Can My Pony Come Too?

by Rosemary Esmonde Peterswald

  In a moment of grog fuelled enlightenment, the boys talked of throwing the army in and turning the ruins into an international hotel. As far as I know it still remains as a ruin.

  Often a group of us would hire a boat and head out to Fisherman’s Island, not far off the coast of Moresby, where we’d picnic on the soft white sand and swim in the luminous turquoise waters off the beach, returning home late in the afternoon, windblown and sunburnt, despite the gallons of white zinc cream we covered our faces in.

  At other times I went horse riding at the Koitaki Country club at Sorgeri, past the Laloki River gorge, a popular spot for those wanting to escape the heat of Moresby. I remember Rob sitting on the deck at the clubhouse enjoying a cool South Pacific Lager, as I rode a chestnut Galloway in the paddock below. Afterwards we sat on the verandah watching the last of the hot sun settling down behind the rubber plantation in the valley below.

  Further on from the turn off to the Varirata National Park, was a lookout for the spectacular Rouna Falls, and just before reaching Sogeri is the Kokoda Track junction. In the 50s and 60s those that mostly walked the Kokoda Track were the army on an exercise, or patrol officers. Today it’s a great achievement for people from all walks of life to have walked and survived the track, and many do. In fact on our last visit back to New Guinea, Rob and I appeared to be the only Australians on the Air Nui Guinea flight arriving into Moresby that weren’t there to walk the track.

  Despite my fears, right from the moment I arrived in Moresby, Rob and I fell into step as though we’d never been apart. Of course, like all couples, we had our disagreements, but most of the time we were blissfully happy and I was falling more and more in love with both him and this strange country and its enigmatic people.

  Often a Saturday morning was spent shopping in Burns Phillip, Steamships and the other shops in the main drag, followed by a long lunch at the Top Pub, otherwise known as the Moresby Hotel. The Papuan Hotel, known as the Bottom Pub, where Errol Flynn once drank and brawled, was another popular haunt, or it might be the Boroko Hotel beer garden. Evenings were frequently lazed away at the drive-in theatre where you could get a glass of wine and sit in deck chairs under the stars. We also spent many an hour on the verandah of the Hibiscus Room, or Biccy Room as we called it; a rustic café-come-restaurant, nestled up a side street, with a verandah overhung with tangled jasmine and bougainvillea vines hidden behind a huge hibiscus bush. One evening, enjoying a meal on the verandah here, Rob had to rescue the cook from a local scoundrel, who had a knife held to the unfortunate man’s throat. For what seemed like a lifetime, I sat at the table with my spaghetti bolognaise getting colder, with Rob holding the attacker in a neck hold until a policeman arrived, and took over. I was amazed how calmly Rob sat down afterwards and finished his meal.

  Although the food at the Biccy Room was fairly basic, which a lot of food of the sixties was: frozen prawns in a cocktail sauce, (we even had frozen oysters in Moresby) chicken Maryland, Hawaiian, or in the basket, spaghetti bolognaise, Vienna schnitzel or curried sausages, the atmosphere more than made up for the food’s shortcomings.

  The new restaurant, Tabu, at the bottom of Badili, was much more adventuresome. Coquilles St Jacques and superb reef fish being their specialty. The Yacht and Aviat Clubs, or the huge verandah at the pub in Konedobu, where most of the government offices were sited, and where Diana worked during the day, were also popular haunts for lunch, with the long sandy stretch of Ela Beach a great spot for lazing by the water and sunbaking, but not for swimming, due to the weeds at low tide and the dreaded black sea urchins.

  Rob had bought a white TR4, commonly called Flying Bricks, known as such for the speed at which they hurtled along. Yet they were pretty ordinary on corners, with more than a few crashing. Fortunately, after a few more driving lessons, and a test going up and down the hills around Moresby, a terrified policeman told me I’d passed the dreaded driving examination, probably scared out of his wits he’d have to go through it all again. A licence was duly handed over in grand style, whereupon I was able to whiz around Moresby and out to Taurama Barracks on my own. Unfortunately, a few months later, the car’s lack of performance on corners was put to the test when Rob was involved in an incident with a hire car going around a steep bend, with the hire car winning. Both Rob and TR4 were nearly wiped out.

  Eventually we got the car back, this time painted bright red, a colour taking our fancy. Unfortunately they neglected to paint the inside, including the doors, under the bonnet and boot, so it looked rather odd for the rest of its life. And, in any case, red was a particularly stupid colour for a hot climate.

  It was difficult to get good cars in Moresby, as rust was a problem and many were less than roadworthy. Yet a reliable car was essential, for the drive on the dusty road to the barracks at Taurama, out past Korobosea, was long and remote. Once I broke down on the way to collect Rob, but fortunately an hour or so later an army patrol truck came past and rescued me. A mobile phone would have been handy, but in those days we didn’t even have a phone in the flat, let alone the car.

  Diana and I spent many months on our own, as Rob and Mike, both platoon commanders, were away on army exercises for lengthy periods. It was a changing time for the army then. Rob enjoyed his patrols in the vast and barely explored mountains and jungles, particularly his interaction with the colourful and enthusiastic soldiers in his platoon. From different tribal regions around the country, many left stone-age villages to join the army, exchanging penis gourds or lap laps for jungle greens. Each had his own unique personality, some more outgoing than others, but on the whole they were a happy lot with the odd bout of sullenness, which usually meant trouble approaching.

  For long periods Rob trekked the arduous interior; the Hindenburg Wall, the Southern Highlands and along the Ok Tedi River from Mendi to Tari by way of Lake Kutubu, a seemingly bottomless crater, where ancient skeletons and shrunken skulls hung from caves along the mountainous shoreline. In places, the locals had never seen a white person before, and even the modest equipment carried by the soldiers was the source of never-ceasing curiosity. Radio schedules and airdrops were unexplainable mysteries, feeding the latent cargo cults. And a balus was often regarded as a huge strange bird dropping out of the sky. Some even strung enormous nets between trees, hoping to catch this unique bird carrying gifts of western civilisation.

  Rob and his platoon spent weeks at Telafomin, Manus Island and Rabaul. They paddled in the searing muggy heat in dug-out canoes on the Fly River and built rafts to traverse swollen rivers. Everything he needed he carried in his heavy pack on his back, with Caribous and Hercules flying in now and then to resupply. For hours we’d sit on the living-room floor going through his rations, either preparing for a patrol or unpacking when he came home. The bars of chocolate were the best. Heaps of curry powder was essential, as the provisions, particularly the bully beef and endless rice portions, were pretty bland. Paladin for malaria and water purifier tablets were essential. Unfortunately the latter didn’t always work and dysentery from polluted water and other tropical diseases was often a problem on patrol.

  They slogged along the Kokoda Track on training exercises, sometimes against an SAS regiment from Australia. He told me of the rotting relics of World War II, not yet swallowed by the encroaching jungle, the fox holes and trenches, rifles and helmets, all a reminder of the bitter battles fought there during the war.

  When we were in Moresby in 1966, the Second World War seemed like an age away. Yet in reality it was only just over twenty years since those brave Aussie troops had slogged through this hell-on-earth, holding back the Japanese whilst General McArthur languished back in Australia in the comfort of a hotel in Brisbane.

  Rob spoke Pidgin English; often this wasn’t enough, for if the soldiers had been recruited from a particularly remote tribe, they were sometimes more fluent in their local dialect. Yet language was not necessarily a barrier.

  A few Pacific Islanders, including Ted Diro, Ken Noga and Patterson Lo
wa, had been selected to train at Portsea Military College in Victoria to become officers in the Pacific Islands Regiments. Over the years there has appeared to be much competition between these three, who’ve had their fair share of controversy within the politics of Papua New Guinea. I knew Patterson Lowa the best; a fine-looking guy with much charm, particularly where the women were concerned. First I met him in Moresby when he was a platoon commander and then later when we were in Wewak, where I became friendly with his Australian wife who was finding it difficult adjusting to life married to a Pacific Islander, with all the ancient customs, not to mention his copious wantoks (relations) demanding a part of him. I have a lovely picture of Charlotte sitting on Patterson’s knee under a coconut tree on the beach at Moem Barracks.

  A fellow officer at the time at Taurama Barracks was Michael Jeffries, past-Governor General of Australia. Later, when we were to finally find a house at the Barracks, he and his glamorous new bride, Marlena, were to become our neighbours and only recently we danced the New Year in together. Another neighbour was Caroline Cotter, head prefect from when I was at Rose Bay. She was now married to a Scotsman, Ian, who’d transferred to the Australian Army. She’d terrified me at school, but here in Moresby we became firm friends.

  All in all there was a tremendous group of people living this fascinating existence, many of whom we’ve kept in touch with over the years. Others sadly have died or we’ve lost touch with.

  Within the first two days of my arrival in Moresby I was lucky enough to find a job as secretary to Ron Firns, the Managing Director of a small airline company, STOL (Short Take Off and Landing). I was not the greatest typist in the world and my shorthand was sketchy to say the least. Whether it was the short skirt I was wearing, or that his trusted secretary of many years, Lois White, had returned to Australia, leaving him with a huge chasm to fill, I was employed on the spot.

  STOL was one of a number of small airline companies operating in Papua New Guinea at the time, PATAIR being its main competitor. Ron, with his thinning sandy hair and mass of cornflake freckles, was an amiable boss (until someone upset him and all hell broke loose). When I first met him he was smoking a cigar and dressed in pretty much the expat uniform of the time: shorts, long socks, lace-up shoes and open-neck shirt, though his shorts seemed shorter and tighter than most.

  Taking up my position behind a small desk in the front room of STOL’s headquarters, a ramshackle building at the bottom of Lawes Road, opposite the Steamships Trading Company, I started my new job with some trepidation. My office, with rough cement floors covered in seagrass matting, whitewashed walls and the lavatory positioned outside next to a small native settlement where tribesmen often sat on the dusty ground smoking or chewing betel nut, was different to any office I’d worked in before. It was more fun too. Our only form of cooling was a small fan in the corner, so most of the time I worked in a lather of sweat, not just because of the intense heat, but also due to the huge amount of tapes Ron hurled on my desk as he careered past to his office at the rear. Deciphering his voice, as he spoke into a tape recorder when flying one of his Cessnas or Aztecs around remote parts of Papua and New Guinea, was somewhat tricky to say the least. It didn’t take me long to realise that Lois had been much better at interpreting his jangled terminology than I ever would be. And he certainly wasn’t backward in telling me so, which I’m sure I deserved.

  Ron had retired a number of years before from the Department of Civil Aviation and founded STOL, together with his Aerial Mapping Business run from the same office at Lawes Road. Out at Jackson Airport was the cargo and maintenance division.

  Ron Firn’s contribution to the airline and mapping industries in Papua New Guinea is legendary. Looking back it was a privilege to have worked at STOL, if at times it was somewhat chaotic trying to juggle the books to find enough money to stay in business. Yet one thing it never could claim to be was boring.

  John Kaputin, now Sir John Kaputin, was one of the air traffic controllers at the airport. I had a bit to do with him in the running of STOL’s schedules and a number of functions we had out at the strip. Like most girls of the time I was rather enamoured with this stylish Papuan. I even based my character, Ted, in my novel Bird of Paradise loosely on him. For many years after Independence he served as the Foreign Minister for Papua New Guinea. In 1994 he was knighted. Then he took office as Secretary General of the African, Caribbean, and Pacific group of states. His flourishing career was not without the odd bit of scandal.

  Wearing a uniform of an incredibly short blue linen dress with red and white braiding around the neck and arm-holes, I found life at my desk at Lawes Road was not all typing and paper work. The odd distraction took place. One morning a local fellow walked into my office, planted himself in the cane chair in the corner, opened his zipper and waved his most private of parts in my direction, all the time sporting a huge scarlet betel-nut grin. With the naivety of youth, I screeched, retracting in a huddle to the rear office to be comforted by the rest of the staff; whereupon the culprit got up and walked outside, never to be seen again.

  Incidents of this nature were quite common, particularly while driving on the country roads. It wasn’t long before I learned to ignore such behaviour. Unfortunately, if you lived in Port Moresby now, there’d be much more than a waving penis to contend with. A hatchet or rifle is more likely to be waved in your direction.

  Another part of my job was helping to run the Hertz Hire Car business, which Ron also owned. In fact the car, which had the run-in with Rob in his TR4, was one of our cars, causing me more than a spot of embarrassment at the time.

  Liz Brown, a gorgeous blonde with super long legs, which most of the men admired more than they should have, managed this part of the business. We became firm friends, and many an evening after work, with Rob away on patrol, we’d sit on her verandah in deep wickerwork chairs gazing out over a fading sunset across Fairfax Harbour, drinking the odd Bundy and Coke with her four blonde, sun burnished children squealing with delight in the makeshift swimming pool in the garden below. Even to this day, whenever I have a Bundy, I’m reminded of that tranquil scene.

  Chapter 19

  A Tropical Wedding

  With accommodation so sought after in Moresby when a bungalow became available in Boroko for a couple of months, Rob and I decided to take the plunge and get married. Now we’d have somewhere to live together, even if it was only for a short time before hopefully a more permanent house became available. Marrying in such haste caused a bit of a stir, with many an eye cast in the direction of my stomach. They were to be disappointed, for I wasn’t in the family way, nor would I be for over a year.

  There was only one dress shop in the whole of Moresby with anything that slightly resembled what a bride could wear for a wedding.

  Rushing in, I said to the flamboyant lady behind the glass counter, ‘I need a wedding dress urgently? I’m getting married in the morning?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ she exclaimed, raising her more than ample frame from behind the counter. ‘Haven’t you left it a bit late to find a dress?’

  I hastily explained the wedding was to take place in the morning, but not for a few weeks down the track. Finally we settled on a short white dress, (which my mother later made me lengthen before she’d allow me to walk down the aisle and I later shortened again to use as a tennis dress). The kind, but confused lady, with a clutter of coloured bangles jangling on her sunburnt arms, placed on my head a Brigitte Bardot style white cloth flower. Rather fancy we both thought. Together with matching shoes, hurriedly sent up from Brisbane, I was ready for the big occasion. Fortunately we found Diana a blue dress from the same shop, for I’d asked her to be my bridesmaid. Mike was to be best man. Sadly, my mother was the only member of either of our families able to fly up for the occasion.

  ‘Of course I’ll come,’ she told me over the phone from Ijong Street. ‘No matter how much it costs.’

  And, true to her word, on the twenty-eighth of November she arrived early one
morning, clutching presents from all the family. We were married at the sac sac church at Taurama Barracks – our romantic lovers’ dream. Built in the old tradition, with woven cane and palm thatched walls and ceilings, it had all the character, charm and exotic feel of the Pacific Islands. In the absence of my father, Tom Medson, the burly and kindly Quartermaster at Taurama Barracks, walked me down the aisle – under a roof of tropical flowers, lovingly arranged by Rob’s soldiers. In front of me, Diana looked divine in her blue dress. Our entrance was heralded by a rendition of the Hawaiian Wedding song, which we’d convinced the Padre, Father Ray Quirke, to allow us to play. I’m sure he thought it was a hymn he hadn’t come across during his long and noble priesthood. By the altar, Rob stood resplendent in his uniform of green shirt and knee length shorts, starched to the hilt by his faithful batman, Wafiaga, as they always were. If the uniform couldn’t stand up on its own it meant there wasn’t enough starch and more needed to be added. Years later I stood at the laundry tub in our house near Holsworthy in Sydney before Rob went to Vietnam, with tears streaming down my cheeks, trying to get his jungle greens to stand up just right; not something I was good at.

  At the altar, Mike stood by Rob’s side, the two of them with gleaming swords and polished leather Sam Brownes. Later I was to discover that the grins they sported were more a result of a few whiskies they’d shared with Padre Quirke before the service than the actual joy of seeing Diana and I walk up the aisle. In fact Rob had shared quite a few whiskies with this garrulous and amiable priest over the previous weeks, for in those days, to marry a Catholic meant hours of tutoring beforehand in the ways of the Church. Fortunately in this case, Father Ray was far more interested in sharing an odd tipple with his pupil, rather than lecturing about the Catholic faith and the future of its children.