PARADISE TO PURGATORY

25. FROM PARADISE TO PURGATORY IN PNG (1969)

I’ve never quite experienced such frustration which racked me for over two weeks in Port Moresby in August  1969. To make matters worse, it came as a shattering anti climax to a wondrous time in the paradise of the south Pacific, the magical island of Kairiru.

I recall landing in Port Moresby and feeling, for the first time in my life, an alien! The flight from Brisbane on an Electra turbo- jet was an unexpectedly dreadful. In all my flying since there has been nothing remotely like it. Extremely rough, bumpy with sudden drops and jolts and wobbles it reduced me to heaving with sickness and wishing I’d not left home. Eventually, we thumped down on the airstrip and skidded into this dry, barren- hilled, landscape. It was such a shock. Where was the jungle?

 As we clambered down the steps and walked across the tarmac the moist heat hit with a force that had me gasping. Then I noted these very dark brown attendants driving little tractors, pulling hoses and checking. I realised suddenly this was not my place and felt oddly discomforted in being a stranger.

The airport was very basic and, to me, a bit of a shambles, with so many local “meris” sitting around and tending to playing kids and wailing babies. It was such a new experience that I was momentarily stunned. Taking it all in was proving a challenge. But shortly enough I had organised an ongoing flight, on a smaller aircraft to Lae. There, my friends, the Bigham-Rolls from my Dundas days were such good hosts. Independence was still some years off and so and the local crime waves of the “rascols” had not gathered pace as yet.

The flight to Madang and onto Wewak was a treat. I reckon the best aircraft ever invented for tourists was the Fokker 28. With overhead wings, large windows, and flying at a stately 250 mph at 5,000 ft you had time to enjoy the superb views of this rich and varied country with mountains reaching 14,000 ft and a magnificent coast line. Sipping on a cold beer and looking across to Manam Island, an active volcano with a pretty plume curling lazily into the blue was a slice of heaven.

Wewak was frontier territory really. And also a fortress of the amazing missionary SVD congregation. Along the airstrip there parked a flight of Dornier aircraft, belonging to Divine Word Airways and gifts of the West German government.  Bishop Arkwright was a legend. As a self-taught pilot he could land anything, anywhere at anytime and had a stock of hair- raising stories of survival.

What thrill to be greeted by an old classmate, Br.Terry Kane!  He flashed the greatest grins alive, and was obviously revelling in this mission work and with the best tan I had seen for some time. In fact, there was a disquieting feeling that he might be “going native”!!

When cheery Tommy Kane had come sauntering into the Mittagong scene, back in 1946 we struck up an instant friendship and could claim an impressive list of escapades in some pretty care-free years. A boy from Gippsland, he was handy with tools, could handle horses well and was a tonic for a city kid like me. I recall we had been appointed to care for sports equipment and the sporting fields. On one occasion, we had to set up a fence to stop balls from rolling into the damn. At the same time we discovered a rabbit burrow which we had cleared out and adopted a few little bunnies.

We professed our vows in 1951 with a long separation after that. He went south to Melbourne and I was a Sydney man. In fact, in the intervening near twenty years we had met only twice. The second time was quite memorable. When we heard he was flying to the missions in mid 60s a bunch of his classmates went out to Mascot to meet him and give him our support. It was decades before the big terminals. In those days you could stand on the top balcony and scan the passengers as they came streaming across the tarmac to the terminal. Where was he? We expected to see a black “frocked” gent with roman collar, so easy to spot in a crowd. He must have missed the flight.

“There he is” pointed Bernie. What a delightful “shock”. Wearing a stylish panama hat, a light green shirt, cream slacks and tropic shoes he looked to be the cutting edge of mission haute couture. We were so  impressed as we scrambled around this apparition of the future.

And so we gave him our blessing (!) with a drink and best wishes, confident that he would love the adventure, not expecting he’d spend practically the rest of his working life there.

At that stage of my visit, he was teaching agriculture and involved in “farm management” and initiating a host of projects on the island of Kairiru, which was some thirty minutes passage  across the strait from the mainland in a aluminium dinghy. But first, on my arrival, he had to give me a tour of the town and the mission. A lunch at the mission HQ was an eye opener for me as I met missionaries from so many countries, lay missionaries as well and an impressive array of so much equipment.

He had good Aussi friends among the Brisbane Mercy Sisters who were running a boarding girls’ high school. Sr. Brian Coughlan was vivacious and obviously enjoying the challenge with a lively bunch of sisters. The town itself was frontier style, with Chinese stores as well as the big guns, Burns Philp with their own cargo line. And there was a  frontier style cinema.

A few days later I got my first taste of “anti white” sentiment. Or maybe it was just anti the “haves”. As we emerged after the movie Terry checked the back tyres.

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“A favourite trick is to ram stubbies against the back wheels. They will shred your typres as you back out”.

 Lovely.

Eventually we drove out to Wom where the boat was pulled up on the beach and there is some delightful cargo to transport.  Four or five fetching lay missionaries were going over to Kairiru for holidays. I recall Austrian and an Australian. Terry would surely give them a good time. It was an exhilarating trip as the sun was setting. I was in for some great surprises. I recall that night when we attended a concert at the little minor seminary I met an ex student from Marist Parramatta, Michael Cassidy, doing his bit as a lay missionary.

But the next day was the absolute highlight. Terry had planned it all so well. It was an excursion around the island which would take most of the day. That’s when I became convinced that Kairiru had no peer in the Pacific. Not even Bali Hai from the world-beating musical, SOUTH PACIFIC could match it.

(It was some years later that I visited the island in Solomons, which was the origin of that name. It was Balalae and still sported the remains of the Japanese runway, with some aircraft still rusting away in the bush.)

My trusty camera was on hand that memorable day and I took a series of shots that still give me much pleasure as I replay the events. Key among there were

• Swimming in some pools, the water so sparkling and limpid with  filtered sunlight.
• Anchoring off the cliffs  and swimming into the dark mouth of a cave/tunnel that shafted back deeply where you could sit on a ledge and enjoy the thrill of the swell surging up and along into the near darkness.
• Victoria Bay with hot springs bubbling out of the surf.
• “Showering” under this mist- hanging waterfall spraying out of the moss rocks.
• Visiting some villages where the mums were happy to pass their piccaninny over to Br. Teri who was obviously their friend.
• More seriously, there was a Japanese eight inch naval gun emplaced at the tip of the island, guarding the entrance to the harbour. Dark stories lurked in those years before Australian troops finally rooted out a very determined enemy.

If this was mission life I was inclined to follow this “new Call” at a later date.

We arrived home in the late afternoon, surfeited with delights!! And sporting a pinker shade of skin than before. But nothing really serious, thank God. That day was certainly memorable and unrepeatable, still lingering in the memory as a jaunt into paradise.

A few days later Terry is zipping me over calm seas into Wewak town to catch the flight to Port Moresby, where I will link up with the Qantas flight to Manila for the six months course at East Asian Pastoral Institute. It was wonderful to see Terry, in his element, so alive and dynamic in his role on Kairiru. In fact, he had enculturated himself to an extraordinary degree. At one stage, with hand on the rudder and scanning the sea ahead, he saw me brush a fly away from a fresh scratch on my leg. Sharply he said

“Don’t let that red bum fly onto that scratch!”.

“Why not?” I asked somewhat surprised.

“You’ll get a tropical ulcer.”

How prophetic it proved. That little scratch was to give me grief for the frustrating weeks ahead.

It was a sad farewell at the airport. Getting a seat on the Air New Guinea Fokker was not easy. In fact it turned out to be a Mexican standoff before I made it. Despite having confirmed the flight, I was told I would have to go on the waiting list. Then it hit me. The Brothers had warned and even wagered that this would certainly happen. They knew the “funny buggers” game that could unroll as “wantoks” and friends were slipped onto the flight while others were left behind. I must admit that my aggressive side flared: I would not wilt in face of artful and devious moves. I simply would not leave the head of the queue even though I was told I must join the waiting list. The courteous attendant tried his best to dislodge me, having to make several phone calls…or was he just play acting. All the time I could feel the temperature rising behind. I also had the decency to feel a little uncomfortable acting in this high-handed colonial manner!! But how could I miss the connecting flight from Port Moresby? No way! I stood like a rock. Eventually, the official re-emerged to tell me the good news- there had been a cancellation and I would fly. Alleluia!

As a matter of fact, I could have stayed another week!

And it was many years later that our Br. Pat Howley was given similar treatment when he arrived with twenty students from Passam National High school. He had booked and confirmed months before and after given the fend off, he decided to take drastic action. He marched out onto the tarmac with his students and impounded the aircraft! Pat won.

We landed in Moresby around 1 pm to await Qantas 707 at 3.00pm It would be such a smooth manoeuvre: the Captain would bring the Philippine visa that I had not been able to collect in Sydney.

“No worry” promised the Consul. “We’ll send it up with the flight”.

It was a delightful sight to see that big bird hit and skid and trundle into the ramshackle terminal.  In an hour or two I would be winging north- west. I saw the captain emerge and chat with a few before I made my move. As it turned out, we had something in common: we both played golf at Oatlands in Dundas. But that was the only sweet part of our conversation. He had a letter from my friend, Br Ronald Perry, with explanation, but no visa.

I was shattered. What to do? Where to stay? How long would I need to wait? I had given myself a week’s grace so that I would have settled in and be ready to start to course on September 1^st.I sat down and thought of possible options. I knew the MSC missionaries were strong in Papua. They would surely be helpful. So, dragging my hefty suit case I got myself a lift into the city and knocked that the mission HQ. A very genial Fr. Adrian Meehan greeted me and welcomed me into their large house. Yes, we had a drink and discussed possibilities. In a few minutes he was calling the De La Salle Brothers at Bomana, as it would be preferable to stay there rather than this teeming centre. The Brothers were great. Yes, come on out. No problem.
“We’ll be in town tonight and so we can meet you at the cinema.”

Thus it was that I saw the BOSTON STRANGLER in good company and moved out to their top school some ten miles out of the city.

Those few days I thought I would have to wait, dragged out to two weeks when I finally decided to give  on legal channels and to push on as an illegal!

The boss, Br. Frederick was just so kind and helpful. I lived with this hard working bunch of Brothers, emerging from my room for meals and spending so much time reading books prescribed for the course. Several times, Ron called from Sydney with the same doleful news- no dice. Fred must have seen I was getting depressed as he told me I could take the car anytime to visit the city or sight see. And a few good things did happen.

First, I found the best nurse in PNG for tropical ulcers. Old Br. Lucius knew all about these damn sores. Twice a day he would tenderly treat this “volcanic” wound that had erupted. As well, he entertained me with stories, specially of his pet hobby, catching Taipan snakes, bagging up and sending south to Eric Worrel at his Reptile Park near Gosford where he milked them for anti-venin. Luce reckoned he “diddled” him. I could not believe that this Brother, armed only with a bag and a forked stick would entertain himself on Saturday afternoon, by prowling along the Lakatoi river bank, practically swarming with this deadly killer and  neatly pin them down by the head, pick them up by the tail and drop into the bag.

And then there was this extraordinary encounter with Tom Dowling after some 20 years silence.

In one of my forays to the post office- a real lifeline for a manic correspondent like myself- I was “blindsided” by a booming voice:

“Bloody hell, if it’s not Murphy!” I didn’t need to look around even. Bluff and hearty Tom had not changed, despite those 20 years and being married with two kids!!! A good six footer from North Queensland, with that friendly-pugnacious freckled face, curly brown hair and brawny hairy legs he cut quite a figure with his little boy and girl. We’d been mates at Mittagong, where he followed me in the class behind.

Then later, in my very first teaching appointment after training, I made that epic three day train journey to Innisfail. Just up the road from our residence were the Dowlings, great neighbours. Tom senior ran a classy menswear in town, lovely Mrs Dowling beamed goodwill and kindness, with a cake or two slipped over to the Brothers. The kids went to the local catholic schools with Johnny, a prize vaulting horse star, falling into my tender clutches for the fearsome public exam class, Scholarship. I will be everlastingly grateful to old Tom, as I managed to get my licence in his white Consul car.

That brief meeting resulted in a very pleasant spin-off. In my two week exile I was taken up to Sogeri, in the ranges where I enjoyed a family weekend with Tom and Celia. That helped assuage my frustration.

After a week with the Brothers I grabbed a chance to join another stranded prospect for EAPI.

Just 5-10 minutes away was the national Catholic seminary. Actually, it was a conglomeration of various training houses for Religious Orders. And so, in this boom time for local vocations there were SVDs,  MSCs, and other houses. I’d heard that another Australian was waiting the green light. It turned out to be Bill Ryan MSC and I knew him! Well, sort of. Some twenty years before, as a newly ordained priest he had spent a week or so at Mittagong where he had a lasting impact. Charismatic, he had moved us to join the Arch Confraternity of the Sacred Heart with its own special prayer book. I reckon I must have been faithful to that little red book for a decade and more. I recall telling Bill this in our first meeting and I could see he was chuffed.

And so I moved up the hill and into more salubrious conditions!!  Fr.Lahn was the rector and we quickly warmed to each other. A wise and unflurried German I enjoyed many a yarn. Little did I know then that I would spend a few days with him in Nauru on a stopover from Solomons to Philippines! There was a good library also and so I was gobbling up likely books, specially by the Catechetical star of the moment, a De La Salle professor from New York’s Manhatten college, Gabriel Moran. Still, the frustration continued and mounted as there seemed little movement in our applications. To miss the commencement of the course would be “catastrophic” for me.

One diversion was to stroll down to the Bomana Cemetery where 100s of our WW2. diggers were buried. In the cooling afternoon, I would sit under this shady Poinciana and read. Of course, I spent time strolling around and saying g’day to all those young warriors who never did go home. As a boy I followed those bitterly fought battles, along the Kokoda, at Buna, and Gona and later, Shaggy Ridge. I found the graves of  two legends, VC winners, Bruce Kingsford and John French. I even propped up my camera to take a shot of myself squatting beside the graves. One day a truly bizarre meeting between a veteran and myself left me really flummoxed. I had noticed a car pull up at the entrance and a middle-aged and very fit gent roam down among the graves.  I suspected he was a comrade.

I sidled over and introduced myself. Yes, he was a captain in the AIF and yes some of these here were his fallen mates. A strange and embarrassing conversation followed.

“By the way” said Des “I see that Bruce Kingsbury is buried over there”>

“Yes, I know. I saw him the other day.”

I was staggered and bewildered, having a vision of Captain strolling down Moresby and meeting his old mate!!!

“You mean to say, he’s still alive” I blurted.

He looked at me with some kind of pity.

“No, I visited the cemetery a few days ago”.

But really, his mates were all very alive for him.

Phone calls from Ron were dispiriting. It was into the first week of September and both Bill and I had missed the crucial start of a whole swathe of courses. Then, thank God, Ron urged me to enter the country as a tourist and from there, those wily Jesuits should be able to swing a visa. GO, GO, GO. I chatted it over with Bill Ryan, encouraging him to follow suite.

And so it was that I finally made it to this wondrous new Asian land. There was a final hiccup. As the 707 came roaring in, it apparently kicked up some stones that had to be fished out, so delaying our flight. A great stroke of luck or blessing, I found two American De La Salle Brothers who had been running courses, to great acclaim, in Sydney. And they were still hyped up after seeing HAIR in Sydney. We settled down to enjoy the trip with dinner coming up. Ah! What service! In those days, when air travel was expensive, there was a real menu and dinner was served on real crockery. And the red wines were commendable for these elite travellers.

But the fun wasn’t over. As we taxied to the Terminal in Manila, I was feeling buoyed knowing that Br.Alfred or Bernard Curtin would be there to greet me.  No Americans anywhere. Sadly, it was later that I found that cables could take a week to reach their mark in this  third world country. If PNG was a cultural shock this plunge into teeming Asia ratcheted up and up. An hour ride to Marikina Marist school would have been so pleasant. But there my chauffeurs didn’t materialise.. Again, I believe I was inspired in this predicament, having been specifically advised not to take a cab. I recalled that Australian Redemptorists ran a gigantic Novena day to Our Lady of Perpetual Succour each week. Surely, she would rescue this stranded pilgrim. The  airport staff were very helpful, finding the phone number at Baclaren and handing me a phone. I can’t recall being so relieved to hear that twangy Aussi accent.

“What will I do Fr. Roche?”

“Take a taxi, of course.”

“But I’ve been warned that they are a lot of cut throats and I could end up in some canal”.

“Rubbish. Tell them who you are and you’re our friend and all will be well.”

I was so thankful to doss down in that expansive and airy residence. Luckily, Fr. Boland had just finished the course himself and would be delighted to give a lift on the Sunday. I needed to give thanks and so walked over to this huge, huge church with its immense galleries. I was told they could cram several thousand each session, of the eight to ten session on the Wednesday. Wow! These Filipinos are a people of immense devotion! However, the gun-toting guard, sub machine guns at the ready, gave an insight into the rich-poor divide. As well, I was taken aback by the women who dragged themselves on their knees to communication. More surprises and shocks were to follow.

It was with immense relief that we drove through the extensive grounds and impressive university buildings of this Jesuit pearl of the Orient, Ateneo de Manila. I had hardly set my bags down in my room when there was a knock at the door and in breezed Paul Finnane, a Franciscan missionary from PNG who had schooled at Marist Brothers’ Darlinghurst. That was the start of wonderful friendship which has thrived over the last 40 years. God is so Good.