Can My Pony Come Too?

by Rosemary Esmonde Peterswald

  In those days men were still not involved in the birthing ritual, and certainly not with someone else’s wife. I stood forlornly in the corridor before a pretty young nurse bustled out from a back room, and took me to a ward overlooking the beach. Fortunately at this stage I’d made friends with a number of other army wives as well, who took it in turns to sit with me during the labour. The doctor, later to become a friend of ours, took it all a bit too casually, eventually ambling in from the beach, wearing a pair of shorts, T-shirt and rubber thongs, to do the final delivery after I’d been in labour for some sixteen hours.

  Georgina Anne Peterswald made her way joyfully into this world on the 22nd of March, 1972. I was ecstatic with my gorgeous new addition, if somewhat exhausted and lonely without Rob. Once she’d been washed and weighed she was placed inside a meat-safe on castors.

  The next morning, a nurse with a mass of steel wool hair and a no-nonsense manner arrived in a flurry. ‘Here,’ she said airily, handing me a sheet and a pair of scissors, ‘I’m afraid we’ve run out of nappies and we’re short staffed.’ Somewhat startled I took the sheet and started cutting.

  Bronwyn Walkem, who, with her husband, Graeme, are fellow Tasmanians and great friends of ours from our Wewak days, also had her daughter in the same hospital, just six months later.

  ‘Opposite me was a Sepik woman. She had her pikinini with her all the time, mostly attached to her breast,’ Bronwyn said, as we sat on the verandah of their home looking across Coles Bay on Tasmania’s east coast, to the spectacular rock formations that form The Hazards. We were sipping a Tasmanian Pinot, whilst devouring flathead Graeme had caught that morning off the Fisheries. ‘That pikinini never cried,’ Bronwyn laughed, ‘whilst Simone screamed non-stop from her meat-safe. For some reason the Sepik women were allowed to keep their pikininis with them day and night, whilst ours had to be kept in another room unless we were feeding them.’

  She was right, for the woman opposite me had also kept her baby with her all the time. And what’s more she had the help of many enthusiastic wontoks, making me wish dreadfully for a relation of my own.

  Early the next morning, I returned to Moem Barracks with my new baby. I decided that even though the overworked staff were kind, one day in the hospital was enough. I could survive at home just as well.

  Georgie was the only white baby in the hospital, so caused quite a stir. Not only were the other babies black, Georgie, like Charlotte, was the palest blonde with vivid blue eyes. As I waited to be picked up outside the hospital the next morning, a group of wantoks hovering out front waiting to visit their relations in the hospital, came up to me and pointed wondrously at her white skin and fairy floss hair.

  I only became slightly nervous when a tribesman, wearing nothing other than a tattered loin-cloth, with a huge carved bone through his nose and strings of heavy beads dangling from his ears, leaned his spear against the wall and asked with a scarlet betel nut beam, ‘Mi holim?’

  I was a bit concerned he may, at the very least, want to kidnap her back to his tribe. Yet he was so gentle and ecstatic when he held her in his scrawny arms that I felt quite guilty for my thoughts.

  Meantime, whilst on patrol near the station town of Telefomin on the border of Sandaun and Gulf Provinces, Rob was doing his utmost to survive a horrendous case of dysentery. He assures me he was going through far worse pain than my labour could possibly have been. I have my doubts.

  The Sepik region is a wonderland of islands, glorious coastlines, intricate river systems and mountain ranges. First colonised by the Germans in 1885, the area soon attracted mercenaries, explorers, traders and missionaries. Yet it is the timeless history of the Sepik people themselves that provides the mystery and exotic folklore of this fascinating area, the gem being the mighty Sepik River of some 1126 kilometres. One of the great river systems of the world, the Sepik is supposedly the largest freshwater wetland system in Asia Pacific. People living along its banks depend heavily on it for both food and transportation, with tourists finding it an unspoilt haven with labyrinthine tributaries, not unlike the Amazon, boasting remote tribal villages with some of the most unique carvings in the world being produced there.

  Apart from Vanimo, near the Indonesian border, which I was to visit later, Wewak was in the prettiest setting I’d ever come across. With its iridescent turquoise water, golden sandy beaches and spectacular palm trees gently swaying in the light breeze it was a central part of our lives for those of us stationed at Moem Barracks. Situated at the foot of a headland with a marvellous view over the coast and then to the islands of Kairiru and Muschu, Wewak has a small wharf, almost to the centre of town, for local fishing boats and canoes. A longer one for bigger ships is to the east of the Windjammer Hotel along the bay formed by Wewak Point and Cape Boram. The headland where Eric and Eileen Tang, who were to become great friends of ours, lived and still do for part of the year, is a haven of bungalows nestled into the hillside amidst flourishing tropical gardens gazing out to the Bismarck sea.

  Up here is the Seaview Hotel, known as the Sepik in our day, with a heavenly outside gazebo restaurant built on poles overlooking the ocean and totally open on all sides. It was exotic and romantic. Behind the cane bar, empty wine and liquor bottles stood like a battalion of drunken soldiers on the shelves, tokens of what the patrons had consumed over the years. When we left Wewak at the end of our tour, quite a few were ours.

  Covered in a maze of tangled vines with hurricane lanterns hanging from the rafters, and candles in Chianti bottles on the tables casting a spectral glow, the restaurant was an alluring place to dine. One evening I returned to the table from the loo – to Rob smoking his pipe and gazing out over the sea, contemplating, as he is inclined to do. ‘This is what heaven’s all about,’ I said, sliding down on the wooden bench and picking up my Bundy and Coke.

  The Sepik Hotel was a spot that saw many a romance begin and where the odd illicit affair was clandestinely conducted. Not that this was entirely possible in such a small community, but a couple of times it was difficult to miss a husband playing footsies under the table with another man’s wife, or to be unaware of eyes locking across the table. Together with the Windjammer Hotel on the beach, it was where Rob and I celebrated anniversaries and birthdays, either on our own, at our table perched on the end of the gazebo, or with a large gathering of rowdy friends. ‘Let’s have a meal at the Sepik,’ was all that was required to get a group together at a moment’s notice.

  The main street in Wewak comprised a number of trade stores, the largest and best being Tang Mow’s owned by Eric Tang and his family and started years before by his industrious father. When Eric was only very young his father had made the long journey from Wewak to the eastern suburbs of Sydney where he’d deposited Eric in Trinity Grammar – neither of them speaking a word of English. This, as you can imagine, was somewhat traumatic for both father and son. Eric’s father was an amazing man. Arriving in Rabaul from China when he was just thirteen he managed to secure a job as a carpenter. From there he came to Wewak where he started his trade store before going home to take a wife in his small village back in China. He brought her by boat to New Guinea and they built up Tang Mow’s, still thriving to this day. During the war the Japanese took them as prisoners to Muschu Island off the coast where they were held for some years. Numerous articles have been written about the Tang family, particularly Eric’s energetic and enterprising mother, who became a legend in the Wewak area.

  In our day there was a small dress boutique, a coffee shop and a chemist of sorts. There was even a travel agent, where the gorgeous Eileen worked. For those of us at Moem it was the ‘thing to do’ to head into town on a Saturday morning to shop, have a coffee, or browse the colourful markets where we bought our weekly supply of fruit and vegetables. Later we’d stop off for lunch at either the Windjammer Hotel or golf club on the way back to Moem.

  We celebrated my sixtieth birthday at the Windjammer with Eric and Eileen; our first visit to Wewak since we left in 1973.


  ‘Where would you like to have your birthday?’ Rob asked one freezing cold evening in Hobart, knowing I’ve a hatred for huge celebration parties for milestone birthdays, particularly ones for as ancient an age as this.

  I’d always had a hankering to go back to New Guinea. This was the opportunity to do so. I remembered the Windjammer as being perched on the edge of the beach, nestled within swaying palms – huge verandahs opening languidly to the breeze, the sweet smell of jasmine and honeysuckle mingling with mosquito coils and the tangy salt air; frangipani and bougainvillea flowers covering the sandy beach; gorgeous multi-coloured butterflies playing in the trees alive with birdsong; children with glistening ebony skins digging for cockles and hunting for shells, and others frolicking in the surf. This is where I wanted my birthday celebration to be.

  I was not disappointed.

  It was almost as I remembered though possibly a little fancier today – with magnificent artefacts, native paintings and gigantic carved stools around the outside bar on the back verandah overlooking the beach. Sir Hugo, boasting a Jimmy Edwards handlebar moustache – and the presence to go with it – was now the proud owner. He was a friend of Ron Firns, who I worked for in Moresby. Sadly he told me Ron had died only the year before.

  The stunning young waitresses, who were possibly from the Trobriands, were great hostesses. The Chinese banquet of seaweed soup, coral trout, chilli prawns, oysters mornay, barbequed pork and village greens was mouth-watering; although I could have done without the blaring TV in the corner, not an asset to this setting, but a ‘must have’ for the Pacific Islanders these days. Even one hundred and twenty kenos for a fairly average bottle of wine didn’t spoil my night. Sadly the Sepik Hotel has not escaped quite as easily as the Windjammer, for it has now turned into a hostel of sorts with loads of plastic and lino.

  And yes Wewak had changed too. Gone are some of the buildings, others dilapidated, new ones here and there. Yet there is no taking away from Wewak’s natural beauty – her endless blue waters and swaying palms; the yacht club – a romantic timber and palm haus win on the shores of the bay; meris f ishing with nets, men in dugout canoes, pikininis playing in the mudflats or on the white sandy beaches – their mothers huddling under palms or corrugated iron humpies keeping a wary eye. Hundreds of Pacific Islanders still idle happily along the side of the road; overloaded trucks of workers, squashed in like glistening sardines, head home in the dusky twilight, while Taun market is still a thriving mass of bright umbrellas and colourful meris squatting in the midst of runny nosed pikininis, artefacts, tropical fruits and vegetables, live cockerels, baby goats and pigs. The main street is still much the same. Tang Mow’s down the end, three times the size it used to be, and across the road, their massive supermarket. Recently Eileen told me that when excavating out the back – to make room for a car park– they unearthed a live bomb from the Second World War, which had to be hurriedly disposed of in the sea. Evidently there could be still quite a few such bombs buried around Wewak.

  George Seeto’s and other smaller trade stores are not much changed, but there’s a brand spanking new bank and Guard Dog Security patrols the town. And what is a town without a huge Haus Bet packed with gamblers? No fancy TAB here – but hundreds clawing at the wire to throw their money on the horses back in Australia. Unlike years ago, this day we were the only Europeans to walk the streets, often being stopped by Guard Dog Security and warned of pick-pockets. Yet to me it was still the same Wewak; the unmistakable smell of dust and human sweat, mixed with the aroma of cooked fish, wood smoke and tropical flowers – with people on the whole friendly and happy to see us.

  Unlike the Moresby of today, Wewak is relatively safe, although most of the expats employ security guards to patrol their homes and sleep with guns under their beds. One of the Chinese traders told us that one night, when he was having dinner with a friend above his trade store, Thugs (known as rascals) broke in and tied them all up in the bath, taking their money and threatening them with knives and guns. Another night he was getting back in his car after a game of tennis and had his throat slit. Somehow he survived, the scar still there to remind him of the horror.

  ‘Mind you,’ he told me in a matter of fact way, ‘that can happen anywhere in the world today.’

  In the early seventies we were given an introduction to the Tangs by mutual friends at Kapooka who’d been to Wewak previously. Many of my memories of parties in Wewak were at the Tangs’ home on Seaview Road. Mu mus in the garden, where Eric would bury a stuffed and seasoned pig under the mango tree, cover it in banana leaves and let it steam all day. And then, when all was ready for devouring, we’d perch around white-clothed tables overlooking the ocean, kero lamps casting a warm glow, mosquito coils burning at our feet. For hours we danced under the frangipani, paw paw and mango trees on the front lawn, wearing long floral halter-necked dresses, or minis and cropped tops, our nut brown midriffs glistening in the heat. With hibiscus flowers in our hair, we sometimes partied until the sun came up over the islands, before crawling into bed exhausted. The next day we’d meet on one of the local beaches and water ski and swim under a canopy of umbrella palms with children frolicking in the sparkling sapphire water.

  After a leisurely picnic we’d return home late in the afternoon with tired and happy children, or otherwise one of us would say: ‘Let’s have a fondue at our place,’ and we’d take it in turns to have a ‘do’.

  When I sat on the Tangs’ verandah on my birthday trip, sipping an icy cold gin and tonic as a spectacular crimson sunset dipped below the horizon, I could almost see us then; under the paw paw tree, dancing in the cool breeze to Francoise Hardy or the Rolling Stones. And then I could see, too, the children squatting happily on the lawn, sucking the flesh of a juicy mango, drinking the milk from a coconut, and making each other flimsy necklaces from flowers from the spectacular frangipani tree.

  Moem Barracks is reached along a palm-fringed road straddling a white sandy beach some ten miles out of Wewak. Our first house at Moem was at the southern end of the barracks, situated amongst the sergeants’ and other ranks’ quarters, where, next door, a bulky, bald headed sergeant bellowed endlessly at his unfortunate wife and children. Nowadays he may have been diagnosed with post-Vietnam Stress or post traumatic stress – such an illness not recognised in those days. Many a night I can remember cringing inside our house as he ranted, yelled and shouted, banging a stick against the wall. Every now and then I would hear his wife give a meek reply and a child would whimper. One evening the wife came over with the children and I gave them refuge.

  ‘Why don’t you leave him?’ I asked.

  ‘Where would we go?’

  ‘Back to Australia.’

  ‘Unless the army pays the fare I couldn’t afford it.’

  ‘Have you reported him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Should I do it for you?’

  ‘No…it will just make it worse.’

  So she stayed. And I wondered, and still wonder, how many wives with traumatised husbands did the same, until it all became too much and they finally fled. Or the husband managed to get counselling to try and put the horrors of what he went through behind him.

  With Rob away on patrol, the girls and I lived here for two months waiting for our permanent house to become available up the Officers’ end, where the houses were more established and closer to the Mess.

  The second day I was at Moem, Colleen, slim and blonde, arrived on my doorstep, dressed superbly in a fascinating home creation of a long floral dress with splits up the side (which was to become her trademark) and with a hibiscus flower in her hair. Colleen had a knack with a sewing machine. She made us extraordinary outfits. On one occasion, when she was not sure what she should wear to a function in the Mess, she whipped a curtain off her window, turning it into a stunning gown. A few days later she returned it to the window, but not before using it as a tablecloth for a Japanese banquet. We were all in awe, particularly me, for I was not known for my sew
ing skills. But sewing wasn’t Colleen’s only skill. She also sketched an uncanny charcoal likeness of me, as she shared a glass of Chardonnay and a long dinner with Rob and me around the table in the haus win in the garden of our married quarter. I still have it, though, looking in the mirror, the likeness has sadly moved away somewhat.

  Charlotte at age three, didn’t immediately take to Georgie as one would have thought. Upsetting all the crockery and cutlery from the kitchen cupboards onto the floor, she turned around and bit one of the small girls who’d come to visit, causing a hurried trip back to Boram Hospital. Yet who could blame her for feeling neglected and jealous? With Rob still away and in a strange country, and with a new baby, I wasn’t able to give her as much time as I should. I’d assured her she was getting a playmate. This tiny uninteresting bundle that took up so much of my time wasn’t what she’d been promised.

  With Rob still away I moved us lock stock and barrel in a Land Rover with the help of Phillip, our wonderful houseboy. Adjoining a field at the rear leading down to the beach, our new abode, like the married quarters in Moresby, sat on stilts in a lush tropical garden. Underneath, a thick mass of palms and shrubbery provided an ideal place to hang our cane basket chairs. When I went back to visit, the year of my sixtieth birthday, our house looked rather the worse for wear; borers in the walls and floor, the garden in ruins and louvres hanging in tatters from the windows, peeling paint and rubbish strewn everywhere. A sad sight all in all, yet there was no taking away from the magical position, looking across the green fields to the tall palms straddling the snow-white sandy beach.

  I was lucky enough to inherit Phillip in 1972 from the previous occupants of our new married quarter. He was a total gem. A wiry Sepik, with the eyes of a cocker spaniel and a whopping big smile, he was amazing with the girls – mainly as he had five children of his own. He lived in a small fibro one-room shack at the bottom of our garden, going home to his village nearby one day a week, awful, now that I think of it. At the time it was how things were done. We were told he and the other houseboys were grateful for the money they earned (the worldly amount of about eight dollars a week), in Phillip’s case allowing him to put food in the mouth of his large brood. I’ve never felt more at home with a babysitter in my life. When we were last at Moem I enquired if anyone knew where he was, but, sadly, no-one had any idea who Phillip was, or where to start looking.