CLUTCHING MY SOUL IN PARADISE - 12 Years Old in Papua New Guinea (part 1)

 
My sister and me with local friends, March 1986

"'Oars!  Oars!' he intensely whispered, seizing the helm -- 'grip your oars, and clutch your souls, now!  My God, men, stand by!'"

Herman Melville's Ahab had never been to Papua New Guinea, and pursuing a whale was not really akin to investigating a plane wreck, but the words he uttered were dead on.  It was May 1986, and I was 12 years old.  My introduction to the world outside America had begun.

Ten years into independence in 1986, Papua New Guinea was still grappling with what it meant to be a nation.  Its 5 million citizens spoke some 800 languages, and its towns and villages hosted more missionaries than tourists.  Its stamps celebrated traditional skirts, but also Queen Elizabeth's birthday.  Its markets were laid out lazily in the shade, swollen with ripe tropical fruit sold by betel nut chewing mothers nursing their babies.  Tropical, laid back, young—Papua New Guinea was what some called paradise.

But it was another title that I heard more often.  'Land of the Unexpected,' read the Air Niugini posters, stunningly illustrated with slender palm trees, a thatched-roof hut by the sea, and smiling locals.  But they could just have honestly depicted belching volcanoes, earthquake damage, or a gang of unemployed youth sporting machetes and homemade shotguns just before raping someone.  Paradise is never postcard-perfect.

From the provincial capital of Madang my father and I flew aboard a single-engine Cessna into the heart of the country.  From the grass airstrip we took a motorized canoe several hours up the log-infested Sogeram River, arriving in the village just before sunset, where we were welcomed by an American missionary who called this remote corner of the world home.  It was a typical village: kids wearing ragged second-hand shorts or skirts, angled palm trees, huts elevated on posts, topless women cooking sago, insatiable mosquitoes, infected sores, debilitating disease.

A couple days after arriving we received a radio message from Madang:  The U.S. Embassy had received a report of a downed aircraft about 15 miles from our location.  Would we be willing to hike to the site and confirm the crash and then, if possible, determine if the plane was American?

(Part 1 of 3)

Part 2: /viewArticle.jsp?articleId=281474976772640