Breath In And Follow The Red Spit !

by Morgan de Laporte (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

A leap into the unknown Papua New Guinea

Keeping a tight grip on the armrest, I try to forget the deep hum coming from the aircraft. From the little six seaters, I can now see Owers Corner and its tall wooden arch, finishing line for Kokoda Trail’s survivors. There also spreads Va-Ule Creek, Menari and Kagi, names of places that Wayne would mention every evening, and that I would welcome with apprehension. We begin our 96 km journey with a short walk through tall grass, slowly entering the green tangle of vines, carried by songs of bored Blue Birds of Paradise. Two hours that takes my fellow trekkers and me to Hoi, where I would spend the night and experience my first shower in the river. Screaming at the gelid water, holding my underwear against the strong stream with one hand, and climbing my way out with the other one, I give a burlesque show to the Papuan teenagers sitting on a rock above me. A painful ritual that would soon become my after-walk routine. As I dry by the fire, I question my abilities at completing the six days ahead of me. Going across the Owen Stanley Range, through Papua New Guinea’s jungle, on the footsteps of WWII soldiers. I wake up the next day, bracing myself to face eight hours on the track. Waiting for us, just under thirteen kilometres, and an elevation of a thousand more metres. At 6:30 a.m., the tropical rainforest is steaming in front of me and I’m struck by how awake and vivid nature is in the early morning. We’re undoubtedly the ones that overslept, and herds of birds, crickets and lizards are mocking us already. Climbing through the mist, looking at the wet track unfolding under my feet, one of my hiking shoes slips and, as I catch my first deep breath, I understand that this week won’t be a gentle stroll in the woods. But already I think of soldiers, 70-odd years ago, following the same path, mud clogging the sole of their boots, bullets whistling above their heads. And I, shamefully, jump at ferns tickling my calves. Five hours later, coughing and dripping, we finally arrived at the Isurava memorial site. Here stand strong four monoliths of granite remembering the Australians and Papuans who fell in one of the bloodiest battles fought on the track. Behind the monument lies two sides of the tropical rainforest, one that catches the last morning clouds, the other one bathing in the afternoon sun. But I can’t languish, as two hours of climbing are still waiting for me before I can enjoy new socks, a bowl of rice and a well-deserved gaze at the Pandora-like valley. To get there, I just have to follow the path of red spit left in the mud by our guides. Far above, barefoot, Sai Abel and four other porters Wayne took with him, are eating the track without a sign of fatigue. Just leaving behind them traces of crimson saliva produced by the chewed mix of lime, betel nut, and crushed seashells. Sai, with a tainted smile, tells me that it relaxes him and gives him strength. I’ll learn later that the traditional powder became a national health issue, yearly responsible of 25,000 deaths by cancer. I’m now feeling lucky to walk on a flat portion of the trail, and soon I can see an opening in the maze-like jungle. Appears, tucked in the valley, the beautiful simplicity of the Alola village, where rests quietly fifteen wooden houses on stilts. As we arrive, children run in front of us, leading the way through the banana tree’s alley. They wiggle dry bits of liana at my camera lens and laugh at me as I crash down on red earth. I steam, exhausted already after the first day (an easy one, I’m being told). Later, by the fire, I listen to Wayne giggling as he recalls stories of past adventurers crossing Eora Creek’s shaky wooden bridge. The same one that’s expecting us tomorrow. Tonight, feeling stronger as I rub my swollen thighs, I know I will forget the pain and dream of the days ahead of me.