And so...we pile on a bus to
Owen's Corner to begin our adventure.
What starts as a group of 10 tourist-hikers is suddenly expanded to a
HERD of 20, it seems...as each hiker has their own Porter.
We are greeted with calls of
"...oro...oro...oro." which is Tok for
"Welcome"
The Porters are tall, have large splayed feet (which I soon find out hike this track bare) and huge smiles.
Names like Yeoy and Bowrie, Lubun and Woody.
They explain that there will always be a Porter in the Front of our procession and another at the very rear.
For
Absolutely NO REASON should we ever pass the front...or fall behind the rear.
If we leave the trail (
...they refer to it as TRACK...so I will as well, for future reference...) to relieve ourselves...we
must leave our backpack on it so they will know where we entered...in case they must come find us.
After the relative easy going nature of hiking the Appalachian Trail...these rules, and others, begin to seem stifling...along with the vast increase in our numbers by the Porter for every hiker...there is grumbling rising from the tourists among us
UNTIL
Woody...
who seems to be the leader, tells us that as recently as 2016 there were multiple attacks on tourists on The Kokoda involving machetes...and as recently as 2012 there was an attack by a tribe involving
29 people involving cannibalism. They called the humans "long pork".
When we look to his face for a punchline...there isn't one.
Shit just got real...and we haven't even REACHED the track yet.
The bus is nice.
I had envisioned the non-air conditioned...piled high with people and produce and maybe even crates of chickens like SE Asia.
This is cool and clean and could be from any major city in the world.
So much for pre-conceived notions.
My Porter's name is Tooh (like Toe not like Pooh), and speaks English fairly well. He also translates some of the Tok I do not understand.
I am curious about something I saw just before we left the village.
Many of the children have bright blue eyes and blond hair...although they are obviously the offspring of two very dark parents.
The term I am looking for is
Melanesians, he explains.
A genetic throw-back to the
Solomon Islanders...resulting in blond hair...and sometimes blue eyes.
Very blond as children...their hair darkens when they grow until it is sometimes unnoticeable.
They are quite beautiful.
At last we reach Owen's Corner...and the military-type cemetery reminds me of Arlington...
Rows and rows of white headstones seeming to go on forever. Thousands.
Suddenly the significance of this 60+ mile track lies in sharp relief and I realize why the authors titled their book
"Walking with Ghosts"
Woody removes a short handled shovel with a bright red bow tied to its grip.
Tooh explains that with the rains and such The Kokoda is
"never the same trail twice" and that often Woody will have to dig us foot-holds for our climbing.
Obviously..we aren't in Kansas anymore...
Yeoy brings with him a well used guitar.
Tooh explain that Yeoy enjoys playing while we are hiking along...and in the evenings.
"It sounds delightful." I respond.
"That is because you have not yet heard him sing.", he deadpans.
We pause by the Memorials at Owen's Corner,
And listen to our guide explain the thousands of casualties and deaths along this 60 mile track we are about to embark on. Australian, Japanese, English and Americans.
The Japanese were defeated here.
A heavy price was paid.
And we pass though the gateway of the beginning of
The Kokoda
Woody takes the lead.
They refer to him at
The Maintenance Man.
He maintains the trail as we hike. If steps are to dug, brush cleared or a pothole filled...Woody is your guy.
And our procession begins.
Like grade-school students we are lined up. Single File. Not in the traditional boy girl arrangement but
porter-tourist-porter ,and after the machete and cannibalism stories I am more than okay with the arrangement.
The track at this point is little more than a foot path. Maybe 12 inches or so wide.
See those mountains ahead...yeah...we will be climbing them.
Yeoy is playing guitar exuberantly singing in Tok. It sets our pace.
When a member of our party slips and almost falls his porter is there for him like a human guard rail. Whatever these guys make from the trek...it is not enough.
It is 88 degrees and humid.
We follow a tumbling boulder strewn river for miles...until we reach the base of
Imita Ridge. Although it seems like we have barely started Tooh says this is where we will make camp for the night and save the ridge for tomorrow.
The view is spectacular
And the hills and mountains seem to fold into each other like layers and layers of cloth tossed carelessly in a pile.
The darkness descends early here.
We stayed in a small village of huts and tents.
Everyone was friendly and, to my never-ending surprise, the porters cooked dinner for us.
Unlike the Appalachian Trail fresh fruits and vegetables were plentiful at the meal as well as a traditional dish called
Coconut Kau Kau made with sweet potato, coconut, cinnamon and orange juice...which I am resolved to create soon (here) and will share the recipe.
Best, they say, served with pork.
Hamamas Tru
Tooh sighs, before retiring to the Porters Hut full and tired.
Then translates the Tok to me
True Happiness.
Until tomorrow...
