I had learned the Rules of Business very quickly in New Guinea.
1. Winner takes all
2. Every man for himself
3. Spend big when you have heaps ....
So I did ....and I learned how to deal the Jack from the back of the pack. But there were times that bought you down to earth .. and back in time.
The biggest event of the year was the Goroka Sing Sing. They came by the thousands, some walking for a week from remote villages. It was a four day walk up to 8000 feet just to cross the Daulo Pass. It was a four hour drive to cross, and , as my log book shows , a thirteen minute flight from Goroka to Kundiwa.
They came to compete for the prize , a herd of cattle.
It was an event that drummed into your soul ..never to be forgotten.
We whiteys were outnumbered one hundred to one. We did not fear these people for the most part as they could hardly unite to overthrow the government because the seven hundred tribes were small and didn't like each other.
They took up to a day to prepare ... spectacular Bird of Paradise head - dresses. The Whagi wigmen adorned in their human hair anvil shaped wigs and carved bone nose pieces... the Asaro mud men , in their oversize , white mud helmets and pasted with a mixtute of white ash and mud .. and the Kuku Kuku s .. they were small bark cloaked warriors ... the most feared of all.
All the women struggled about with heavy loads in their Bilum bags on their swayed backs , supported by the forehead. Loads of kids, sweet potatos and pigs to trade , or eat on the road to the show.
And what a show it was.
We sat in the makeshift bleachers with the local constabulary close at hand. They were there not to protect us .. they were scared.
Shrill postmen's whistles gather a tribe for their turn for the dance past the judges ... amid shouts and chants of excitement. They shuffled into lines of maybe ten and held the long bamboo poles to keep the lines spaced. Ten rows ... all identically adorned and painted in their tribal markings. The drumming started , the war chants sent the shiver up my spine .. a warm shiver .
They approach .. pounding the snakeskin kundu drums .. earth trembling as they drive their feet into the ground when orchestrated to do so. Dust rising , except where the patches of blood red betel nut had been spat ... like blood .. everywhere.
With the unison of a choir their voices rise up to a crescendo then down to imitate the drumbeats .. pounding .. a hundred warriors only feet away ..spears , bows and arrows .. I can smell them now .. not unpleasant ... a pig grease and smoke mixture. Two pounding steps forward , one back ..they are in a trance ... so am I.
Then came the Kainantu's and the Bena Benas and the tribe from Bhundi and Marawaka .. and the Chimbus..
We lived a luxurious lifestyle. Lobsters , fish and fresh produce , mostly free. Exotic cars and a change of girlfriend every six months as the flight attendants rotated through the New Guinea adventure. Often we would get ten or so flighties to deadhead to Goroka from Lae and float down the Bena Bena river on rafts made of lashed inner tubes, through the villiages , to a BBQ already set up by our house boys downstream at the waterfall.
OOOOH! How moist they got.
I witnessed tribal fights and marriage feasts where 200 pigs were slaughtered with glee. Trips up to Angoram where people lived in grass houses perched on stilts out over the river...
Once we chartered a DC3 and filled 'er up with hosties and a jazz band and went to a plantation Ball .. the band entertained us enroute.
But a dark political cloud loomed on the horizon. They were to be given independance and ALL companies had to have "native participation". The red necks called the natives rock apes which I found to be offensive. If I was to have a partner , he was to be my "branch manager".
The feds were closing in on me too ... it was time to flee.
I will never forget the day of my departure .. to South Africa .. or Canada .. somewhere where flying was still an adventure.
I drove a friends Land Rover to the airport. Coming the other peddalling fast on his bike was my houseboy , Bin.
As soon as he saw it was me he bailed from the bike leaving it to crash into the market ..
he wailed and cried. I quickly took off my watch and gave it to him .. I would miss him dearly. He had taught the language to me.
I settled into my seat on the F27 after a hearty send-off from my friends. Next to me was a Bena Bena girl. She wore a Meri dress and I saw her blue tribal markings fanning back from her eyes to her tight curly hairline. I waved at my friends , then turned to her.
"Yupella go long bigpella harp long balus long Port Moresby?" I had asked if she was going to Port Moresby on this plane. I waited for her Pidgin reply.
"No actually," she said in well bred perfect English, "I am going to Melbourne, back to Monash University." She flashed a large pearly smile to difuse my indiscretion.
We chatted excitedly as Meg Taylor informed me of her intention, to become a lawyer.
Years later her picture appeared on the cover of National Geographic , playing polo. She was New Guinea's first woman lawyer.
And later yet. I was flying a Turbo Beaver for a logging company in Canada that was to get a visit from New Guinea's US Ambassador.. Meg Taylor.
I left that land astern.
The Country Where They Turned Back Time.