Trying to Escape from Rabaul
In January 1942, hundreds of Australian troops stationed at the remote Papua New Guinean (PNG) town of Rabaul, on the island of New Britain, were ordered to flee an imminent Japanese invasion. With less than two days’ notice, the Australians, often with few or no provisions, escaped along any route using whatever method they could find.
Some succeeded in getting to waiting ships, several fled along the coast only to be massacred, some were captured and imprisoned, and some spent weeks crossing the thick jungle of the Baining Mountains to the relative safety of the other side of the island. As with the Kokoda Trail, native people often provided assistance that was to prove the difference between life and death.
In September 1994 the city of Rabaul was almost destroyed by the eruption of the volcanoes Tuvunur and Vulcan. Ash metres deep smothered the town, displacing thousands, closing the airport permanently and devastating the lucrative local tourism industry.
The ash continues to fall to this day from regular exhalations from Tuvunur, stinging the eyes, ruining clothes, covering paths, lawns, roofs and roads. On bad days, stinking sulfurous gases make breathing difficult and cause acid rain, eating away at metal surfaces. The former bustling heart of the city is eerily quiet and dusty. It is if another war has been fought.
The airborne ash though creates spectacular sunsets, a brand new airport is in operation and tourism is making a comeback. Numerous wrecks and fantastic reefs are once again being dived upon and trekkers are beginning to climb the volcanoes and explore the mountains.
Two such wannabe adventurers, my partner and I, arrived in Rabaul recently to attempt the ‘Escape from Rabaul’ Trek. This trek (‘wokabout’ in Pidgin English), which takes three or four days depending upon ability, traverses one of the many routes over the Baining Mountains along which fleeing Australian troops endeavoured to escape the Japanese invasion. Following overgrown colonial roads, bush tracks, creeks and rivers, the trek aims to give some insight into the conditions and hardships faced by those soldiers.
Unlike the more famous Kokoda trail, there are no monuments to fallen heroes, no grainy black-and-white imagery, no well-worn trails, relatively comfortable huts or airstrips. You follow local guides with machetes who hack their way through the jungle following overgrown and rarely used tracks. At least, that’s how it’s supposed to work.
Starting at dawn in Rabaul, we set out by boat along the north coast of New Britain aided by three porters, a cook and a young local tour operator. We were effectively intending to escape to Rabaul as logistically it is much easier to do the trek in reverse.
The volcanoes provided a spectacular backdrop as the boat powered along between glorious and barely explored tiny tropical islands. At times a dolphin entourage accompanied us. Schools (or is it flocks?) of flying fish scattered in every direction. The porters spat betel nut fluids (buai) into the ocean in perfectly timed blood red arcs and the sun belted down.
For four hours the boat alternately roared at full speed or tiptoed through barely chartered coral reefs. The mountains were always on our left, towering over the coconut and cocoa plantations.
We arrived at the timber town of Open Bay at about noon where we were to be met by Francis, a timber mill manager and our driver to the ‘official’ start of the trek. We hopped in the back of the battered Hilux for the 30km journey along the dusty timber company’s roads.
These are the only roads on this part of the island. They are built and maintained by the logging company and hence are in better shape than their counterparts in Rabaul which are supposedly maintained by the government. While the timber logging operation provides much needed employment and investment, as well as providing access to some of the more inhospitable parts of New Britain and the Baining Mountains, it is inescapable that parts of the virgin rainforest and their associated habitats are earmarked for destruction.
From time to time Francis would stop and he and the porters would go into the very small villages we would pass. The villages were little more than a few traditional huts built from local materials. Each hut had a vegetable garden growing mostly sweet potato (kau kau), bananas and taro, from which each family ekes out a largely subsistence living.
We eventually discovered that Francis was looking for our guides. Local Baining tribespeople act as guides for the ‘Escape to Rabaul’ trek. They know intimately the current state and position of the bush tracks that lead from village to village through the jungle. The guides are changed daily at each village and camps are often made nearby on creeks or rivers.
Some succeeded in getting to waiting ships, several fled along the coast only to be massacred, some were captured and imprisoned, and some spent weeks crossing the thick jungle of the Baining Mountains to the relative safety of the other side of the island. As with the Kokoda Trail, native people often provided assistance that was to prove the difference between life and death.
In September 1994 the city of Rabaul was almost destroyed by the eruption of the volcanoes Tuvunur and Vulcan. Ash metres deep smothered the town, displacing thousands, closing the airport permanently and devastating the lucrative local tourism industry.
The ash continues to fall to this day from regular exhalations from Tuvunur, stinging the eyes, ruining clothes, covering paths, lawns, roofs and roads. On bad days, stinking sulfurous gases make breathing difficult and cause acid rain, eating away at metal surfaces. The former bustling heart of the city is eerily quiet and dusty. It is if another war has been fought.
The airborne ash though creates spectacular sunsets, a brand new airport is in operation and tourism is making a comeback. Numerous wrecks and fantastic reefs are once again being dived upon and trekkers are beginning to climb the volcanoes and explore the mountains.
Two such wannabe adventurers, my partner and I, arrived in Rabaul recently to attempt the ‘Escape from Rabaul’ Trek. This trek (‘wokabout’ in Pidgin English), which takes three or four days depending upon ability, traverses one of the many routes over the Baining Mountains along which fleeing Australian troops endeavoured to escape the Japanese invasion. Following overgrown colonial roads, bush tracks, creeks and rivers, the trek aims to give some insight into the conditions and hardships faced by those soldiers.
Unlike the more famous Kokoda trail, there are no monuments to fallen heroes, no grainy black-and-white imagery, no well-worn trails, relatively comfortable huts or airstrips. You follow local guides with machetes who hack their way through the jungle following overgrown and rarely used tracks. At least, that’s how it’s supposed to work.
Starting at dawn in Rabaul, we set out by boat along the north coast of New Britain aided by three porters, a cook and a young local tour operator. We were effectively intending to escape to Rabaul as logistically it is much easier to do the trek in reverse.
The volcanoes provided a spectacular backdrop as the boat powered along between glorious and barely explored tiny tropical islands. At times a dolphin entourage accompanied us. Schools (or is it flocks?) of flying fish scattered in every direction. The porters spat betel nut fluids (buai) into the ocean in perfectly timed blood red arcs and the sun belted down.
For four hours the boat alternately roared at full speed or tiptoed through barely chartered coral reefs. The mountains were always on our left, towering over the coconut and cocoa plantations.
We arrived at the timber town of Open Bay at about noon where we were to be met by Francis, a timber mill manager and our driver to the ‘official’ start of the trek. We hopped in the back of the battered Hilux for the 30km journey along the dusty timber company’s roads.
These are the only roads on this part of the island. They are built and maintained by the logging company and hence are in better shape than their counterparts in Rabaul which are supposedly maintained by the government. While the timber logging operation provides much needed employment and investment, as well as providing access to some of the more inhospitable parts of New Britain and the Baining Mountains, it is inescapable that parts of the virgin rainforest and their associated habitats are earmarked for destruction.
From time to time Francis would stop and he and the porters would go into the very small villages we would pass. The villages were little more than a few traditional huts built from local materials. Each hut had a vegetable garden growing mostly sweet potato (kau kau), bananas and taro, from which each family ekes out a largely subsistence living.
We eventually discovered that Francis was looking for our guides. Local Baining tribespeople act as guides for the ‘Escape to Rabaul’ trek. They know intimately the current state and position of the bush tracks that lead from village to village through the jungle. The guides are changed daily at each village and camps are often made nearby on creeks or rivers.
When we finally reached a point beyond which even a four-wheel drive could not pass we still had no guides. While in hindsight this would seem an obvious problem, at the time it just seemed a normal organisational glitch in classic PNG style.
Two of the porters, Eddie and Enoch, and the local tour operator, Steve, debated what to do. The decision was made to carry on regardless as Eddie and Enoch claimed to know the trail having done it a number of times.
The old colonial 'road'
For an hour Enoch slashed and pushed his way through eight-foot tall weeds and creepers like trip wire (including the aptly named Waitawhile) that smothered the old colonial road. Finally in frustration, our shirts already drenched in sweat and our arms covered in scratches, the decision was made to head off road in order to find the bush track that would lead to the first village and camp.
The tangled weeds gave way to a thick clogging undergrowth, though the mosquitos remained a constant. The rainforest canopy provided shade but little respite from the heat and humidity. We slowly made our way downhill, stopping frequently to allow Enoch to race ahead and determine the best route. But it became rapidly apparent that we had no idea where we were going.
Not only were we not escaping from Rabaul, we couldn’t even find it.
Up and down steep hills, along ridges and across muddy creeks we went, Enoch constantly swinging his machete and carving a rough track. Birds, bugs, butterflies, giant snails and stick insects provided alternately colourful, annoying and interesting diversions. We tripped over the buttresses of giant trees, fell through decayed logs, got tangled in creepers and slid down slopes of wet clay and dirt.
Through all this struggle I tried to keep events in perspective. The conditions, though harsh, were nothing compared to those faced by the Australian soldiers 60 years ago. Travelling in the middle of the wet season, many carrying shocking bayonet and gunshot injuries, they crossed the mountains with little support, provisions or guidance.
Eventually we found a creek where we could replenish our dwindling water supplies. The creek was one of many that supposedly fed the Torio River on which the first camp was located, so we attempted to follow it, thinking this would speed our progress.
Boots proved totally inappropriate for walking along the muddy and boulder strewn creek and travelling barefooted there was no way my partner and I could keep up with the rest of the group who wore thongs or nothing at all on their feet. I turned to my Dunlop Volleys which proved up to the task. I contemplated wearing them for the remainder of the trek, but not needing the cash from an endorsement deal once I got home, I switched back to boots as soon as we left the creek.
We ascended and then followed another ridge in an effort to avoid a trio of waterfalls along the creek. As the sun set, and with no alternatives, the decision was made to camp by the creek at a slight clearing. It was a beautiful spot without a doubt, but Steve’s words, “we’re not lost, we just don’t know where we are”, were little additional comfort.
Esther, the cook, prepared dinner and the boys cleared some of the bush for the camp. They set up a tent for my partner and I and prepared a natural mattress of leaves covered by a tarp for everyone else. We discussed our options for the next day, but the reality was that with time being limited and with no guides we had only one, to turn back.
The only consolation was that perhaps we would be in radio range the following night and could listen to the State of Origin. The conspiracy theorist in me postulated that this was the intention of the porters all along.
PNG’s Rugby League obsession, especially at State of Origin time, is real. Conversations with the locals often begin with “Blues or Maroons?” and families have been torn apart by domestic warfare on the basis of divided team loyalties.
That night, after clearing the bullants out from the tent using a combination of handy crushing implements (torches, water bottles etc) and chemical warfare (aerogard), and despite the heat and the mosquitos, we collapsed to an exhausted sleep.
It only took a few hours the next morning to retrace our steps back to the ‘start’ of the trek. The realisation that we had barely walked more than a few kilometres the day before, that we had stopped a long way from the intended camp, and had not even begun to cross the mountains was disheartening.
Despite getting a message back to Rabaul via a two-way radio, there was no guarantee that a message would be passed on to Francis to pick us up. So fuelled on a lunch of Tang orange drink, beef jerky and the ubiquitous beef crackers, we began the 30km walk back to Open Bay.
Almost on cue it began to rain like it only can rain in the tropics. Great slabs of water fell from the sky turning the road instantly to clogging mud. We sheltered under a hastily erected tarp and took the opportunity to refill our water bottles.
The rain cleared as quickly as it had arrived. As we continued down the road we didn’t pass any vehicles, just lots of villagers on foot, nearly all women and children. They were very shy and we could barely elicit more than a smile and a greeting of “apinoon” (good afternoon) from them.
With dusk approaching we decided to camp by a river, still 20km or more from Open Bay. Finally, an opportunity for a swim, a wash and a chance to cool down.
Enoch had bought a few kilos of cooking bananas along the way and these were thrown in the fire as soon as it was built. The bananas were by far the highlight of a dinner of tinned corned beef and rice, which along with instant noodles and tinned tuna are the typical dietary supplements in PNG.
Thousands of fireflies began to flash in unison in surrounding trees as if they were Christmas lights. It was like the trees were talking to each other. Meanwhile, a noise in the distance became a rumble, and soon, three bulldozers and a truck crossed the river right near our camp. With fears that the recent and forecast rain might lead to flash flooding, and still not being able to get any radio reception for the State of Origin, Steve and Enoch went to flag down the next vehicle.
Steve was mistaken for a ghost but fortunately managed to flag down a ute. Its drivers agreed to take us back to Open Bay after collecting the operators of the bulldozers.
After we had piled into the back of the ute, we found out that one of the bulldozer drivers was one of our intended guides (the pay was better). Not only would we have never found him, but he also informed us that due to the deplorable nature of the road we had tried walking along and then around, a new bush track had been carved out and was now being used.
So it turned out that not only would we have never found our guides but we would never have found the track either as the one we were looking for hadn’t been used for over six months.
We spent the night in Open Bay in the cockroach ridden ‘guesthouse’, temporary rooms with two rickety beds and a cupboard. It didn’t rain and we still couldn’t get any radio reception.
It became apparent almost as soon as I woke up, by the smile on Eddie’s face and the blue flags waving from all the vehicles in town, that New South Wales had won. It wasn’t much to mull over during the wait for the boat to pick us up, but it was something.
There were still two days to go of the ‘trek’. My partner and I had paid for porters, guides, food and transport. Steve suggested we spend a night camping on the Talily Islands just an hour from Rabaul and where he was trying to start a small tourist operation and we agreed.
The tangled weeds gave way to a thick clogging undergrowth, though the mosquitos remained a constant. The rainforest canopy provided shade but little respite from the heat and humidity. We slowly made our way downhill, stopping frequently to allow Enoch to race ahead and determine the best route. But it became rapidly apparent that we had no idea where we were going.
Not only were we not escaping from Rabaul, we couldn’t even find it.
Up and down steep hills, along ridges and across muddy creeks we went, Enoch constantly swinging his machete and carving a rough track. Birds, bugs, butterflies, giant snails and stick insects provided alternately colourful, annoying and interesting diversions. We tripped over the buttresses of giant trees, fell through decayed logs, got tangled in creepers and slid down slopes of wet clay and dirt.
Through all this struggle I tried to keep events in perspective. The conditions, though harsh, were nothing compared to those faced by the Australian soldiers 60 years ago. Travelling in the middle of the wet season, many carrying shocking bayonet and gunshot injuries, they crossed the mountains with little support, provisions or guidance.
Eventually we found a creek where we could replenish our dwindling water supplies. The creek was one of many that supposedly fed the Torio River on which the first camp was located, so we attempted to follow it, thinking this would speed our progress.
Boots proved totally inappropriate for walking along the muddy and boulder strewn creek and travelling barefooted there was no way my partner and I could keep up with the rest of the group who wore thongs or nothing at all on their feet. I turned to my Dunlop Volleys which proved up to the task. I contemplated wearing them for the remainder of the trek, but not needing the cash from an endorsement deal once I got home, I switched back to boots as soon as we left the creek.
We ascended and then followed another ridge in an effort to avoid a trio of waterfalls along the creek. As the sun set, and with no alternatives, the decision was made to camp by the creek at a slight clearing. It was a beautiful spot without a doubt, but Steve’s words, “we’re not lost, we just don’t know where we are”, were little additional comfort.
Esther, the cook, prepared dinner and the boys cleared some of the bush for the camp. They set up a tent for my partner and I and prepared a natural mattress of leaves covered by a tarp for everyone else. We discussed our options for the next day, but the reality was that with time being limited and with no guides we had only one, to turn back.
The only consolation was that perhaps we would be in radio range the following night and could listen to the State of Origin. The conspiracy theorist in me postulated that this was the intention of the porters all along.
PNG’s Rugby League obsession, especially at State of Origin time, is real. Conversations with the locals often begin with “Blues or Maroons?” and families have been torn apart by domestic warfare on the basis of divided team loyalties.
That night, after clearing the bullants out from the tent using a combination of handy crushing implements (torches, water bottles etc) and chemical warfare (aerogard), and despite the heat and the mosquitos, we collapsed to an exhausted sleep.
It only took a few hours the next morning to retrace our steps back to the ‘start’ of the trek. The realisation that we had barely walked more than a few kilometres the day before, that we had stopped a long way from the intended camp, and had not even begun to cross the mountains was disheartening.
Despite getting a message back to Rabaul via a two-way radio, there was no guarantee that a message would be passed on to Francis to pick us up. So fuelled on a lunch of Tang orange drink, beef jerky and the ubiquitous beef crackers, we began the 30km walk back to Open Bay.
Almost on cue it began to rain like it only can rain in the tropics. Great slabs of water fell from the sky turning the road instantly to clogging mud. We sheltered under a hastily erected tarp and took the opportunity to refill our water bottles.
The rain cleared as quickly as it had arrived. As we continued down the road we didn’t pass any vehicles, just lots of villagers on foot, nearly all women and children. They were very shy and we could barely elicit more than a smile and a greeting of “apinoon” (good afternoon) from them.
With dusk approaching we decided to camp by a river, still 20km or more from Open Bay. Finally, an opportunity for a swim, a wash and a chance to cool down.
Enoch had bought a few kilos of cooking bananas along the way and these were thrown in the fire as soon as it was built. The bananas were by far the highlight of a dinner of tinned corned beef and rice, which along with instant noodles and tinned tuna are the typical dietary supplements in PNG.
Thousands of fireflies began to flash in unison in surrounding trees as if they were Christmas lights. It was like the trees were talking to each other. Meanwhile, a noise in the distance became a rumble, and soon, three bulldozers and a truck crossed the river right near our camp. With fears that the recent and forecast rain might lead to flash flooding, and still not being able to get any radio reception for the State of Origin, Steve and Enoch went to flag down the next vehicle.
Steve was mistaken for a ghost but fortunately managed to flag down a ute. Its drivers agreed to take us back to Open Bay after collecting the operators of the bulldozers.
After we had piled into the back of the ute, we found out that one of the bulldozer drivers was one of our intended guides (the pay was better). Not only would we have never found him, but he also informed us that due to the deplorable nature of the road we had tried walking along and then around, a new bush track had been carved out and was now being used.
So it turned out that not only would we have never found our guides but we would never have found the track either as the one we were looking for hadn’t been used for over six months.
We spent the night in Open Bay in the cockroach ridden ‘guesthouse’, temporary rooms with two rickety beds and a cupboard. It didn’t rain and we still couldn’t get any radio reception.
It became apparent almost as soon as I woke up, by the smile on Eddie’s face and the blue flags waving from all the vehicles in town, that New South Wales had won. It wasn’t much to mull over during the wait for the boat to pick us up, but it was something.
There were still two days to go of the ‘trek’. My partner and I had paid for porters, guides, food and transport. Steve suggested we spend a night camping on the Talily Islands just an hour from Rabaul and where he was trying to start a small tourist operation and we agreed.
The Talily Islands -paradise of a sort
Once again assisted by dolphins, the boat arrived on a tiny, beautiful uninhabited island. The camping spot was idyllic, the snorkelling was great, we went fishing. There were no mosquitos or sandflies and we had only small crabs to chase out of the tent. The next day we barbecued freshly caught Spanish Mackerel and swam in a cool stream at a cocoa plantation on New Britain owned by Steve’s grandparents.
It was hardly what we expected from a four-day mountain trek.
Once off the beaten (Kokoda) trail you can pretty much expect the unexpected if you go trekking in PNG. Ours was apparently the first time that the guides could not be found for this trek. As this part of the world is further opened up to tourism it can be expected that more formal organisation and planning will follow. Indeed that seemed to be what the organisers of the trek, Bruce and Susie Alexander from the ash-covered Hamamas Hotel in Rabaul, have in mind.
The ‘Escape from Rabaul’ trek is not for the casual walker or those expecting much comfort. The walking, whether on or off the intended trails is tough going but the rewards are knowing that you’ve experienced what few tourists have done.
You’ll also gain a different, perhaps more authentic insight to the PNG jungle and its people. The knowledge that Australian soldiers struggled, and sometimes failed, to cross the same jungle in conditions much worse is both inspiring and humbling.
© Lindsay Cohen - July 2003
It was hardly what we expected from a four-day mountain trek.
Once off the beaten (Kokoda) trail you can pretty much expect the unexpected if you go trekking in PNG. Ours was apparently the first time that the guides could not be found for this trek. As this part of the world is further opened up to tourism it can be expected that more formal organisation and planning will follow. Indeed that seemed to be what the organisers of the trek, Bruce and Susie Alexander from the ash-covered Hamamas Hotel in Rabaul, have in mind.
The ‘Escape from Rabaul’ trek is not for the casual walker or those expecting much comfort. The walking, whether on or off the intended trails is tough going but the rewards are knowing that you’ve experienced what few tourists have done.
You’ll also gain a different, perhaps more authentic insight to the PNG jungle and its people. The knowledge that Australian soldiers struggled, and sometimes failed, to cross the same jungle in conditions much worse is both inspiring and humbling.
© Lindsay Cohen - July 2003
Different Trek - same country
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