newly applied makeup ran as if a muddy river down my sweat soaked cheeks. I soon learned that limp hair and melting makeup would be the norm in the tropics. It wasn’t long before I gave up wearing makeup at all, apart from a dash of mascara and lipstick.

  For a moment I was rooted to the ground, my mind a rope of tangled emotions. Excitement rippled through my sweltering body. Yet what if I was a disappointment? Why had I got my fringe cut so short? What if after all this time apart, Rob didn’t have the same feelings for me that he’d had before? And I for him. Had we rushed into an engagement too quickly? What if I hated living in this strange land? These were all thoughts I’d had before, particularly on the long flight up. But now, standing on the tarmac at Port Moresby, they appeared even more real.

  However, the moment I saw Rob behind the wire mesh of the terminal, all my fears disappeared. Soon I was inside and amidst a noisy crowd of Pacific Islanders jostling and shoving each other. Runny-nosed glistening pikininis scampered across the cement floor or clung tightly to their parents’ bare legs. There was the smell of unwashed bodies and heat and dust, mingled with cigarette smoke.

  Somehow it all seemed so familiar. As if I had come home.

  With his hair even blonder from the sun, Rob was now deeply tanned. This, of course, made his blue eyes stand out even more. His leg in plaster made it difficult for him to move quickly, but I more than compensated for this by rushing through the crowd and almost jumping into his outstretched arms. For a moment we clung to each other and I scolded myself for having any doubts. Of his love. And mine.

  When he went to collect my luggage, I looked around at the mass of brown sweaty bodies in all forms of dress. Some looked as though they’d wandered straight in from their villages with spears in one hand and jagged bones through their ears and noses. Clinging to the wire netting, dozens stared in awe at the passengers still disembarking off the huge balus. In one corner a meri squatted on the dusty cement floor, feeding a small baby on one breast and a piglet on the other. (In a critique of my novel, Bird of Paradise, it was suggested this was unlikely. I assure you it wasn’t.) A mangy dog lolled lazily beside them. Rusty steel benches overflowed with passengers waiting to return to their villages or with those who’d just come to the airport to make a day of watching the balus drop out of the sky.

  Most of the men had alarmingly red teeth from the betel nut they chewed constantly. Others smoked roll your owns wrapped in newspaper. And in contrast to all this there was a group of neatly dressed expats drinking champagne, obviously farewelling a family back to Australia, whilst others talked animatedly to newly arrived passengers.

  Rob’s role in New Guinea was to help build an independent viable country: to endeavour to throw off colonialism and create a vibrant nation that would be capable of looking after itself without the help of Australia. Years before, when he was in high school, he’d applied for a cadetship as a patrol officer in the New Guinea Highlands; however, it hadn’t come off. Now he was here. To be sent to Papua New Guinea as a young Lieutenant was one of the best postings an infantry officer could hope for. To Rob, it was a chance to make his own mark. A chance for him to be independent himself; to be patrolling in the high mountains and impenetrable jungles for months on end, the only white man with his Pacific Islands soldiers, making his own decisions and having to survive on those decisions.

  It was an exciting time in the history of Papua New Guinea, a time, long before Independence was granted, when we were all filled with optimism. In hindsight we may have had the sanguinity of youth, but we definitely felt that we were going to make a difference.

  During the early 1960s, Indonesia’s campaign against the Dutch in what was then Dutch New Guinea (now the Indonesian province of Irian Jaya) and its confrontation with Malaysia, sparked fears of possible Indonesian expansionism towards
Papua New Guinea. It promoted a surge of activity on Australia’s behalf to expand the military in PNG and to strengthen security infrastructure along the Indonesian-Papua New Guinea border. Within the space of a few years the Pacific Islands Regiment was increased from about 700 native soldiers to a force of over 3000, including Australian officers.

  By the mid-1960s, with the perceived threat from Indonesia diminishing, the military build-up levelled off, though Papua New Guinea continued to occupy a significant place in Australian strategic planning.

  It was into these changing times that I arrived.

  Rob’s driver, a soldier from Buka Island, drove us from the airport. He seemed almost as excited as Rob on my arrival. Being from Buka he was blacker than other Pacific Islanders.

  Outside the Holden’s window my first glimpse of Moresby flashed before my eyes. I saw frangipani trees lining the streets, pandanus and coconut palms, hibiscus bushes, houses built on stilts with bougainvillea and jasmine draping from verandah posts onto parched lawns and garden beds. Most of all I was amazed by the number of Pacific Islanders ambling along with seemingly all the time in the world. The women wore a mixture of native and European dress. Some were in grass skirts made of pandanus or banana fibre, two tiered with a bustle effect, others wore meri dresses, consisting of a free flowing Mother Hubbard with puff sleeves. The men either wore lap laps, calicoes or shorts and T-shirts; hair styles varied according to where the people originated, either closely cropped tight or massive fuzzy affairs; occasionally almost straight. Ears were usually highly decorated with dangly ornate objects hanging from large holes in their elongated lobes. The women carried heavily laden string bags (bilums) over their heads; others had baskets with fruit and vegetables balanced precariously on their foreheads or arms full of firewood.

  When the first Europeans arrived in Port Moresby there were two main groups of natives. The Motu and the Koitabu, the Motu being sea-going people with a language closely associated with other Melanesian and Polynesian languages, the Koitabu people speaking an inland non-Austronesian dialect. A great proportion of the population in the 1960s was of similar makeup, with a large group of squatters from the highlands and other areas. The Police and armed forces were made up of tribal groups throughout Papua New Guinea and the outlying islands. The first European to visit the island, in 1873, was Captain John Moresby, whom the town of Port Moresby is called after.

  As it turned out it wasn’t a great time for my arrival, for a strict curfew had been placed on the soldiers of Taurama Barracks, after a sit-down strike, as the police were getting higher pay than they were.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling, but you’ll be on your own tonight,’ Rob informed me, driving into Moresby.’

  I looked at him in alarm. This is not what I’d envisaged.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m duty officer,’ he explained, ‘and couldn’t get out of it. I’ve got to ensure there aren’t any troops found out drinking after curfew. If I find any they’ll be arrested by the Military Police, thrown in a paddy wagon and taken back to barracks, later to be charged.’

  This meant that I was to spend my first night in Port Moresby with my hosts and Diana, minus Rob. This was the first indication I had that no matter what the circumstances, a PIR Officer’s job came first.

  Positioned in a flat dry and dusty street in Boroko, a suburb at the intersection of Waigani Drive and Sir Hubert Murray Highway, my host’s bungalow sat amongst others of similar style. Built of timber on high stilts, to catch any slight breeze, it had the laundry and drying area with table and chairs underneath. Upstairs was an open plan living and dining room with timber floors and louvre windows, again to catch the breeze. In the centre of each room was a large ceiling fan. Furniture was typical of most houses in the tropics: cane chairs, bright floral cushions, beanbags from a Chinese store, and the odd nick knack brought up from Australia. Most of the houses occupied by expats, including in the army barracks, were built after the war, the majority in the nineteen fifties or sixties. Most had a T-shaped floor plan.

  Jan was a pleasant woman with a no-nonsense air about her in both dress and demeanour. Later, when I met her husband, a tall thin guy, and quite a smooth talker, I felt he and Jan weren’t really suited, although it would be years later before they divorced.

  After a quick cup of tea, Rob left to go back to Taurama Barracks and I explored my new home. Peering into the cupboards in my bedroom I was to share with Diana, I tried to form an image of what she’d be like. After a short nap in the oppressive heat, I was to find out, for suddenly I was awoken by the clip clop of her high heels on the wooden floor.

  Mike had met Diana on a holiday to Surfers Paradise some years before, when she and her parents were living in a beach house in the popular suburb of Mermaid Beach. In fact it was Rob who had introduced them, as he’d met her on the beach the day before through a friend. I could see why both boys were so taken with her. With her tanned olive skin, (a feature far more suited to the tropics than my Celtic covering) luminous dark brown eyes and divine figure she was eye-catching to say the least. But she was more than that. She was also great fun. Over the next months we had some marvellous times, as we still do to this day.

  Diana and I didn’t last long in this household. We seemed to be forever blotting our copy book: overflowing the shower, late for breakfasts, not on time for their very early dinners and in hindsight causing more havoc than the mere amount of money we were paying each week was worth. So, in the end, it was mutually agreed that we should look for somewhere else. No doubt Jan and her husband heaved a sigh of relief when we packed our bags and moved out. With two young children and a fairly demanding husband I feel that the poor woman was more than generous to offer to have us in the first place.

  Yet the problem in moving from this abode was that accommodation in Moresby then was still practically non-existent. This meant that Diana and I were constantly on the move. The only places available to rent were when expats went back to Australia for holidays and their homes or flats became available. With much hunting and scrounging we found some of the funniest and scariest places to live in, the most notorious being over the markets at Koki above a Government truck storage area. Coming and going was negotiated through dozens of front-end loaders, lorries and bulldozers. This was even more testing for Diana at night when she returned from her job as a waitress at a small café in Boroko, a job she took to subsidise her daytime job as a secretary with the Government, which didn’t pay all that much. Mind you, being left on my own when she was out at work, and Rob away on patrol, was just as scary. The flat adjoined a native stilt village of dilapidated corrugated iron and cement sheet shanties built on wooden stilts over the water, the original timber thatched buildings having been burned during the war.

  Although smaller than the largest stilt village in Moresby, Hanuabada, an original Motuan village, the one next to us, still housed hundreds of Pacific Islanders (these days referred to as Nationals), scores of little pikininis, not to mention dozens of starving dogs, scrounging pigs, hordes of chickens and numerous cats.

  Koki Market was where we bought most of our fruit and vegetables from villagers squatting on straw mats or behind rickety trestle tables set out in the centre. Here, amidst a mass of thronging people, both local and European, with the smell of mud on low tide, seafood, wood smoke and human sweat still engraved in my senses, I’d pile my cane basket full to the brim in order to last the coming week. In the sixties, Koki was relatively safe, with the tranquil sight of islanders’ fishing boats pulled up to the shore and most people more than friendly. Recently I read that several tourists were robbed at gunpoint with everyone else looking on with interest, but doing nothing.

  In our flat at Koki, up a flight of long stairs, there was only one bedroom and one bed too, fortunately double, which Diana and I shared. In the corner we placed a tree branch to hang our clothes on. One dark night, with Diana at work, I lay cowering under the sheets thinking I was being attacked by a mass of spear wielding native
s, only to discover when I eventually ventured outside, carrying a steel machete in my hand, it was a family of cats from the village next door prowling on the roof, the same roof over which we clambered to hang our washing on the makeshift clothes-line spanning two poles.

  Diana, Mike, Rob and I had great fun at this flat. We threw copious dinner parties with a few disasters on my behalf, as I tried my limited cooking skills on the unsuspecting. Apart from my lack of cooking skills, trying to follow a recipe was somewhat difficult, for few of the ingredients were available in the Moresby stores. Yet the quality of food made little difference as we consumed glasses of Chianti around the small table with a red checked tablecloth under the window and threw numerous shindigs. Mind you, when I was talking to Diana recently she assured me we could only afford water a lot of the time.

  ‘You make it sound as though we were forever drinking plonk,’ she laughed. ‘Don’t you remember how much we scrounged and saved for a bottle?’

  One bash the four of us organised was at the old ruins at Idler’s Bay on the Napa Napa Peninsula, east of Port Moresby. After setting up trestle tables with more red and white checked tablecloths and candles in Chianti bottles, Diana, I and the other women, ran down the crumbling stairs and changed into long dresses. With tropical flowers placed behind our ears and colourful necklaces dangling around our necks, we re-emerged barefooted to a blood red sunset across the sparkling bay and a night of Rolling Stones, Dusty Springfield, the Beatles, too much wine (definitely not water this time) and later a sleepover within the stone fort, awakening to a magnificent golden sunrise emerging over the hills.