BY PAUL OATES

NOT LONG after I returned to Kabwum from working on the Yalumet-Derim road, we received word that a mature age Assistant Patrol Officer would soon be arriving from Lae.

Jim Soul and his wife and teenage son arrived on the next government charter, and I was directed to take him on his first patrol.

Jim had been in the Australian Army - a member of the Armoured Corps, a ‘Tankie’. He swore by his crepe soled tank boots that he intended to wear on patrol. He could, he said, walk up the side of a tank with them.

I wasn’t so sure, having made the same mistake with rubber soled boots two years previously on a patrol between Mindik and the Ogeranang airstrip site.

The patrol was returning to the Timbe Valley to see how the road was progressing. We flew from Kabwum to Derim airstrip and unloaded our gear. As we descended down the track from Derim airstrip, I pointed out to Jim how one could look at but not see things.

We were gazing at a fully functioning vegetable garden yet, until I pointed out the individual banana trees, kaukau vines and taro plants, it just looked like a patch of lush, green bush.

Inevitably Jim, who was well over six feet tall, began to have difficulty in staying on his feet as his rubber soled boots filled up with greasy wet clay. I suggested he cut a stout stick to help keep himself upright.

Walking through the forest can be pleasant in the early morning before the sun gets too high and the humidity becomes oppressive. The local people had cleared the jungle on either side of the bridle track. The small trees (kurung) gave off a pungent, sweet perfume as they dried. From the smell of the bark curling around the thin dead trunks, I felt sure they were wild cinnamon.

My dog, Tiger, was by this time almost full grown and had a very deep bark for a medium sized canine. I was in front of the patrol with Jim behind me, then our cook and a long line of carriers. Along the track, the forest occasionally gave way to patches of kunai. As we entered a large clearing approaching the village of Longmon, Tiger suddenly raced ahead and disappeared around a bend in the track 50 yards away.

Loud excited barks were followed by a cacophony of grunting. Back around the bend in the track erupted Tiger and, not far behind, a herd of semi feral village pigs.

Village pigs aren’t the docile animals you see at country shows. They are mostly dirty black with stiff spines and led by a large male tusker of aggressive disposition. We could plainly hear the tusker gnashing his tusks in a series of clicks as he sharpened protruding lower pointed teeth against the upper ones.

It’s fair to say that Tiger was having a great time. The look on his face was plainly saying ‘see what I’ve found for you’ as he disappeared past me at a rapid pace of knots with his tongue lolling out.

This left me in a pickle. I was facing a herd of agitated and semi feral porkers pouring down the track at a fast run. At the forefront was a large boar with tusks that could do nasty damage if he got to me.

I turned to look at which tree I could climb and to my dismay, saw behind me just one small sapling that was even now starting to bend as Jim shinnied up it.

In the grass along the track behind the sapling, there was a long winding line of cargo that had obviously had been jettisoned by the carriers who were nowhere in sight.

Propped up on the waving sapling was Jim’s walking stick. Grabbing its stout 6-foot length, I turned to face the herd that was now about 20 feet away and closing fast. I hoped I might slow the onslaught by hurling the stick as a spear. My luck was in, for the implement struck the boar end on at the most vulnerable part of his anatomy, his snout.

Letting out a high pitched squeal, the boar stopped in his tracks, spun around and hurtled back the way he had come, together with accompanying sows and piglets, their tails in the air.

Trying to look nonchalant, and to give the impression this sort of thing often happened on patrol, I retrieved Jim’s stick and gave it to him as he climbed down the sapling. Little by little the carriers appeared gingerly from their various hiding places and took up the cargo boxes.

Tiger returned, panting and wagging his tale. ‘That was a good game, wasn’t it?’

Longmon was an interesting village. Trees laden with ripe oranges, their skins still green.

Ah, Papua New Guinea, what a sweet and unexpected place you are.