Rafting’s Wet Work in Papua Jungle
Even the insects are quiet in the wet heat of Huon Gulf, and dust refuses to rise. It sinks to the ground with a plop when kicked, like flour.
Ahead of us a band of menacing gray clouds drapes the shoulders of the surrounding mountains, lingering, taking pleasure in the burden they dispose. In summer the clouds concede defeat and Lae basks for a while in the sparkling intensity of the tropical sun. Soon they will garner their strength once more.
A fine drizzle is falling, casting a lacy veil of dampness that collects on the branches before falling in larger droplets to the ground. “Better get used to it,” says our river guide, Tim Whitney, pushing aside the liana vines hanging across the road. “If you can’t take this, you’d better turn around now.” We laugh, toss our watertight rubber personal gear bags into the pickup and jump in after them.
Tim hops into the cab, leaving us in the open back, which we share with two women and a wiry old man who grins at us all the way to Bulolo. His smile reveals stumps of blackened ivory rotted by a lifetime of chewing betel nut. He turns in profile to wave at a relative and a thick pencil of light bursts through his septum where he once wore a nose bone.
We race along a washboard road at breakneck speed, avoiding the occasional pig that teeters about in confusion. Past the botanical gardens with its exotic orchid collection and war cemetery where Allied soldiers slumber in a bed of saffron petals. Past bright and giddy banana trees and wispy, looming palms on stalks so thin that they bend in anorexic bows across the road.
A Bumpy Ride
We head southwest toward the violent black anvils hunched above the Owen Stanley Range, climbing through the mountains in high gear. We stop suddenly, kicking up a cloud of dust that claws for the ground in the humidity almost as soon as it is disturbed. I am sent sprawling across the lap of one of the women.
The old man heaves himself free and jumps to the ground. A few words of farewell to the driver and he is gone, scurrying into the dense bush.
“All out!” shouts Tim farther up the road where we come to a halt beside a wooden bridge. Below, a sickly river pushes its way through stands of kunai grass.
Two large rubber rafts (“The very best,” Tim assures us) strain on their leashes, eager to free themselves from the oozy mud. The Watut River pulls demandingly, riding high on its banks.
Afloat in the Jungle
Within minutes we’re off, cast adrift on “the finest jungle white water in the world.”
We’re at 9,000 feet. Three hours from Lae by road. Gold prospectors of the 1920s took eight days to hike a 100-mile trail from the coast, pitting their wits against headhunters and the famous Kukukuku cannibals. We’ll be back in five. Hopefully safe and sound. The natives of Morobe Province are a little friendlier these days. But the river, we can tell, is in flood.
Open fields of grasslands glide by, a lime-green sea of waves studded with the scimitar fronds of papaya and pandanus ferns. Rusty hydraulic dredges line the river banks. In the heydays of the gold boom, air freight into and out of this region surpassed that of the rest of the world put together. Now only the natives are left, panning in the shallows of a soupy river.
The Snake suddenly merges, so black it looks like syrup. Our two-tone candy bar river swings west into the heights of the Kuper Ranges. A canopy of greenery closes in over our heads. The river gathers speed, thrusting headlong into the jungle. Confined within this dark enclosure we crash forward, tumbling through a tropical “Fantasia” world of feathery bamboos, ferns and palms.
Above the treetop canopy a misty, incorporeal veil hangs heavy with rainfall, feeding the Watut and the vibrant, insatiable jungle.
Glittering Butterflies
Except for the occasional sulfur flash of a parrot, the insect chirrups and calls and screech of birds are lost in the shadow of the forest. Above the foamy water, butterflies dance with whimsical, carefree gaiety. Giant butterflies the color of glittering coral waters. Bright red ones splashed with tints of blue and black.
And clusters of tiny golden butterflies shimmer on riverside rocks as they vibrate softly. As the river undulates against its banks they hover, letting the waters wash over the pewter pebbles before settling for a few seconds more.
“Look,” calls John Mason, our second raft guide. A bright, iridescent kingfisher has broken from the bank. Then another. Skimming the frothy wave tops, they pilot us through the rapids. But we cannot trust their instincts; we steer a line of avoidance plowing between two goliath boulders that block our path. We cascade forward, buffeted and pummeled by waves of solid water that drench us.
I begin to have my doubts about the logic of finding myself in this remote corner of the world, on a roller-coaster ride amid glistening jungles entwined with vines and perhaps a green python or two. Henry Schlacks, 67, seems to be taking it in his stride. “Next year I’ll do the Zambezi,” he roars above the thunder of the river. As if this were child’s play. But we knew the fun had only just begun.
Tumbling through these mountains, the Watut River cascades through 150 major rapids, falling an average of 45 feet a mile on its 150-mile journey to the sea. Giant rock gardens litter the river, enraging the waters into a tempestuous and testy caldron of white water.
From beneath the umbrella of the forest, the raucous call of the elusive bird of paradise carries across the river, drowning the roar of the water. Somewhere, another answers. But we’re gone, carried downward with a rush, and only the thunder of the torrent remains.
We lunch beneath great lianas twisting down for a hundred feet from the treetops. Disturbed by our presence, a pair of cockatoos streak in strobes of white between the branches of the steamy foliage.
A Native Village
Downstream a thin, spidery bridge of vines hangs above the river, the first of several that during the next four days betray the hidden presence of human habitation.
On the bank a naked native boy appears. He races across the bridge, yelping and waving in amazement. In seconds the thin spidery web is laden with villagers beckoning us to shore.
We spend the night at Taiak under the veiled gray twilight of the moon filtering through the bamboo slats of our hut. A thin trace of smoke enamels the sky, rising in a spiral from the earth oven in which the sallow-skinned, smiling villagers cook us an evening meal of kau kau , potato and corn.
Soon a fine drizzle begins to fall and the jungle awakens with the crowded nocturnal calls of insects.
For the next two days we dip and smash through the rising crests of an increasingly enraged river. Pummeled by thrashing bow waves and tossed by the angry rushing thunder of hydraulic tubes, Tim strains on his oars in a battle of survival and skill. I feel my own muscles tighten as we sweep within inches of a madly rotating whirlpool. A perverse smile of delight broadens on Henry’s face from the adrenaline rush of excitement and danger.
Then we are through, gleaming and whooping with the intensity of a natural high as the anger of the river subsides and the velveteen jungle enfolds us once more.
“Easy going from here,” says Tim. “Except for the crocodiles,” he adds, half in jest. The first exploratory trip down the Watut chanced upon one of New Guinea’s rare 25-foot saltwater crocodiles, though none has been seen since in this part of the country, Tim assures us.
Crocodile Watch
Still, we’re watchful and somewhat hopeful as the river gradually flattens out and the thick jungle recedes from the banks to be replaced by heraldic stands of bamboo and high kunai grass.
But we see no crocodiles, just the bright youthful yellows of a juvenile python basking in a tree and the scarlet and yellow tints of New Guinea snapper turtles scuttling beneath the water surface.
Splashes of color suddenly replace the dark olives and blacks of the forest. Shiny white egrets and soft gray brolgas pick among the reeds, policed by white-bellied sea eagles soaring on the thermals and the occasional squadron of bright parrots flying between the treetops.
Welcoming us back to the coastal plains, the early morning cloud cover suddenly dissipates, burning up to expose a bright blue sky. The cool moistness of the mountains gives way to the sticky sauna of the lowland grasslands, so heavy with humidity that we seem to slice our way through the wet, stagnant air.
Henry thrashes at the mosquitoes from which we had so far been spared. “Better get used to it,” Tim says. “If you can’t take this, you can always turn around,” he adds, remembering his earlier admonition.
“Any time you’re ready,” replies Henry.
This trip is offered by Sobek Expeditions, Box 7007, Angels Camp, Calif. 95222, phone (209) 736-4524.
Sobek will offer the six-day trip during April and May, 1986. Price, $895. The company also offers one- and two-week packages that combine diving, a visit to Manam Island, and forays into the interior highlands with white-water trips on the Waghi and Ramu rivers.
Tourists are given temporary visas on arrival at Port Moresby for a maximum stay of 30 days. For longer stays, visas are necessary and can be obtained from the PNG Embassy, 1776 Massachusetts Ave., Washington, D.C. 20036.
Despite a malarial eradication program, malaria is prevalent and is PNG’s only serious health risk. Anti-malarial drugs are essential.
Air Niugini and Qantas offer three flights a week to Port Moresby from Sydney, Brisbane and Cairns. Air Niugini and Talair both operate regular services to Lae from Port Moresby.
