by Jake Avila
There was a clunk as the stewardess opened the cabin door, and then the pungent waft of the tropics washing inside suddenly made her decision to return real.
At the Kantor Immigrasi, the squat official checked her passport and visa details with great care, flicking sceptical eyes up to study her face several times. This had been her experience last time. Averse to negative journalism, the Indonesian authorities were suspicious of Western tourists, and controlled their movements by way of travel permits.
‘Jayawijaya?’ he asked, pointing at her stated destination.
‘Yes, the Ford Mission. I have a working visa.’
He picked up the phone and spoke in Indonesian too rapid to follow. Then a tall Indonesian military officer appeared from a doorway behind the desk and asked her to follow him.
‘Apakah ada yang sala?’ she asked. Is anything wrong?
In a small interview room, he meticulously searched her belongings. Mia stayed calm. It was probably a new protocol – nothing to do with her or the mission. While Christianity was discouraged in Papua, the long-running self-funded hospital was tolerated. Paul had explained that, provided they maintained a strictly apolitical stance on Papuan autonomy, their future was assured.
Zipping up Mia’s medical bag, the officer seemed curious rather than threatening.
‘So, you’re a doctor?’
‘Yes. And I very much enjoy working in your country.’
Up at the mission it was easy to forget the oppression. Its remoteness from mining and logging operations which the OPM targeted – and the Trans-Papua Highway, built to service them – was one of the reasons she loved being there. It was, she told friends, like Shangri-La, the lost world she had loved imagining in James Hilton’s novel Lost Horizon.
The officer surprised her by politely opening the door.
‘You are free to go. Have a nice stay.’
The arrivals hall was deserted, and Mia’s optimism deflated. Where was he? Finding a payphone, she tried the mission. Again, the number rang out, and once again she checked with the operator, who said the line was not out of order. Mia frowned. Perhaps Paul had got the dates wrong? Maybe his plane had had an issue? But why, then, hadn’t he left a message? Trying not to worry, she made her way to the airline desks and approached a representative from one of the small air charter firms she knew made deliveries to the mission.
‘Hello, I need to get up to the Ford Mission. I can pay for a private charter if necessary.’
The young man smiled apologetically. ‘All flights to the western Jayawijaya region are cancelled until further notice.’
‘Even medical services?’
He nodded.
‘But why?’
Glancing around, he lowered his voice. ‘I believe it is military operations.’
Mia frowned. The mission was wholly dependent on air. Medical supplies would be running low – and what about emergencies?
‘How long has this been going on?’
‘I’m not sure. Maybe a few weeks.’
She thought of Paul, Millie, Avis and the nursing team cut off up there, in God only knew what kind of danger.
‘Can I help you with anything else, madam?’
‘No, thank you.’
She needed somewhere private to regroup, and caught a taxi to the closest hotel – a sterile resort with a large diamond-shaped pool, full of Indonesian tourists and businessmen. There were no indigenous staff apart from some men sweeping the paths. Remembering that Paul shared medical supplies with the hospital at Oksibil, a town on the other side of the mountains, Mia found the number and gave them a call.
‘We’ve been trying to reach them,’ grunted Roger Grant, the gruff Australian resident. ‘Last time we spoke, Paul was going to fly me over some antibiotics, but he never turned up. When I couldn’t raise them for a week or so, I flew in. A bloody attack helicopter sent me packing before I could land.’
‘When was this, Roger?’
‘About a month ago.’
‘But they told me the region had only been closed for three weeks. Oh my God.’ Her mind raced. ‘Do you think they’re all right?’
He was silent for a moment. ‘Paul and the hospital are well regarded. I can’t imagine they’d do him any harm – on the other hand, the army seem to have their blood up about something. But I’ve never known them to close down a province for this long.’
‘Isn’t there someone we can call?’
He gave a dry laugh. ‘A waste of time, Doctor Carter. The more you ask, the less you’ll get. If it were me, I’d go home, or find somewhere comfortable and wait until Paul calls. Manila’s a one-hour direct flight. There’s not much to do in Jayapura, if you catch my drift.’
Giving him her email, she begged him to keep her updated.
‘No problem. Take care.’
Hanging up, Mia lay back on the bed and reflected on his veiled warning. She was under surveillance, which meant no talking things over with her mom and dad, who would only worry themselves sick anyway. But going home or relaxing by a pool in Manila?
Not a chance.
Mia opened a map of greater New Guinea on her laptop. The world’s second largest island looked uncannily like its most famed inhabitant, the bird of paradise. And just above where the tail met the body, was the mouth of the Sepik. The great river had intrigued her since her first flight with Paul, when he had pointed out its sluggish brown coils from 20,000 feet. It crossed the PNG border not twenty miles from the site of the mission, and there was a well-used trail through the forest, which she had trekked with Avis, Mark and Jacinta over three wonderful days.
If she couldn’t fly in, why not take a boat, and walk?
Mia stared out of the window at the listless palms by the pool. It was extremely dangerous travelling alone, and unattached women were fair game. Re-entering Papua on the sly was also highly irregular, and might see her arrested and deported. But what was at stake here? Paul Ford was not only offering to teach her how to run a fifteen-bed hospital and community clinic; he was putting his faith in her ability to lead a vital service for years to come. Was she really going to turn her back on all those wonderful people who were already depending on her?
Chapter 13
Sepik River, Papua New Guinea
Out on the bow, Sura, Hartono, Goki and Boerman were making obeisance on their knees. Presumably facing in the direction of Mecca, they were enveloped in a dense pre-dawn mist which made for an ethereal scene. Nash was surprised to see no sign of Saworno, for the devout engineer had been out there every other morning.
Douglas appeared with a mug of black coffee and spat into the invisible river.
‘Kaboro won’t get underway until this bloody mist clears.’ He gave Nash a speculative look. ‘Feeling any better?’
Nash could have mentioned Frank’s insufferable snoring, which was even worse than mulling over bruised pride when it came to sleep, but instead he grinned.
‘Don’t let the bastards wear you down.’
‘That’s the spirit.’ Douglas punched him on the shoulder. ‘Let’s get some breakfast before they stop wailing and eat all the eggs.’
It wasn’t until 0900 that the Albany finally cast off. The locals waved farewell enthusiastically, and it seemed to Nash that they could have happily stood there all day. How different life was here from the insane juggle back home. He and Natalie had worked like maniacs during their time; now those rare moments of simply being together were the precious things. If only they had known.
At a steady 20 knots, they moved up the wide river. Pockets of rainforest thickened as the swampy sago plains gave way to the foothills of the still-distant mountains. Flattened down thickets of kunai grass served as pathways for local villagers who stopped to gawk at the sight of the helicopter mated to the ship like some lascivious dragonfly. Although little rough water was expected, Hartono had lashed it down with heavy-duty ratchet straps and covered the engine intakes with PVC covers to protect them from the tropical weather. H
e was wiping the chopper’s Plexiglas when Nash approached.
‘Morning, Ricki, how is Saworno? I didn’t see him this morning.’
‘He’s working.’
The pilot’s eyes were unreadable through dark Ray-Bans, but his tone suggested Nash should mind his own business.
Beneath the crane on the bow, Sergeant Singkepe was putting his bare-chested squad through a callisthenics routine. Jaap Boerman joined in the star jumps and burpees, and the deck reverberated alarmingly under his huge boots. It seemed to Nash he was trying to put them to shame. Boerman’s massive oak-like physique was gym-honed, and despite the fact the soldiers were all in excellent condition, they looked like schoolboys in comparison.
Sura Suyanto was spectating from the bridge. Wearing a light tropical shirt cinched in with an army belt, she was smiling, but there was no warmth in it. Nash gave her a wave and went up to the bridge to approach her about the film, but when he got up there, she had retired to her cabin and the disagreeable Goki was leaning against her door.
Oh well, thought Nash. It can wait.
The morning wore on, the heat intensified, and the plucky Albany ploughed steadily through the chocolate river water, her deep wake stirring up the lotus in the shallows. The grassy riverbanks were topped with stately palm trees and looked as inviting as a tourist brochure, apart from the huge crocodiles sunning themselves below, mouths fiendishly agape. An egret stalking the margins stabbed the water and speared a large catfish, tossing it in the air to line up the long spines for a manageable swallow. Nash dozed restlessly in the shade until the clanging of Faiwalati’s saucepan signalled lunch.
When he got to the mess, the Indonesians were already tucking into a coconut fish curry. Goki and Sura sat at one bench, Boerman and Hartono at the other. No one made a move to give Nash room. In fact, only Sura made eye contact when he said hello.
Nash nodded as he took a plate.
‘I was thinking we could run through storyboards today. What do you say?’
‘I think that can wait until we’re on location.’ She tried softening the rejection with a small smile, then, when Nash didn’t concede, impatiently flicked the bangle on her wrist. ‘Oh, relax, Mr Nash. Why not enjoy the cruise and save your energy for when we get up there?’
Nash was baffled. Every director he’d ever worked with was totally obsessed with shooting schedules and logistics. And even if Sura was usually the talent, she must be aware of the importance of planning.
‘With respect, once we get to the cave, I’ll be so focused on the technical aspects of the diving, there won’t be time. We should begin planning now. It’s a safety issue as well.’
‘Didn’t you hear the lady, Nash?’ Boerman glowered from the next bench. ‘Let us eat in peace, man.’
‘An uncharted cave is a serious proposition at the best of times, and we’re talking about the Hoosenbeck.’
When Boerman scoffed at this, Nash decided it was time to meet the big Afrikaner head-on.
‘How much deep diving experience do you actually have, by the way?’
Boerman pushed his empty bowl aside and crossed his brawny arms. ‘Three years on the Niger Two rig operating at depths of 275 metres.’ He gave Hartono a knowing wink.
‘With a diving bell?’ Nash helped himself to a sago pancake.
‘Ja, of course,’ Boerman snorted. ‘It’s the middle of the fucking ocean.’
Nash took a bite of pancake and chewed slowly. ‘Let me guess. Five days coming up nice and slowly, chilling out with pretzels and beer while you’re watching porn?’ He laughed scornfully. ‘For God’s sake, man, you might as well be latched on to your mamma’s teat. We’re going to a place where the only thing between you and certain oblivion is my experience. So, why don’t you pull your head in and listen for a change?’
Boerman crashed a massive fist on the table. ‘Damn it, Nash, I don’t need your fucking approval. I have over 200 dives on trimix.’
‘As a matter of fact, you do.’ Nash calmly took another bite. ‘As it states very clearly in my contract.’
‘Enough!’ Sura threw down her napkin and stood up. ‘Mr Nash, you are right. There is much to consider, and I promise to consult with you later today. Now, if you will excuse me, I will go and prepare.’
Nash watched her leave with an ugly feeling in his chest. Something wasn’t right. Something wasn’t right at all. The remaining men were silent, and he was instantly struck by the feeling they were hiding something. Perhaps they sensed this, because they immediately got up and left without further comment.
Nash was too worked up to eat any more. He wanted some answers.
The engineer was hunched over a valve on the left engine.
‘Saworno!’ yelled Nash fruitlessly over the din.
Hesitantly, he stepped inside. The thick oily atmosphere was hotter than a sauna and stuck to the back of his throat. Reaching out, he tapped Saworno on the shoulder. The little man flinched. On seeing Nash, he registered surprise, but his expression was guarded, and he took some persuading to leave the noisy compartment.
‘All good,’ was his reply when Nash asked him why he was no longer coming up to eat, pray and socialise. ‘Me look after engines. Mind business. Then go home. All OK.’
Nash’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did they tell you to stay down here?’
Saworno looked down at his oily hands.
‘Come on, Saworno. Has something happened? Why are they so unfriendly?’
‘Please, Mr Nash, I don’t know.’
The poor man looked so put upon that Nash felt guilty.
‘If you’re sure. But if you need any help . . . you come and find me, OK?’
Douglas was dismissive when Nash shared his reservations.
‘It’s just a cultural thing, Robbie. Javanese like Sura will try to out-polite you. They’ll smile and call you by your correct title even when they’re hating your guts. Whereas Goki’s from Makasar – I can tell by his accent. He’s much more rough and ready.’
‘That doesn’t explain bullying Saworno, does it?’
Douglas shrugged. ‘It’s a stratified society. Saworno’s lower class – they don’t like him hobnobbing with us when he’s supposed to be working. You’ll get used to it.’ He grinned. ‘They’re already treating us like the help.’
Nash stared at him doubtfully. ‘Frank, who first approached you about the expedition?’
‘A guy from Shangri-La productions. Arif, I think it was. I got a call and then he flew in to negotiate.’ Douglas frowned. ‘Hey, you’re not getting cold feet, are you?’
‘No. But they’re too sloppy, Frank. And I’m having a hard time believing it’s just cultural.’
Douglas scratched his grizzled cheek thoughtfully. ‘Fair enough. But it sounds like you put a grenade under them today. Let’s give them time to respond before you go in half-cocked.’
In the early evening, when the worst of the heat had dissipated, Nash was sprawled on the top bunk in a pair of shorts when there was a knock on his door. It was Sura, freshly showered, in a pink T-shirt, denim shorts and sandals. She was carrying a tablet and two bottles of iced tea.
‘I’m so sorry for what happened earlier, Mr Nash.’ Her eyes met his. ‘We’ve all been so tense getting here, but it wasn’t fair on you and I apologise. If you feel up to it, could we have that meeting now?’
‘Be glad to.’ Rolling off his bunk, he landed lightly on his feet and took the proffered drink. ‘But why don’t you call me Rob?’
‘OK.’ She smiled prettily. ‘Rob it is.’
They went to the mess, where there was space to spread out. Sura began by showing him recent photos of the Hoosenbeck Gorge on her tablet, and Nash was captivated by the detail, especially the disappearing river at the top of the escarpment.
‘Have you seen anything like this before?’
He shook his head. ‘Rivers in limestone country often flow underground when a sinkhole collapses, but a 1000 metre subterranean drop? It’s mind-boggling.’
Nash paused to stare at the image again. ‘There must be untold marvels inside that cliff face, a whole network of dry and wet caves to explore.’ Looking up, he nodded thoughtfully. ‘The forces involved suggest the cave lake may well be an incredible depth.’
‘How deep?’ Her brown eyes were intense.
‘Well, easily one to two hundred metres, quite possibly more.’
‘And you can go that deep?’
‘Deeper, given the right equipment and resources.’
‘What motivates you to do it, Rob?’
Hand beneath her chin, she stared up at him expectantly. Although it was probably Javanese flattery, it was a question he never tired of answering.
‘I suppose I’m fascinated by hidden worlds. People talk about the ocean as inner space, but for me, an underwater cave is the ultimate expression of it. Not only is it knowing you are the first human being to have ever set foot in a place, it’s the fact you are completely dependent on your planning, equipment and training, which makes it intensely satisfying, sometimes even . . . spiritual . . . to discover what is there.’
‘But cut off beneath the surface in such dark and cruel places?’ She shuddered. ‘I think it would freak me out.’
Feeling the spectre of Natalie rising, Nash drained his iced tea, and wiped the condensation from his hands.
‘So, how long is this film to be, then, Sura?’
‘Oh, I think a one-hour feature – possibly ninety minutes if we get enough footage.’
‘And the angle?’
Sura tapped her cute little nose. ‘Excite viewers with an unexplored marvel of nature right on our doorstep. Oh, and scare them a little, too.’
It was the standard approach, and an effective one.
‘OK.’ He nodded. ‘The challenge with filming underwater caves is giving viewers context, otherwise they don’t appreciate what they’re looking at – or the stakes involved – thus, infographics will be essential. I have a small laser mapping tool that we can use to collect data.’ Nash let Sura finish jotting this down as he considered his next point. ‘An important thing to remember is at least half the story happens above water. There’s a wealth of interesting stuff on the origins of the cave, its geology, early exploration, and then you need to impress upon people the challenges of just getting to the Hoosenbeck. Location shots on the boat, from the helicopter, insights from the local people, will all help with that.’