Of Fiords and un-feeling Physicians

Tufi, PNG

We booked a holiday in Papua New Guinea’s fiord land: Tufi. Fiords. Tufi. It all sounded so exotic.

We were the only passengers on our single engine Cessna: Noreen, Robin, Allison and I. We landed. No one was there to meet us. Hmmm. So much for a hotel transfer. The plane took off and disappeared. We had been told that the resort was only five minutes away. We decided that the track towards the sea was the best option. It was, after all, a cliff/fiord/ beach resort.

Aha! A timber house. So almost native. Whoopee.

‘Is this the Tufi Resort?’

‘Aha’.

‘We are booked in’.

‘NO you aren’t’.

‘We are’.

Head shake.

I showed him our receipt from the travel agent on the second floor of a run down building off the main street in Moresby.

‘You can stay’.

‘Thank you’.

‘But you pay.’

‘But we already paid for our stay in advance’.

‘Sort that out with them. You pay.’

‘OK’.

I love it when travel plans go smoothly.

‘Are we the only guests?’

‘No’.

I looked at our informant intently. He said nothing more. We checked in. It was indeed lovely. We looked out over the Solomon Sea. An inlet ran inland (naturally). Small cliffs etched its blue waters with tropical forest.

‘Where are the fiords?’

Morris (the host who turned out to be helpful) pointed at the inlet.

‘Not quite what I expected’, I thought but Noreen and I looked at each other and shrugged—imperceptibly, of course.

We met our fellow guests: a doctor and his wife (Andrew and Cynthia) from the UK who were working in Mt Hagen. Good. Medical help if we need it.

‘Tomorrow I pack a picnic for you and you can go to the beach’, promised Morris.

That sounded nice.

‘Why not take a walk along the cliffs to the village of Tufi?’ suggested Morris.

Andrew and Cynthia were in. So were we, so we rolled out the double Maclaren Baby Buggy and toddled off. Cynthia really took to Robin and Allison.

‘Andrew is not a child person,’ explained Cynthia.

‘No children?’ asked Noreen.

‘Never,’ he grunted.

Noreen looked at me. I shrugged. What a wonderful doctor he would be. We did quite a lot of shrugging and looking over the three days at Tufi.

Tufi village. Small. A central sports field.  Small, noisy boys kicked what passed for a soccer ball. It was made of rolls of coconut fibre. Andrew’s nose wrinkled in disgust.

Some of the buildings in Tufi dated from before WWI. A shed that looked like a chook house stood on a hill overlooking the tiny town.  An ancient lady explained that it was a church. We later discovered that it was one of the first Anglican churches in PNG. The first mission house was in Samarai. The denominations carved up the country between them: Methodists, Anglicans and Calathumpians; everyone got a slice of the cake.

We enjoyed our stroll.

‘You like to go up the fiord?’

An urchin posed the question. We nodded.

It was truly delightful; pristine, clear water. Coral reefs visible. One day this would be a diving paradise. Tiny thatched villages of just two or three huts; canoes tied up to the shore; children playing; happy smiles and waves. Birds, the calls of animals: noisy crows, blue loris, a long-tailed cuckoo (the coucal), butterflies the size of small birds: delightful.

Eat your heart out, Norway.

Our boatman took us to two caves. One had dozens of skulls. Robin and Allison were intrigued.

‘Whose?’ I asked.

‘Very old’, was the answer.

So it seemed.

We spent a pleasant evening chatting with Andrew and Cynthia while the kids played with Morris.

‘It’s OK’, he said as we went to bed. ‘You do not pay. I radio Port Moresby’.

Somehow, he must have decided to like us. I am sure it was the kids.

The next day Morris had arranged for us to be driven to the beach with a picnic hamper. This suited the kids well, so, along with Cynthia and Andre (in that order) we bounced off.

The beach proved delightful. We adults lazed back under the warm sun feeling the cool breezes and enjoyed the bottled bits of the hamper. Robin and Allison played on the edge of the waves as they playfully rippled in.

We kept a weather eye on them while discussing this and that.

A shout from Allison.

We turned in alarm. She was pointing out to sea. Robin was nowhere to be seen. We looked in the waves. There he was. He was rolling in the waves. They were dragging him further out. He seemed not to be fighting them.

We ran into the water and plucked him from their grasp. His eyes were closed. He hung limp in our arms. We raced to where our towel was spread over the beach. Cynthia ran over. We pushed him and slapped his face. Eventually he coughed and spluttered, vomited up water and looked at us.

Dr. Andrew lay back on his towel, sipping from a can of SP lager.

‘You could have helped’, said Cynthia to him, meekly, as if she was used to treading carefully.

‘Hmph. I knew he would be fine’, muttered the kindly doctor and opened another can.

I glared at him. Noreen gulped. She could not believe that eh would not lift a finger.

Robin was fine. He was soon back paddling in the sea. We were with him. Andrew, after too many beers, put a hat over his face and went to sleep, flat on his back.

I walked over and stared at the snoring man. The sun was getting stronger. Andrew’s lily-white legs—covered in a towel—caught my eye. I looked around.

Cynthia and Noreen were happily playing with the children. I gently removed the towel. Andrew snorted, but stayed asleep. Two pasty legs lay there. I looked at the sun.

‘Do your work,’ I mumbled and went to join the girls.

‘Shall we go back?’ suggested Cynthia after a while.

‘Let’s stay till it gets dark’, I suggested. ‘It looks as if Andrew needs a rest’.

We looked along the beach to where the meat lay roasting.

‘Poor chap’, said Noreen. ‘He looks like he needs a rest’.

Cynthia nodded, ‘Hagen is not what we thought it would be’, she said.

As the sun went down, Andrew woke up.

‘Shall we go to—‘ he began. ‘Damn!’ he shouted. ‘Look at my legs! I must have kicked the towel off.’

Cynthia ran to his side and offered to rub oil on to the now pink flesh.

‘Leave me alone’, he shouted and pushed her away.

Back in the resort, we left them on their own that night.

We took the plane home next morning. Cynthia said goodbye as we left.

‘Andrew is still resting’, she explained. ‘Stupidly he slept on the beach and did not cover his legs.  He is in agony with sunburn’.

‘Oh, poor Andrew’. I effused. ‘I hope he gets better’.

I was referring to his character—not his sunburn.