Can My Pony Come Too?

by Rosemary Esmonde Peterswald

  After the ceremony we dipped our heads through a guard of honour of Rob’s fellow officers and soon afterwards, ensconced in a green army Holden, the Pipes and Drums of the lst Pacific Islands Regiment escorted us up the dry parched hill to the Officers’ Mess, a low-line vine covered structure with louvred windows and doors, set in a midst of dense greenery. Here my mother, dressed to the nines in a regal floral dress and matching hat, together with Tom Medson, Colonel Hearn, the Commanding Officer of Taurama Barracks and his wife, Jenny, plus Rob and I, greeted the guests at the front door. I’ve a lovely photo of our friends Colin and Marilyn Hicton shaking my mother’s hand. It’s hard to work out whose flamboyant hat sported the most flowers – my mother’s or Marilyn’s.

  The Mess stewards had done us proud. Taking pride of place at the head of our table was a lavish two-tiered wedding cake one of the army chefs had spent hours decorating, a somewhat gaudy bride and groom perched proudly on the top. Above our heads a huge portrait of the Queen lauded it over the happy scene; an amusing backdrop for the controversial Irish poem my father had telegraphed through, much to the consternation of my mother and me, who knew what this meant.

  Back in Ijong Street my father was enjoying a drink for the occasion.

  A couple of hours later, Rob and I were scooting out the door under a shower of confetti to our honeymoon in Tapini in the southern highlands, a gift from Ron Firns at STOL.

  My mother was to stay on her own in our bungalow at Boroko, taking over the TR4 and Snoopy our dog. I was terrified of leaving her by herself, but she assured me she’d be fine. And fine she was as she whizzed around Moresby with the car roof off, wind blowing through her blue rinsed hair, before hopping on a small plane to visit the outlying Trobriand Islands, which she just adored, coming back laden with a bundle of ebony carvings and walking sticks that these celebrated islands are so famous for.

  ‘It reminded me so much of my times in India,’ she told me nostalgically as we reminisced in Ireland. ‘I adored it.’

  When the time came for her to head back to Canberra, where my father was waiting anxiously at Ijong Street, she was devastated to be parting from us and leaving behind this weird and wonderful country with its fascinating and mysterious people.

  Chapter 20

  Tapini…and Life as a PIR Officer’s Wife

  Leaving for our honeymoon was tricky. First we had to find the pilot to fly the small plane taking us to Tapini. After finally tracking him down in the pub at Boroko we took off in trepidation, particularly after he told us his scarred and battered face was the result of a flying accident a few years ago in America. In those days, after the war and in the fifties, sixties and seventies, pilots would come from all over the world to get their flying hours up in Papua New Guinea. He was one of these. For a moment I thought of refusing to go with him. Surely he was breaking the law by drinking before flying. Yet this was Moresby, not Canberra. And after all, he assured us he’d only had a couple of beers. Even so I was doubtful. Yet to give him his due he flew the plane without a hitch.

  With the dry arid plains of Moresby behind us, we were soon soaring high above green ribbons of rainforest and over the majestic Owen Stanleys, following narrow water courses, and drifting into white, floaty clouds. An hour or so later the pilot took a stiff left turn, flying on top of a deep ravine with a crashed Caribou in its depths and brought the plane down into Tapini, where a few of the locals rushed out and shoved wooden chocks behind the wheels to stop the plane running backwards. Tapini is one of the most difficult strips to fly in and out of in New Guinea. When you take off it’s like jumping off the end of a cliff, the wreck of the Caribou at the bottom of the chasm reminding you grimly of what can happen if the pilot misjudges.

  If by chance you’ve read my novel , Bird of Paradise, you’ll recognise Tapini and the lodge where we stayed. In real life, our host was Andy Anderson. In my novel it was Ernie Morris. There is only a slight resemblance between the two, but the guesthouse is much the same. A long low-line timber bungalow, it boasted a Somerset Maugham verandah to the front, looking out over the village and beyond to the lush Loloipa River valley stretching to the high savannah mountains on the skyline. Where Moresby was dry, Tapini basked in thick lush greenery, dotted with red hibiscus bushes, bougainvillea, poinsettias, cassias and wonderful creeping passion fruit vines. To me it was one of the most romantic honeymoon spots in the world. Unfortunately we’ve only one Polaroid photo to show for our time there, as our film was ruined on returning to Moresby when I opened the camera accidentally. Amazingly, fourteen years later when we moved to Tasmania we met Sue and Donald Clark at Koonya. They too had spent their honeymoon at Andy Anderson’s guesthouse in Tapini, three months before we did. I’ve heard of few other people who’ve been to Tapini for a holiday, let alone a honeymoon, for it wasn’t as though it was well-known.

  We spent the week horse riding, bush-walking, enjoying sundowners on the verandah and dining with Andy in the wood-panelled dining room. (I had to take to my bed one evening feigning sickness, in order not to have to try and do justice to another of his huge generous portions of kindly prepared dishes served in style by his houseboy with the wonderful name of Ajax.)

  Andy, a retired patrol officer, had many stories to tell as we sat on the deep verandah in wickerwork chairs talking till late at night, listening to the sounds of the tropics or watching the rain fall onto the lush greenery. If only I could remember some of those stories. One day we attempted to go for a helicopter ride into the mountains. After only a few seconds in the air the sheer pin broke and we more or less plummeted to the ground, causing us both whiplash, but miraculously no other injuries. All too soon our two weeks of bliss were up and once again we were on a STOL plane heading back to Moresby and work.

  Our bungalow at Boroko was not a luxurious abode, but we loved it. With a lean-to kitchen at the side, it had a huge central living area with bedrooms leading off without any doors and a pretty decrepit bathroom out the back, which from memory we shared with another army couple. We’d found a wonderful houseboy, Ben, a solidly built fellow from Hanuabada, with a huge betel nut grin, who was extremely kind to the new missus of the house, helping me with chores and cleaning up after some disastrous cooking escapades in the kitchen.

  With the lease at Boroko sadly at an end we were on the move again. Once we baby-sat a married quarter out at Taurama Barracks for a couple when they went home to Australia on leave. One evening Rob arrived home with a huge wild cockatoo he’d found on patrol, sitting it proudly in the corner of the sitting room on a tree stump – where it scared the living daylights out of me. When he finally realised it was the cockatoo or me that would have to go he took it down to the company headquarters to make it their mascot.

  After that we rented a flat up the top of Paga Point, reached by a steep winding dirt road – or otherwise accessed by 500 steps from the centre of town. It had the most magnificent view of the endless ocean dotted with islands on one side and Fairfax Harbour and Moresby town on the other. Most of the time I stayed there on my own as Rob was away on patrol. I was quite often terrified, even though I had a machete under my bed and Snoopy, who looked as if he was a gentle cross between a dingo and a fox, to protect me. But Snoopy wasn’t much interested in being a protector, having neither the cunning nor the bravery of his look-alikes. His greatest occupation was to chase the TR4 down to town, where he’d proceed to terrify the poor policeman dressed in a stifling blue uniform with long white gloves who was directing the traffic from a podium in the centre of the main street. Having done that successfully, Snoopy would then return to Paga to loiter the day away under the huge hibiscus bush by the back door. At night times he refused to sleep outside, instead cowering under the bed and declining to come out no matter what the emergency may have been.

  Our bungalow’s wide shady verandah, swathed in purple bougainvillea and snow-white frangipani, was where I first fell in love with the astonishing butterflies of New Guinea. Some were the size of a fist,
ranging in colour from the most startling blues to daffodil yellows; others wore delicate silk gowns woven in the finest textures of blood reds, blacks, browns, and ochres. For hours I’d watch them playing within the flower petals or dancing on the lawn in the bright sunlight; nature providing a paintbox far more vivid than any human could possibly produce. The only other time I’ve seen such a stage show, although not as many varieties (New Guinea has more varieties of butterflies than anywhere else in the world), was amongst the orange, tangerine, olive and fig groves on the island of Corfu in the Greek Islands. We were anchored on Sea Dreams in the sapphire horseshoe bay of Kalami and swam ashore to walk along a shady path to the next cove of Agni – with dozens of tiny butterflies flitting from branch to branch around us, and often landing on our heads.

  One balmy evening at Paga we had a mu mu on the front lawn, with hurricane lanterns lighting up the trees, and a long trestle table laden with tropical fruits and salads. A bottomless bowl of potent punch soon had us all singing loudly and dancing to the Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan blasting from the record player we’d bought that morning from one of the Chinese trade stores.

  However, before too long we were on the move again, for another married quarter became available at Taurama Barracks. Soon we packed our belongings, plus Snoopy, into the back of an army Land Rover and moved in.

  Taurama Barracks was a mini-village with its own doctor and dentist and small supermarket. The married quarters were divided into three sections. One for the officers, another for other ranks (ORs) and at the far end was where the Pacific Islanders lived. The Officers’ Mess was the centre of our life in most respects, much like a country club with the officers expected to retreat there after work each afternoon for a drink, and on Fridays for happy hour when the beer was half price. There were many single officers living in the mess and of course this was their home so to speak. Not to turn up for a beer after work was frowned upon by the hierarchy. To stay too long was frowned upon by us wives. There was a fine line between the two.

  On the whole the Mess was a male domain. Sometimes we women were invited. Functions were a mixture of formal and informal affairs. We had theme nights, cocktail parties, lunches and formal mixed dining-in nights where the men dressed in full mess kit, even in that heat, and the dress I wore to Rob’s graduation, now dyed black, had many outings.

  One dining-in night, the officers had, was for Malcolm Fraser, the then Minister for the Army. The next morning there were many sore heads, Rob’s being amongst the worst. One of the rituals of a dining-in night is the subalterns’ court, usually taking place at the end of the evening when everyone is somewhat merry, or pissed to be more precise. Here a mock judge and jury summon a person before the court to be tried. That person could be the Commanding Officer or any other officer or visiting dignitary. In this case it was Malcolm Fraser, who was fined seven ports. I don’t think it had to be any great offence to be fined, probably that he was too tall, or had his tie at half-mast. He refused to down the seven ports unless the subalterns kept him company, which most of them did. Mr Fraser was notorious for the amount of alcohol he could consume in one sitting. Years later, when he was in the news for losing his trousers after some function overseas, I thought of that night back in Moresby when Rob arrived home three sheets to the wind.

  Tropical storms can be terrifying in New Guinea. It’s as though the whole sky is alight with orange and yellow strobes, splitting the trees and shooting through the windows. On a few occasions, with Rob away, I’d huddle in the lavatory as it was the only place the lightning didn’t penetrate. A couple of nights I took my mattress and a terrified Snoopy in there too.

  Yet, when the worst of the storm had passed, I’d love to sit on the wooden steps leading down from the living room to the garden, watching the rain falling through the dense tropical foliage onto the lawns. And then when the sun broke through, the raindrops on the thick frangipani leaves would shimmer and sparkle in the sunlight as if they were clusters of polished diamonds. After the long months of the dry, the rain was a pleasant relief. Needless to say, after months of the wet season, one desperately wished for the dry again.

  It was quite an odd feeling living in someone else’s shoes for three or four months, and then moving on into someone else’s, which is what we were doing as we moved from one house to the next with people away on leave. We bought ourselves a carved wooden anchor, ceremoniously placing it up on the wall as soon as we arrived at each new place, right up to the home we live in now.

  The army quarters at Taurama were pretty much all the same, with the area under the house a great spot to suspend a cane hanging-basket chair amongst the lush greenery, where we could enjoy a drink in the cool of the evening. Sometimes it was not long before the neighbours, hearing the clink of glasses would amble over to join us. All the houses were built closely together, making it virtually impossible to have a party without the whole street knowing, so it was best to invite everyone (within hearing distance at least), lest people felt left out.

  Farewelling or welcoming a family into the barracks was a ritual, sometimes starting off with a weekend brunch and often turning into a whole day affair. Everyone would bring a dish and for hours we’d sit out under the huge pandanus or frangipani trees, with children playing in makeshift rubber pools nearby, the sound of their laughter filling the air.

  Under the house was ideal for long hot evenings; rickety trestle tables were set up with white tablecloths and hurricane lanterns casting a spectral glow onto the dense greenery. Quite often we’d have three or four fondues going, (with bowls of hot spicy sauces to dip our meat or cheese into) and mosquito coils curling languid spirals of grey smoke into the warm evening air. We had no television, so entertainment was our own making, with music forming an essential part of our lives, as it still does. We wore long flowing dresses, one-piece culottes or short mini-skirts with flowers in our hair, and danced barefoot on the lawns. Rob even had a bright cotton caftan he’d throw on at night, or if we were going out it might be a beige safari suit. At times, particularly in Wewak later on, we occasionally ended the night with a motor-scooter ride around the barracks or through the football fields down to the beach where we’d skinny dip in the ocean. The main mode of transport for the officers within the barracks was small scooters and since there was no real restriction on riding these (or if there was we disregarded it), it was a fun, if not a foolhardy sport when we challenged each other to a race.

  Cards, particularly Poker and 500, until they were banned a few years later, also played a major role in our lives. After the ban, we still continued to play, but needed a sentry on the front door. One evening in Wewak the adjutant was walking past and heard someone shout out ‘Full house’ in excitement. On enquiring what was going on, he was told by the fellow on the front door that the loo was full. To give him his due he took it no further.

  Many a day at Taurama we were treated to the evocative sound of the pipes and drums being practised by the soldiers, with the poignant notes wafting over the trees to where we enjoyed our happy hour. Often they marched through the barracks, either first thing in the morning or just on dusk. And every night a truck would come through the barracks spraying for mosquitoes. I think it was DDT or some such dreadful poison, but it kept the mosquitoes at bay and hence the cases of malaria. So far I’m still alive, but I hate to think what it did to our systems, not to mention the many children who played out in the gardens as they were sprayed. Each morning Paladin parades were compulsory for the soldiers, where they were handed out Paladin anti-malarial tablets. Should they not show up, they were charged.

  When Rob was away, I spent most of the time sleeping with the machete under my bed, for even in the sixties there were quite a few break-ins and attempted rapes. The barracks was not immune. In one incidence, a young wife, living across the road from us in Taurama, woke up to find an indigenous fellow in her bedroom wielding a huge carving knife. I awoke to sickening screams. Alarmed, I shook Rob, who, in half a daze, lea
ped from the bed, taking off in the direction of the screams.

  Suddenly it dawned on me he was stark naked. ‘My God… come back and put some clothes on,’ I yelled, as I ran after him with his shorts.

  Stopping to put them on gave the attacker time to escape. Fortunately he was arrested the next day, confessing to what had happened, the story being, that he was a wontok of a ‘houseboy’ newly arrived in the barracks. He’d evidently hidden in the bushes near the Mess, where the woman had gone to watch a movie with a girlfriend, whose husband was also away on patrol, and followed them home. As they sat under the house drinking coffee and strumming a guitar, the fellow crept up the back stairs to the kitchen, where he got the carving knife, then hid in the bedroom cupboard. Only when the woman was asleep did he come out and attempt to attack her. Scared off by her screams and then Rob’s shouting as he rushed towards the house, he dropped the knife, peed in the corner, and scurried down the back stairs. Unfortunately Rob had taken to the front stairs, missing him as he went.

  A few weeks later, I was looking after a friend’s albino bull terrier, Timmy. With Rob away on patrol again I was on my own, apart from Snoopy and Timmy. Snoopy didn’t think much of Timmy (certainly no prize to look at), putting up with him in a bored sort of way. One night, with Snoopy asleep under my bed, Timmy wanted to relieve himself outside. After going through the front door to let him out I heard with alarm it slam behind me in the wind. Here I was, starkers (with no air-conditioning and the overhead fan giving little relief from the oppressive heat, we mostly slept in the nude) on the front steps with all the doors and windows locked.

  After initially sitting staring into the blackness, with tears of frustration falling down my cheeks, I resolved the situation by finding a sheet in the laundry down below and wrapping it around me. Still I couldn’t get back inside as all windows and doors were locked from the inside. Snoopy, I might add was still asleep. It was only 2am. After ten minutes or so, with Timmy now back from his walk, I decided to scurry through the shrubbery to Mike and Diana’s house in the next block, where I knocked on the door.