More tales from PNG
Time: 1400 Local time.
Position: Aircraft parking area Safia.
Me: I’m daydreaming about an afternoon beer until a shotgun is pointed at me. @#$%&*! That’s the second time this week.
Earlier…
Earth tremors from the active volcano Mt Lamington, 20km south of Popondetta, were felt all through town this morning. The Gods seem troubled. I suspect this is not going to be a good week.
After a year away from Popondetta I can’t say I’m overly thrilled to be back. I’m currently filling in for The Slange who is on holidays and due back at the end of the week. Nothing has really changed. Certainly not the schedule, as 0800 Monday morning has me departing Girua (the airport at Popondetta) for all stations to Port Moresby.
First stop: Itokama, a relatively innocuous airstrip up at 2300ft. Next stop Tetebedi. Situated at 3300ft AMSL it can sometimes prove troublesome in the afternoon when rain showers reduce visibility in the narrow valley. Trouble, however, is brewing early. Some village people from Emo River (my next stop) have walked up to Tetebedi to warn me of a planned hold-up this morning by a raskol gang (bad guys). OK. I think I’ll steer clear of Emo River for a few days.
Departing Tetebedi, I set heading for Kokoda. Forgetting, as usual, to radio ahead I land at Kokoda to find the booked load now exceeds the seating capacity by 50 %. It’s just a small matter of creative manifest calculations, a quick check of the nose oleo to see if the Islander is in balance and it’s off to Port Moresby. Exiting the runway at Port Moresby, I notice a DASH 7 nose down, tail up and half swallowed by the storm water drainage trench. The local engineers must be practising their towing again.
After completing the day’s paperwork with the traffic officer in the terminal at Girua, it’s time to leave. But, then again, maybe not. A shotgun is pointing straight at me. We are well and truly out numbered. There are five shotguns and a rather nasty looking knife versus my Leatherman. They want our day’s takings plus anything else of value including my trusty DC-10 headset. Absolutely, take it all. In fact I have 20 kina in my back pocket, would you like that, too? The guy with the knife jabs it dangerously close to my stomach. He wants my shoes. Sure, no problem. You can have my socks as well. As they leave I politely enquire, in a rare show of bravado, if I can have my headset back. The gang leader slowly turns his gun towards me, thinks for a moment then throws my headset to the ground. He says I can have it back, but only because a wantok (relative) is flying to Safia tomorrow. I stand there shoeless, sockless and 20K down. Did I mention they took my lucky pen?
Since the weather is fine this morning I choose the scenic mountainous route to Safia. It could be my imagination, but passing Mt Lamington I could have sworn I saw a plume of smoke coming from the crater. Overflying Namudi I remember my first experience of this airstrip. Having been in PNG only two days I was not prepared for the sight of fifty village people wearing grass skirts carrying spears, bows and arrows and bush knives. I was sure they were going to kill me and great courage was required to get out of the aircraft. On landing at Safia, the trickiest part is avoiding the cowpats since the airstrip also doubles as a cow paddock.
Government charters come in many guises. During the week I will deliver ballot boxes to all the airstrips in Oro Province for the Electoral Commission. The reason being is that PNG is due for an election next month. Competition is fierce to get one’s snout in the trough and campaigning has begun in earnest. Roadblocks are set up in many areas with drivers asked to “contribute” or else. These donations provide a slush fund for the candidate’s expenditure on transport, payoffs, bribes and other skulduggery. Truckloads of beer are common inducements used to procure votes in surrounding villages. The losing parties can usually be relied upon to rampage through town when the results are announced.
A charter to Tetebedi finishes off the day. On landing, the Islander does its best to run off the left side of the airstrip. This is a big problem as hundreds of people are lined up on this side watching me. Upon investigation I find the left brake calliper unit firmly wedged between the wheel and oleo. The bolts holding the calliper have sheared. With no way of repairing it or removing the unit from the disc, all I can do is de-wedge it with a few good kicks. Leaving the brake unit to float on the disc I taxi around to determine if one more take-off and landing is possible. Due to good management or good fortune I make it back to Girua unscathed. I send an SOS to the company. They advise help will arrive tomorrow morning.
Irreconcilable differences between two families over disputed land claims at the airport have come to a head. The aggrieved family is now threatening to burn the Islander unless some form of compensation is paid to them. As we approach the airport it appears the Islander is still in one piece. Drat. Looks like I’m stuck here for a few more days. In fact there are two Islanders on the ground when we arrive. One of our pilots has flown to Girua with the engineer who has almost fixed my brake problem.
Greetings exchanged, I am told the story of one of our pilots who recently had a partial engine failure in a C-206 shortly after take-off at Tsewi. Initially, the pilot tried to reduce drag by raising the flap. Meanwhile, the back seat passenger had ideas of his own and was attempting to open the cargo doors in the misguided belief that jumping out was now the safest option. Of course, partially opening the forward cargo door released the flap microswitch, disabling flap operation. The pilot was now trying to fly the C-206 while at the same time yelling to the passenger to shut the door. Eventually the pilot had to reach back, push the passenger away from the door and close it himself. Quite a remarkable feat, since all the while hills flashed past perilously close.
After completing the regular Gulf run, a charter to the coastal village of Tufi awaits. Spectacular when viewed from the air, the village is situated on the side of an active volcano. Evidence of the last eruption (over 100 years ago) is shown by lava tentacles radiating in a 180 degree arc towards the sea. These rocky fingers have since been covered in rainforest and patches of reef can be found off the tips. On take-off at Tufi, naughty pilots have been known to dive bomb the local fishermen in their canoes. The challenge is to get the fishermen to jump out of their canoes for fear of their lives. No mean feat since they don’t scare easily.
Continued next post.
My first trip today is to pick up the local teacher and his family from Gora so they can go home to Popondetta for the school holidays. One way, level and only 410m long, it is severely weight restrictive as I found out last year while heading for two rather tall trees immediately after take-off. The training pilot had assured me our current load of six passengers plus baggage would pose no problem for our departure. Using every inch of the airstrip I lined up, still somewhat dubious, gave the Islander full charge and released the brakes. Two thirds of the way down the airstrip it was patently obvious an early lift off was the only way to avoid flying into the jungle now rapidly filling up the windscreen. Barely flying, let alone climbing, at 55kts and hemmed in by a hill hard up against the left wing, my next problem was negotiating two much taller trees about to make contact with the right wing. Quickly banking left I lifted the right wing tip over the treetops and once clear immediately levelled the wings. Nothing was said for a few minutes until the training pilot admitted mistaking the airstrip for a longer one with a similar name. I think somebody owes me a beer.
Giddy up cowboy, I’m off to Safia! During a quick pit stop at Asapa, I notice the village people have finally cut the grass covering the whole airstrip. When I was here two days ago, a narrow tunnel of grass had been cut to give a two foot clearance either side of the wings. All well and good normally, except the grass was as high as the tail. The approach to Asapa is through a dip in a 200ft hill on short finals. The correct profile gives a five foot wheel clearance from the hill, then a 30 degree left turn at 50ft properly executed will have the wings level on touchdown. Yee ha!
I can almost taste that SP brown bottle (local beer) as the Islander touches down on a cowpat for my final stop today at Safia. Daydreaming about a second SP, I am snapped back to reality when a shotgun is pointed at me. Am I having a good week or what??? I’ll bet it’s the wantok of the raskol who held me up at Girua on Monday. The family resemblance is uncanny. Brown face, dark curly hair, shotgun in hand. Yeah, yeah, I know the drill. As the company profits take another hit I think to myself, “ At least they don’t want my shoes this time.” Or my socks.
Multiple layers of low level cloud makes for a challenging start to the day. Kokoda is all but fogged in and requires an imaginative approach to land from. It’s bound to be better on the other side of the Owen Stanley Ranges I predict. But no, there’s 8/8ths of stratus as far as the eye can see in the direction of Port Moresby. Not surprisingly the TAFOR’s on Girua and Port Moresby bear no resemblance to the actual weather this morning. PNG weather forecasting has been refined down to a fine art. Tomorrow’s forecast, for example, will be based entirely on today’s actual weather at an airport.
.
Back in Girua, a carnival type atmosphere is unfolding with a hundred or so locals in traditional dress, dancing and singing. Something big is afoot. The toilets in the terminal are even being cleaned. In fact the Australian Prime Minister is dropping by en-route to Kokoda where he will pay special tribute to the ‘Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels’ for their contributions to the war effort during World War Two. One of the PM’s minders wants me to delay my departure for Wanigela by thirty minutes to allow the PM’s Air Force Hercules a traffic free arrival into Girua. Dream on you officious little twerp, I think to myself. Some people have real work to do. I start the engines and taxi out before he can call for reinforcements
PNG’s version of the Tactical Response Group (TRG) are waiting for me when I return to Girua. No, I’m not in trouble from the Australian Government. I’m to fly the TRG team covertly to Uroubi. Their mission is to sneak into Safia during the night (about a 15km walk from Uroubi) and round up the raskols who held me up and have been causing trouble in general for the last three days. 10nm before Uroubi I go into stealth mode by dropping down to 100ft AGL. Landing straight in from low level catches the village people walking on the airstrip somewhat by surprise and they scatter in all directions just moments before I land. The TRG leader says they will call to be extracted from Safia when the mission is complete.
An awful lot of people are milling around the airport this morning. Hmmm, there seems to be something odd-looking about the terminal. Oh, I see, the roof is missing. In fact the back half of the terminal is now a burnt shell, courtesy of a fire started under mysterious circumstances.
However, the show must go on and loading the Islander progresses steadily until suddenly the nose rises into the air. Many’s the time a C-206 would assume a tail dragger attitude until the pilot got in and started the engine, but I’ve never seen an Islander sitting on its tail before. Where’s my camera? Damn, it’s in my bag under the front seat, which is now ten feet in the air. Acting quickly before the loaders make a bad situation worse, I sit on the tail to prevent the nose wheel from crashing down. Judicious weight transfers allow a soft landing.
My last flight from Popondetta is to pick up the TRG guys from Safia. It appears good has triumphed over evil. Two of the raskols look like they have gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. The one who was holding the shotgun is lying on a stretcher with a bullet wound to his leg. That’s right buddy. Don’t mess with an Islander pilot, I think to myself. (Despite his obvious discomfort, he remains remarkably calm. Suitably impressed, I surmise that any race of people who can wear an over size gumnut on their willy are tough in my book.)
There’s a spring in my step now. The Slange is due back imminently as I can see a DASH 7 in the distance. After he rolls off the plane, he tells me the latest breaking news of an Islander crash during a single engine take-off. Unable to get one engine started on the ground, the pilot tried to air start the engine with a high-speed taxi. On reaching the single engine climb speed (65kts) he decided he might as well take-off. So far, so good. Upon raising the flaps the Islander started to sink. No problem. Put the flaps back to the take-off position. Unfortunately, on this Islander, a dicky flap position switch allowed inadvertent flap extension all the way to the landing position. Single engine + full flap = one result. The only casualty is the Islander. Strangely enough, management quietly applauds the pilot’s ingenuity. Unfortunately, as the outcome is less than desirable, the pilot is given his marching orders.
Working in PNG is more than a job. It’s an experience remembered for life. For those prepared (lucky enough) to take up the challenge, remember to take lots of pictures and keep a diary. Normal people won’t believe you otherwise.
As usual, a small amount of poetic licence was used in this tale. However, all stories are based on true events.