Half a Bulldog

Wau, Papua New Guinea

Bart and I decided to suss out the Bulldog Track. During World War II, the Australian Army had built a road to provide a supply line from the Gulf to soldiers fighting in the Bulolo area between Wau and Lae. They named it: Bulldog Track.

‘It is much easier that the Kokoda,’ or so we were told. ‘Less jungle, more wildlife, your walk with the valleys, not always across them.’

That sounded like bliss.

‘But is the track still visible? Will we need a guide?’

We chatted to Andree Millar from the University. She had lived in the area for years before her husband died. She became quite wistful and teary eyed as she reminisced. The hard lady had a real heart. She told us to go to a village on Edie Creek, a days walk from Wau. Her friend Estanislaus (I kid you not) would provide us with one.

‘But we heard the track is well marked? Do we need a guide?

 Her momentary wistfulness vanished in an instant and the leathered face set in a Stalinesque mask: ‘You need one!’

No one argued with Andree.

We knew that the track would be different to Kokoda. Before the war, a so-called Donkey Track wound over the hills. Locals used it. The Australian army decided it was an ideal route to get materials across to Wau. Apparently, they had few aircraft capable of landing at Wau which was one of PNG’s more exciting airstrips. Built on a slope, you had to taxi to the top, gun the engines whilst standing on the brakes, then shoot off in an exhilarating series of bumps till you got airborne. When you landed, it was as if you were landing in a sand pit: touch down, several bumps,  rapid slow down, bog.

So the army tweaked the Donkey and ended up with the Bulldog. Even Andree had no idea why it was called Bulldog. The term Donkey Track was coined by the army, not the locals. Donkeys were rare in PNG—apart from those attending University.

After the war the road was left to the jungle. At the time we were there, it was the only road ever built across the spine of Papua New Guinea. It sounded fun. Indeed it sounded more like a walk in the park than a grueling physical challenge such as the Kokoda Track had proved.

Bart and I rabbitted on about our excitement in the Staff Club and soon we found that we had several other takers. The more the merrier? Of course. A party of eight: this would be a major expedition.

We planned on taking it easy. Eight days would see the walk done and us safely reaching the Gulf coast.

 T

We flew in to Wau. This delightful town is already over 1000 metres above sea level. One of Andree’s friends—James Garrier—met us and treated us to a pleasant afternoon of nostalgia and advice. It actually boiled down to two words: ‘Don’t go!’

Being intelligent University people, we ignored him.

‘Don’t worry, James. We are meeting Estanislaus in Edie Creek. That is only a day out.’

He said nothing and plied us with SP lager.

He had one spare bedroom and several canvas mats on the verandah. The two girls in the party—Alicia and Sandra—were offered the comfort of the guest bedroom. Two of our number were a little older than the rest: Brett and Nathan. Both historians, if there was to be anyone holding us back, they were going to be the culprits.

‘Do you mind if we take the bedroom?’ asked Brett. ‘You young people can enjoy the fresh air on the verandah.’

Of course the girls had no problem with that.

James was aghast. He spluttered.

‘Chivalry has died in Moresby?’ he muttered. Brett and Nathan did not take the bait and retired for the night. Bless their little hearts.

We slept well and at dawn, six of us, feeling like Lawrence of Arabia in the tropics, were ready to set off in fine style. Brett and Nathan had not yet appeared. I knocked on the door and called out.

‘Coming! Be patient’ was the petulant response.

 An hour later they came. We said goodbye to James, who shook hands with six of us. We set out on the first leg: a fairly gentle walk up to about 2000 metres at Edie Creek.

Bart and I could not help feeling that this was to Kokoda what chalk was to cheese. Either that, or our previous walk had improved our fitness.

However, a few kilometers along, we started to clamber. A steep switchback track took a short cut over a spur before descending again to Edie Creek. Nonetheless, it was a lovely opening day. Pine forests. Rhododendron forests: these proved to be the first of many. And wild life? Birds, mammals, amphibians and butterflies like I have never seen before. Amazing.

We found Estanislaus. He had seen many days: glaucoma, gnarled, wizened: all of the above and more. But a heart of gold. We gave him a package that Andree had asked us to deliver and he carefully stashed it away in his hut to be opened in private no doubt.

‘Would you like a guide?’ asked Estanislaus.

We had already decided—thanks for Andree’s steely glare—that would be wise. IN any case, to be able to hire someone and repay the villagers’ kindness in looking after u, it seemed appropriate.

Bunui was directed to lead us on. Buinui was Estanislaus’ nephew. But then, in this village, it seemed everyone was related to Estanislaus.

He arranged for us to sleep on a platform in the centre of the village. An atap roof, open to the elements. It was lovely.

‘Is there nowhere else? Something enclosed?’ whined Nathan.

Ever the perfect host, Estanislaus offered to move into a friends hut so that the two men could have an enclosed shelter for the evening.

I looked at Brett. We both shook our heads. Was this the nature of all historians? Reading about adventure in comfort?

We had a simple meal of chicken and vegetables all boiled in what seemed to be glue. It would not grace the pages of ‘The Debonair Diner’.

We retired to our platform while the historians enjoyed the royal suite. We mumbled to each other about their posing but let it ride. It mattered not. It takes so many to make a world.

Our sleeping arrangements were dry, but at 2,000, a little cool. 

Brett and Nathan emerged before sunrise. For a while we wondered if this meant a change of heart. No. It turned out that they had scratched all night. Lice? Scabies? It would have been unkind to wish the latter, but it seemed a delicious thought.

‘Do you have any calamine lotion?’ asked Brett of Sandra, our group’s self-appointed (and welcome) first aider. She did.

‘Let me put it non for you,’ she offered.

Brett smiled. ‘It’s fine. We’ll go inside and do ourselves’.

I wondered what that meant.

With Bunui leading the way, we set off on day two. Estanislaus and the whole village walked with us for a while laughing and dancing around as if we were in a carnival. Then they said their good byes.

Initially, the route took us along another delightful and gentle walk along a ridge through montane rainforest. The views were amazing: we could see across to the Eastern Highlands and the Finisterre ranges of the Huon Pensinsula. Wonderful. Everyone, so far, was enjoying themselves.

Most of the day was easy trekking. We toddled along still visible sections of the largely non-hilly (read heavenly) extant sectors of the war road.

‘I don't know why we need him,’ moaned Nathan pointing at Bunui who was bounding along in front, a healthy, excited young man.

We ignored him. He lagged back and, with Brett, spent the rest of the day to themselves.

Scenically, it beat Kokoda: Rolling hills. Vistas. Views of winding rivers in the valleys. Forest mostly less dense. Here you were not hemmed in as you were on Kokoda.

We soon reached the highest point of our trip—3,000 metres—and were mightily pleased with ourselves. Primeval moss and rhododendron forests; spectacular views out to the coast; this was heaven, albeit occasionally puff inducing.

We descended relatively gently through the pine forests of the Eloa gorge. At this rate, we might make it in another five days.

One of our number—Alicia—was a forester and knew about orchids. Our trip was punctuated with gasps of delight and mini excursions into the forest to see these wonders of nature. We also saw numerous Birds of Paradise of all shapes and sizes and colours.

By afternoon we were descending across the almost steep cliffs marking the start of the Eloa Gorge. Then it started to rain. And when I say rain, I mean really rain. It hurt. The drops were like needles driving sharp pricks into our bare faces. This was fun? At least on Kokoda, the trees protected us. Here, we were attacked from above.

We were cold. That evening, we sheltered as best we could in an abandoned hut that Bunui knew. Our fire sticks and lighters and matches were drenched. We ate canned bully beef. Not appetizing.

By morning the rain had stopped. We looked forward to a rather tough trek along what we had been told was part of the track that had not been used for years. This is where we really needed Bunui. The old wa- time road was hard to see. Jungles claim back what is stolen from them in a matter of months. We were decades from that first claim.

‘I think it might rain again soon,’ said Bart.

The wind had picked up and it was bitterly cold. As we walked on it became almost a gale. Trees whipped round. The rain stung us yet again like so many bees objecting to our intrusion. A branch, loaded with parasitic creepers, crashed down to the side of the path.

‘Maybe we should stop till the storm finishes?’ suggested Alicia.

I asked Bunui how long till we could find shelter and he just shrugged.

‘Come! Go!’ he urged. We did.

He leaped ahead. We straggled behind. He disappeared round a twist in the track. A flash of lightening and a massive thunderbolt. We heard a crack. We heard a scream. We ran forward to find him writhing in agony on the ground, a fallen tree pinning him to the ground. He right arm, bleeding, was jammed under the branch. A sharp protrusion from a broken branch japed into the muscle.

He did not wail. He winced as we all lifted the tree off him. Alicia knelt down.

‘The branch has pierced the muscle in his upper arm. I can stop the bleeding but he needs medical attention. Now!’

‘So typical’, observed Brett and the group rounded on him for his callousness.

‘So what are we supposed to do?’ he demanded.

‘It is obvious,’ said Sandra. ‘We make him as confortable as we can and take him back as soon as we can to the nearest hospital in Wau’.

What I will tell you now still amazes me to this day.

‘He is a native. He will cope. You lot do what you like. We will press on,’ announced Brett.

None of us said anything. Making a fuss at that time was not a priority. Almost to a person, we helped Bunui who patiently, and with only the occasional grimace, allowed us to bandage his arm.

‘I think it is broken,’ whispered Sandra.

Indeed, it flapped uselessly at his side.

‘Can he walk?’ asked Bart.

’He is losing blood. Walking is not a good idea’ said Sandra.

She turned to Brett and Nathan.

‘You two should reconsider. We may have to fashion a stretcher of some kind. If so, we will need to take turns to carry it. We have at least two days ahead of us.’

Brett spat. ‘Damn. Bad luck’.

‘Who for? You or Bunui?’ asked Bart.

Rather ungraciously, the two relented..

Bunui, bandaged up with a splint and a sling, looked at us.

‘Let’s go back home,’ smiled Alicia, and he nodded.

‘Sori tumas!’ he whispered.

We assured him that was fine.

He took three steps and then fell to the ground. We knew what we had to do. We foraged in the forest for sturdy sticks and vines. Bart, being a Papua New Guinean, knew what to look for. Soon we had fashioned a makeshift stretcher.

We arranged for Bunui—who violently protested—to lie on the stretcher. He shook his head. He obviously felt he was imposing.

Brett, to his credit, and who spoke excellent Pidgin, told him not to worry. It was important to get back to his family at least—a two day walk.

Over the two days he deteriorated. He hallucinated. It was horrendous. There was nothing we could do. All we had was aspirin. We felt disappointment but no regret. We could always come back some other time. And pigs might fly!

Bunui needed medical attention. That is what mattered. So we retraced our steps to Edie Creek Taking it in turns, we made light work of it. Adrenalin adds to ones strength at times like this. No one—not even our two prima donnas—complained. Indeed, they made themselves particularly, almost obsequiously, helpful.

Estanislaus and the villagers were surprised to see us when we walked in carrying Bunui on our stretcher. When we explained that we wanted to take him on to Wau, Estanislaua demurred.

‘No need. Our healing man can fix’.

Bunui seemed to recover a little now that he was home, even before we carried him to the hut outside the main village where the spirit man cum healer lived.

Alicia and Sandra stayed with him to watch whilst the old man, delighted to have an audience, beheaded a chicken, poured blood over the wound, applied a paste made of a feces base to the wound and wrapped it all in leaves, forming a poultice. All the while, he sang in a curious high pitched voice that we could hear wafting from his hut.

Bunui? He uttered nary a sound. You have to be tough to live with no modern facilities to ease your way.  

We decided to stay a couple of days. We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

Our village friends took us on side treks to their hunting grounds and to waterfalls and ridges, following tracks we could not see. We slept on the platform. Even Brett and Nathan joined us which was fine on one level. On the other level, it made sleep difficult. Brett holds the record for snoring volume.

After two days, and a marked improvement in Bunui’s condition, we returned to Wau. James Garrier was not surprised to see us. We spent a few days with him and did more trekking in the local area. Absoilutely delightful. We did not conquer the Bulldog, but we loved Bulolo.

****

In 1982 I returned to Wau. James was dead. I wanted to go back to Edie Creek. Maybe I could touch base with Bunui and Stanislaus.

This time it was easy. The track had been reopened to traffic and prospectors were combing the valley for gold, copper: whatever. Obviously, life was changing for Bunui and his people. How much of it was spilling their way? Precious little.

As I walked into the village, people shyly, almost sulkily, stared at me. One—a man in his thirties, holding a little boy in his left arm, furrowed his brow. Suddenly he beamed.

‘Masta Lans!’ He shouted. It was Bunui.

He ran over and hugged me.

‘Estanislaus?’ I asked.

‘Dai pinis’, he replied quietly.

A woman came out of the hut towing another small boy.

‘Missus b’long me’. He beamed.

I looked at the two little boys.

‘What are their names?

‘Lance and Bart’.