Mt. Wilhelm

DAY 1

I was travelling with JD who is a friend of Moses, a local preacher I had met while staying at a mission in Port Moresby. When I arrived in Goroka Moses and his young family met me at the airfield, took me in and showed me around. On our tour of the town we bumped into JD. As soon as JD heard I was heading to Mt. Wilhelm, Papua New Guinea’s tallest mountain, he got interested. This would be his third time climbing to the summit.

JD collected me at around 7am and we headed straight to the main bus stop in the central square of Goroka. ‘Bus stop’ is a largely incorrect term, because rarely do the PMVs (Public Motor Vehicles) actually stop anywhere. Though licensed for specific routes, there are multiple busses going to each destination, all competing for fares, and so they will not leave before every seat on the bus is full; which means they drive around in circles touting for passengers until they are full. People get on, people get off. Some people get on just to pass the time and make the busses look fuller and help sell seats. The wheels on the bus go round-and-round.

The central square in Goroka is where things happen. A dusty, churned flat of burnt grass is where the shows are held, where people come to party, play rugby, sell stuff, vote, worship and generally mill about. It is the bus stop and the local market. The space is occupied by people, cars, busses, chickens, dogs, pigs and even the odd cow; all crisscrossing each other in a cat’s cradle of loops and zigzags. The atmosphere is charged and unruly, like an unsupervised schoolyard. Everyone is moving in their own small groups, quietly wary of what everyone else is doing and not quite sure when or where the next playground eruption is going to bubble over.

The upshot of waiting for the bus to be full before leaving is that although we got on the bus just after we arrived, we didn’t actually begin our journey until three hours later. So we circled and watched the people make their rounds. People greet each other with tactile, boisterous enthusiasm. The solid, burly, rugby league-loving men of Papua New Guinea are physical but surprisingly affectionate; there is a lot of play fighting and hugging and it’s common custom for men to hold hands when they talk or stand around together. Some of them are drunk. Some of them are singing. Some of them are beyond drink or singing in a world entirely of their own. And, as with any playground, it wasn’t long before a fight broke out. That morning it was over a stolen mobile phone and the two men swung giant haymakers at each other until their blows and energy were gradually absorbed by the onlooking crowd.

When the excitement of the fight had subsided it seemed to spur a sudden dispersement of people, and with that we filled our final empty seats, brought an end to three hours of circling and finally started our journey. Our destination is Kundiawa, a crossroads town in the neighbouring Chimbu Province. I travelled with my backpack sat on my lap, which isn’t particularly comfortable. As usual, everyone is friendly and accommodating, always starting short and worthwhile conversations. When we arrived at Kundiawa it was a bustling crossroads that reminded me of the sort of settlement that would arise in a Steinbeck novel, springing up in the furrow ploughed by a gold rush.

We stoped at Big Rooster for chips, and got a fine cup of fresh black coffee from a street stall. We entered a sea of multicoloured parasols shading stalls of fruit, veg, clothes, bits of phones and betel nut. People who did not know JD approached us and held his hand, and as they walked together they talked like they were old friends. At first I just thought JD must have known an awful lot of people, but now I realise that that is just the custom. We are directed to a flat bed 4WD Toyota Hilux waiting by a petrol station with people and sacks of goods. The PMV that brought us from Goroka slammed up and down giant pot holes, and there were many times I heard noises that sounded (and felt) like the axels were going to break clean through. The 4WD driver is much more cautious, and rightly so. We wound up steep and frighteningly uneven roads and crossed bridges with such large holes between the loose planks that a small car would disappear right through the open slats.

While travelling I was mostly exposed to extremes of warmth and friendliness, but at regular intervals I would be reminded of the close proximity to disorder and violence in which we were moving. The fight earlier that day had seemed somehow to be just one of many bubbling cauldrons that could have boiled over in the central square. And when we are dropped by our apologetic driver a 2.5km walk from our destination, the reason he gave was that because of recent elections and political unrest, if he were to venture further up the valley into the neighbouring village his car would be stolen and most likely burnt. To support his claim, he told us to look out for houses along the route that were burned over the same dispute. And it wasn’t long before we saw a charred rectangle that used to have a house standing on it. Apparently these fights are only between local rivals, and never overspill to outsiders. I could only hope.

On the way up the Forna changes; palm trees give way to firs, eucalyptus and pines, the moist sheen of vegetation is dried in the crisp, cold air. Along the way to Kegsul is a beautiful river with lovely little houses and their perfect gardens growing giant cabbages, kale, carrots, potatoes, sweet potatoes, broccoli, asparagus, avocado trees and the biggest sweet peas I have ever seen. They grow sweet strawberries and bright pink raspberries. Their are gardens with roses, tall sunflowers and daisies. As we walked we were joined by a man named John who showed us the way. That night we stayed at East Kegsul Guesthouse, a lovely little place ran by a local couple, Josephine and Arnold (also known as Rambo). Josephine has a huge, joyful presence while Rambo is built like Rambo but with dreadlocks. The guesthouse is famous for its fresh garden produce, home-farmed honey and warm welcome. Josephine could not hold back from showing us the large bunch of freshly clicked asparagus which we were to eat that evening.

DAY 2

In the morning at breakfast Josephine reenforced the threat of violence that is apparently an unavoidable part of local politics. Rambo, her husband, was a local representative, and because his politics differ from those lower down the valley, he cannot travel down, just as the 4WD driver could not come up. As we understood it the problem is that the locals are still reliant on a system of tribal and familial support. If you are in need, the village will provide. In return, the village works together, shares crops and works collaboratively to build houses, infrastructure and share skills. But because this is a system tied closely to family are tribal boundaries, not political ones, the people who are in office are expected to help their own first. In the campaign for office, bribes and promises are common, even expected. But when the other guys win, things get messy. I learned later that on election night in the centre of Goroka there was a huge brawl with a number of stabbings and a fatality. Further up the valley they discovered another body – a man with his throat cut – washed up on the river shore.

We had breakfast with contractors who are refurbishing the airstrip at Kegsugl. The new tarmac strip will be finished ready for the new year, enabling larger aircraft to arrive, and with it will come a big increase in tourist traffic. The locals are already preparing, building guest houses and extending the ones they already have, changes we can see happening at a leisurely pace as we start our hike towards base camp. Following a dirt road we passed small wooden houses, each with neat and well tended gardens. The previous evening we had arranged to have John as our guide. As we hike the main path, John takes a detour to pick a large bowl of strawberries. Everyone here is busy cultivating their land, fixing what needs fixing or building what needs building. The locals come together to build for each other, and payment is usually a good meal of pork. The walk was a steady gentle incline with many stops. There were neat picnic benches along the way, which is mostly cool walking under shade of the canopy. Nearing the top the trees became sparse and the grasses more hardy and needle-like. There was a wide open basin with palm trees and low shrubs. In the wet season this is a vast swamp, fed by waterfalls we can hear churning the distance.

Once we are on the main path we are alone, and we stay that way until we reach basecamp; an A-frame building on stilts, helpfully labelled ‘A-fram’. Inside is basic; no lights, water or even windows. There are two places for people to stay, both of them small, which indicates the frequency of hikers they expect. Base camp is under a gorge by a deep green lake fed by a waterfall. Clouds dipped in and out as they passed. We took a swim in the lake; it was fresh. By that I mean cold. But good. Sadly, there was already quite a bit of litter floating around the edges of the lake and the shore. With the imminent increase in hikers following completion of the airstrip, one can only hope they will be able to manage the transition without damaging the local ecology. In front of the ‘A-fram’ bushes of welcoming yellow flowers and fresh mint grew wild. After a swim in the lake we made tea with the mint to warm up, and rested in the afternoon sunshine.

That evening three teenage boys arrive at camp and look to settle in a small open-sided shack just beside the ‘A-fram’. They spent the day hunting for wreckage from a crashed WW2 Japanese fighter, from which they scavenged parts of the engine that were made of aluminium. It turns out that when you break off small pieces, heat them white-hot in a large fire and then smash them on a rock with a large hardwood log they explode with a bang like a shotgun and produce a ball of fire about 5ft wide. After the fireworks we settled to bed.

DAY 3

The whole camp woke in the dark at 1.30am, and after a breakfast of cold beans and Josephine’s avocado, we started our walk to the summit and the boys started exploding things. As we traversed upwards we were accompanied by laughter and loud bangs bouncing off the valley walls.

A steep climb took us to the first ridge. In the dark we couldn’t see much of anything, but the moonlight painted silvery swirls on the clouds, brushed the tips of protruding rocks and shone round circles over the twin lakes, Piunde and Aunde.

There wasn’t much of a path to follow and we were often scrambling over large boulders slicked by thin films of running water draining from the peaks. We found tiny foot and hand holds, and crimped nervously along broken seams no wider than half a boot. The dark was strangely comforting, perhaps because it went some way to hide the consequences of a fall, and kept our eyes firmly focussed on the small patch of ground immediately at our feet. As we walked we caught a mountain rat eating ears of corn in our torchlight. The moment was strangely suspended in time, but we got bored before the rat, and soon left it munching as we kept walking.

Our guide is enthusiastic and friendly and clearly very well acquainted with the route, but I couldn’t help thinking that we could have done with a little more guidance from our guide. After a few hours of steady climbing he was often too far ahead to clearly show the route. And while I wait for my partner in hiking to catch up, it was clear that he had to pick out his own path. The climb is steady and we take it at a slow pace. There’s plenty of time for me to obsess over the changing view as the sun begins to rise and spread colours over the valley.

From the summit on a clear day you can see both coasts. I caught a glimpse of one coast on our ascent, but with the cloud cover moving in I didn’t anticipate being able to see the other. The clouds moved slowly and surely up the valley towards us, forming a thick rising grey carpet.

With just a little extra effort we reach the top but for the final 20m climb in 4.5hrs. We wait and summit together. The last climb is steep but the view from the top is just reward. And although from our 4,500m vantage point we can’t see to the coast, we can still see Mount Hagen and other famous Papuan peaks. Noticeably, there isn’t a city, town or even discernible road in sight. We spend a long time basking in the sunshine on the warm rocks at the summit. As we rest we had an unexpected fly-by from a private helicopter of people taking the easy way to see the summit. The helicopter could be from tourism or mining, and from our vantage points we can see deep scars in the distance where the industry has already dug into the edges of the park territory. As if to underline the rewards on offer to prospectors, the rocks around us glint in the sunshine like nickel or zinc.

Downhill was a killer on the knees, but with the sun fully up we could see what we ascended, and take in the details of the sea green lakes and craggy ravines. Testament to the potential dangers of the hike we pass a number of memorials to missing hikers and a shallow grave with the victims bleached bones still visible through the scattered rocks that covered him. At lower altitudes the mountains are thickly smeared in a mixed palette of dark greens. We descended quickly and arrived back at camp at just past 11am. By the time we returned the boys had perfected their technique and the whole valley filled with repeating explosions. They had also found the time to do a little hunting. While unsuccessful their with homemade slingshots and rubber guns, they had somehow managed to skewer a fish from the lake with a crude spear made from a freshly cut branch. They cooked and ate the fish for lunch on their open fire. We took another dip in the cold water, ate a packed lunch followed by sweet strawberries and headed back towards the village.

We left the valley on the back of a truck, picking up passengers as we travel down the steep ravine cut by the river Simbu. On high faces either side of us the trees drip from the peaks in the way that sloshed green paint might spill over the sides of a paint can. Remarkably, on the most acute angles in the most improbable places, we could make out the shapes of small houses and crop gardens. On slopes so steep its hard to believe they can even hold onto the topsoil people have somehow found a way to build and cultivate. Single-room wooden houses built so that in order to be level the uphill flank of the house is rooted to the ground while the downhill side is suspended on wooden stilts three meters in height.

According to Wikipedia, in 1999 Papua New Guinea had a grand total of on 426 miles of sealed road. These days they have a few more kilometres down, and the country’s longest road is the Highlands Highway, linking Lae and Madang to the Highlands regions, which is the road we were on, but even though it was technically ‘sealed’ we don’t travel more than a few kilometres without the tarmac being completely broken. Though, in fairness to my friends in Goroka, as soon as we crossed the provincial boarder from Chimbu into Eastern Highlands, the roads improve markedly. As we move closer to Goroka the mountains soften, reaching lower and becoming more docile, so that every mound is thickly coated in vegetation.

The last leg of our journey was on PMV and it gave me the unlikely opportunity to see my first bird of paradise. Unfortunately for me and the beautiful bright yellow bird with its long curling feathers, it was stuffed and hanging by its skewered beak from the driver’s rear view mirror. We arrived home safely and I spent one more night with JD’s family before making my way to the coast early the morning after.