Mr Beem's Asian Journal
|
from Madang
to Vanimo (Papua New Guinea) |
January 17th 2003
When I arrived in Madang I went to stay with my old mate Adrian Kennedy. He has a beautiful little resort nestling in a sheltered bay just north of the main town. It has only four rustic little bungalows and a bar-cum-restaurant but it is one of the most relaxing places that you could ever wish to stay at.
Some of the guys and girls from Lae were coming up, just to make sure that I did actually get on the ship and that I wasn’t sober when it happened. Well it did happen, we slung the bike on board with a crane, I choose my bunk up in first class, and I was off to Vanimo. The boat was only a day late, so for PNG it was still considered to be on time. Our first port of call was to be Wewak, which is the gateway town to the mighty Sepik River. We sailed all night and at about five o’clock the next day we tied up at Wewak wharf. The wharf is only a small affair and tied up on the other side was another passenger boat belonging to the same company.
We were informed that we would have to get off our stately old coastal trader and wait on the wharf for some thing between ten and twenty hours while our ship, the Umboi accompanied the other ship, the Rita, part of the way back to Madang. Well you can imagine, this went down like a lead balloon. Hurriedly an informal committee was formed and the protest started, passengers on our ship calling across to passengers on their ship stating the injustice of this proposal, the crew of both ships standing in the middle of the wharf monitoring the proceedings. It was nothing short of hilarious. The main thrust of the argument on our side was that if we got off then we would have nowhere to stay and that they should all get off their ship as this was their hometown and they could wait for another boat while at home. Their argument was that there were more of them than us, and that gave them precedence. Anyway variations on these two themes were bandied back and forth for about an hour, this was all done with surprising calm and good humour. Eventually the decision was made that they could leave for Madang unaccompanied and that we would go directly to the next port, Aitape.
The area west of Aitape was the victim of the 1998 tsunami that struck the North coast of Papua New Guinea. Some two and a half thousand people lost their lives when a giant tidal wave hit them in the middle of the night. Can you imaging what that must have been like ? Aitape the town itself was relatively untouched. When we arrived there the next morning after leaving Wewak I went for a little wander around town just to stretch my legs. To be honest there’s not much to the town, a post office, a police station, a hotel, some government buildings, and a supermarket, that’s about the size of it. Some people got off, some people got on, and we were on our way to my final destination, Vanimo. We sailed past the part of the coast that took the full brunt of the tidal wave but there was nothing to be seen, it looked just like the surrounding areas. Late that afternoon we tied up at Vanimo wharf. After two days on the boat for most of us, the rush to get off was nothing short of spectacular over a hundred people and all their cargo were on the wharf in less that five minutes. Two minutes later the wharf was empty and we began unloading Mr BeEm. I clipped on and tied on the various bits of luggage and set off in search of a hotel. As soon as I left the wharf a chorus of ‘motorbike, motorbike!’ could be heard in my wake, the residents of Vanimo don’t see too many BMW Dakars up their way.
In Vanimo
I did a bit of price shopping and got a boxy little room at the Vanimo Beach Hotel. The staff are great but the hotel itself is fairly ordinary. Next morning first thing, I’m off to the Indonesian Consulate, which is just around the corner from the hotel. As soon as you step through the gate the smell of clove cigarettes is the first thing you notice, then is the difference in the background tones, as people are quietly talking, not in pidgin but in Bahassi Indonesia. So having had my senses confirm that I am in the right place I ask to speak to the boss. “Sorry you can’t speak to him he is much too busy, can I help?” I explain that I have come to pick up a visa and do the necessary paperwork to take Me BeEm over the border with me, and present him with the letter that the big boss in Moresby sent me. That fixed him “you wait I will get the Boss” and with that it took off to the inner sanctum.
One minute later the boss comes out and I explain again what it is I want to do. He thinks this is a wonderful idea and goes outside to look at the bike, he comes back in full of admiration and compliments me on being the owner of such a fine bike. Things are looking good. But then he starts to explain that there is unfortunately no 'Memorandum Of Understanding' in place between the two countries (they have only been neighbours for forty years) and without this MOU then it would be impossible to take Mr B into Indonesia. I pointed to the letter from the big boss…not usual but by no means impossible, but he indicates that the Big Boss wouldn’t know shit from clay and that rules is rules. But he is very interested and says that he will refer the matter to the very big bosses in Jakarta. When I ask how long this will take, he says the equivalent of 'don’t hold your breath' and starts to reel off a list of all the people who will have to be involved, Foreign Affairs, Customs and Immigration, Trade and Industry, Police, Traffic Registry and on and on. I said "this isn’t going to happen is it?" He said "it might, Indonesia is very keen on promoting tourism just lately." Then he said we should make a start by clearing everything with the PNG authorities first.
So off I went, first I spoke with Customs….no worries, get Daniel Riz to fill out the papers and we will stamp them for you. Next, Quarantine….no worries give the bike a good wash and bring it back this afternoon and we will issue the certificate. Simple as that. I brought all the paper work back to the Consulate and they faxed it off to Jakarta that very evening. All I had to do then is get myself somewhere cheap to stay and go surfing.
Vanimo town is laid back, pretty, and the sort of place that you could well bump into a latter day Somerset-Maughn character. The hustle and bustle of the big world has passed it by. None of the people living there seem to have noticed, or if they have they just don’t seem to care.
Set in the bottom right hand corner off a scallop shaped bay; at the top left-hand corner of the bay is Lido village. It sits out on a point and gets a swell from the northeast and the northwest. The beauty of the location is that it has a surf break on either side of the point, which means that one side of the point or the other is usually getting an offshore breeze to hold the waves up. The west side break is a right-hander and on the eastside is a left-hand break so there is something for everyone and at this time of the year (Jan/Feb) there is a fairly consistent swell.
I was going to be waiting in Vanimo for the Indos to sort out the necessary paper work to get Mr BeEm across the border into West Papua, and it didn’t look as if it was going to happen overnight. So I thought that I may as well reacquaint myself with an old love, and went about finding myself a surfboard and somewhere to stay. The word around town was that the Surf Club was good value at K60.00 (USD 15.00) per night including breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
The road out to Lido curves around the base of the bay and is made of corneous, which is crushed limestone from coral reefs that have been pushed up as the sea level has dropped over millions of years. It’s brilliant white and after it has just been graded is as slippery as shit and very abrasive on the old Bridgestone’s.
The first day that I went out to Lido they were still in the process of grading the road and it was like riding over five kilometres off marbles, which adds a new and scary dimension to what would normally be a very scenic ride, you pass white sandy beaches and swaying coconut palms, but it’s hard to take in all this loveliness, when you are focused on keeping the skin on your arse, elbows and knees in one piece. As you get to the first ford/bridge, you take a right turn by a big mission cross and dodge potholes as you wind down a little one lane track. When you come to the beach the road take a sharp right and on the left at this corner is the Surf Club. It is a fairly biggish building made from local bush materials raised up on wooden stumps. It has a small generator for electricity and backs on to a lovely fresh water river where you freshen up after a hard days surfing. A pit toilet completes the amenities list, its basic but a cool place to hang out. The only draw back is, that it is a bit out of the way, and a fair hike from the surf break.
I followed the road on down and ended up in the village, parked up and had a look at the left-hand break. Nice waves, plenty of them and only two people out surfing. I thought to myself ‘this will do me’.
As ever, Mr BeEm made a big impression with the locals, as I was standing on the beach I looked over my shoulder and BeEm was being surrounded by a tribe of excited pigmies, all jabbering simultaneously and taking it in turns pointing to his most appealing features, key start and double exhaust seemed to be the ones most worthy of mention, second only to the fact that the Speedo promised that he could travel at 200 kilometres an hour. On closer inspection it turned out that they were not pigmies at all, just twenty or thirty of the village’s ‘under three foot high club’. Lido has more children under school age per square metre than any other place on earth.
I thought I had better walk over and say “Howdy” It was then that I found out that I was a ‘Wali’. 'Wali I cum, Wali I cum' In my time I have been a Pommy, a Limy, a Masta, a Mister, a Gijin, a Muzungo, a Brit, and an Ozzy. I was even a Paddy for a while. But for the duration of my stay at Lido, I was going to be a Wali. It means ‘white man’ in the local language, at least that’s what they told me.
Some older males came over to shoo the kids away and then started to behave in exactly the same fashion, except that they seemed to like the off-road Bridgestone’s and the Pannier set-up the best, the petrol tank under the seat was a bit of a hit too. Unlike the kids the adults were none to shy about asking questions, most importantly of course was how much did it cost. A few of the guys knew the Bike from the Post Courier newspaper articles and proceed to tell the others who were not so worldly about the bikes great adventures up at Mount Wilhelm and over in New Britain. This didn’t hurt my cause at all, when the stories were done; it was slaps on the back, plenty of hand shaking for me and a pat on the seat for Mr BeEm. I thought that this might be a good time to ask about camping.
I had seen a quite little spot at the far end of the village, with plenty of shade trees and a little bit away from the other houses. I suggested this, they said you could if that’s what you really want, but in fairness they felt obliged to tell me that t it was the toilet area. I might be better off if I was to pitch the tent right where I was standing as it was close to a fresh water Well and there would be no problem with security for the bike and all the gear.
I got all my toys out, the tent was the most popular, it’s only a Coleman two man dome type but everyone was supper impressed that such a lot of tent could come out of such a small packet…I was fairly pleased myself.it was the first time that I had taken it out of it’s box. So with lots of willing hands we had that up and in position in a matter of minutes. While I was busy with the tent, people started turning up with tables and chairs, hurricane lamps and cucumbers, young drinking coconuts and corn and off course a pumpkin. You can’t help but be touched when you are the centre of such lavish generosity. However I felt duty bound to explain that I was the original bush tucker man and could survive for a week on a packet of Benson & Hedges and a litre of water. Besides I already had plenty of hard biscuits, noddles and tinned meat and fish and not to mention that it was about time that I lost some weight anyway. Most importantly I didn’t want to be a burden. Steven agreed with all that, particularly the bit about loosing the weight, but said I should accept the gifts with the same good grace as they were offered and as Steven was my new host I felt obliged to follow his recommendations.
Once the camp was all set up I invited Steven to stay for a cup of coffee, I got out my brand new Coleman single burner stove. I explained that it will only take a minute to siphon some petrol out of the bike and we would soon be enjoying one of PNG’s great delicacy’s ‘Goroka Arabica Coffee’. Well I got the petrol….no worries…pumped the primmer on the stove…no worries, lit the match…nothing. I did the whole thing again…nothing. I thought great; even if this thing was a gift from one off my sponsors it should still bloody work. Steven had his wife bring us some hot water for the coffee; she said something about the old ways being the best and left us there to savoir the view and the coffee. Next day I took the embarrassing little stove to town so as I could complain bitterly to the Brian Bell agent, there was no agent but I meet Paul, a man who knows about technical things and he showed me how to un-screw the plunger before pumping the primmer. Now I am back in love with my fantastic new petrol burning easy to use only need one fuel supply stove.
I meet two brothers, Brett and Mick Calister. They were up from Australia to have a couple of weeks surfing. They were staying at a hotel in town and would come out to Lido every day to surf and hangout, they got right into the culture and seemed to like being called Wali. These Wali’s were great company and we did a couple of trips up and down the coast looking for good waves and cold beer. The day before they were due to leave, a group of Japanese surfers arrived. They were made up of two professional surfers, two semi-professionals, and a professional photographer. I think the writing is on the wall. They were a good bunch of blokes and were into everything…they would get dress up and get right into the traditional dancing, they had a couple of goes at eating Betel nut, with humorous consequences but most of all they just surfed their arses off and I have to hand it to them, they weren’t bad. Then a gang of Aussie surfers arrived, they were all old mates who get together once a year and go off and do some ‘male bonding’. They had been all over the Pacific and this was their second trip to PNG. They liked a beer as much as they like a wave and had some great yarns to tell. They spent most of their time putting shit on each other and were a great fun to be with. It’s nice to see friends enjoying each other’s company.
I had been camped on the beach at Lido for three weeks. Every day or two I would go into town and check on the progress at the Indonesian Consulate. Everyone was very pleasant and would offer me coffee, cold drinks and encouragement but it was becoming increasingly obvious that they were out of their depth and a discussion would never be made…”waiting for Jakarta Mr Butterer”.
After further days had gone by I realised that permission to take the bike across the frontier into Indonesia would not be forthcoming. It was time for Plan 'B', take the bike back to Lae and ship it to Singapore, and travel through Indonesia by ship, and bus, and foot, and whatever came up...maybe by motorbike...
