They much preferred to be posted to the Highlands which enjoyed a congenial climate, spectacular mountain scenery and the chance to work amongst very energetic people still living an essentially traditional Neolithic life style.

The New Guinea islands were also popular, especially Milne Bay, New Ireland and Bougainville.

The least desirable postings were deemed to be the Gulf and Western Districts respectively.

There was always a lively debate about which of these two postings was worse but both were perceived as having horrible climates, insect and crocodile infested sago swamps and sparse and scattered people living in quite depressed circumstances.

In those days, the Hiritano Highway was just a dream. Many people regarded the whole idea of constructing a road from Kerema to Port Moresby as a fantasy that would never happen.

It was widely believed that the country around Kerema was too rugged and too water-logged to make road construction feasible. At best, it was thought that a road could be pushed through to Malalaua Patrol Post, which lay at the eastern end of the District.

Travel to Kerema at that time was restricted to the daily TAA air service or by sea. I suppose it was possible to walk but it would be a journey of many days which would involve much discomfort along the way.

Access by the sea was always made more interesting by the existence of the infamous Kerema bar. This was a mud bank lying at the entrance to Kerema Bay. It was treacherous because it tended to shift around with the changing tides and weather.

Many a captain ran his boat aground on the bar if he missed the high tide or simply was unlucky in choosing his course.

I arrived in Kerema without high hopes of finding my job especially interesting or enjoyable. As it turned out, I was wrong on both counts.

Kerema in 1969 was, it must be admitted, not an inspiring township. The buildings, many of which were very old, had suffered from the severe climate and looked dilapidated and weather-beaten.

There was the ubiquitous Chinese trade store which seemed to stock every product known to humanity. The owner almost always fulfilled even the most improbable request. For example, if you wanted caviar (which I never did) a tin of best Beluga could miraculously appear and be yours for a not so modest fee.

There was a bank, a not very salubrious hospital and a hotel of sorts. The expatriates tended to gather at the Kerema Club which, as was common in those days, rarely saw a visit from a local person except as a staff member.

The road system was rudimentary and, after rain, turned into a quagmire that defeated even the few LandRovers and LandCruisers been shipped in for the Administration.

After a really heavy downpour even walking on the roads was a problem and there were many times I cautiously picked my way along the road to my home, desperate to avoid the humiliation of going arse up in the sticky mud.

There was little real industry. Copra production was the main business, with a bit of fishing and the odd crocodile skin being traded as well. I do not recall betel nut being produced on a grand scale although, from what Daniel has said, it seems to be amongst the main agricultural crops.

As I recollect, the population of Kerema at that time numbered a few dozen expatriates and something over 1,000 local people.

In those days, the financial and physical barriers to travel were such that people living in outlying areas rarely moved far from their home village and, if they did, they tended to bypass Kerema to head for the bright lights of Port Moresby. That was where the opportunities were perceived to be, not Kerema.

The District Office was a two story grey fibro cement building standing on a low ridge line which ran roughly parallel to the grass airstrip. The building had windows with insect screens behind which glass louvres could be opened or closed according to the weather. Electric fans hummed incessantly in a mostly futile attempt to stir the humid air.

There were two types of weather at Kerema: hot and humid or hot, humid and wet. No-one suffered from the cold at Kerema.

One thing I liked about the town was, somewhat perversely, the rain. I had come from a very dry part of Australia and associated rain drumming on a corrugated iron roof with the hope of a good growing season on  surrounding farms. Kerema has rainfall of about 3,500 mms per year, whereas my home town on average experienced only one-tenth of that.

I also liked was the rivers. Having been raised on the Murray River I felt perfectly at home in boats and so greatly enjoyed patrol work involving canoes or dinghies or one of the larger work boats. I especially enjoyed travelling along the very small creeks that wind their way through the swamp entirely hidden beneath a canopy of sago palm fronds and other trees.

If you mistimed your run through this hidden network and the tide went out, you could be stuck for hours until it rose again. During that time you could watch the mud skippers racing about or, if the opportunity presented, go hunting for mud crabs to eat later on.

Consequently, the things that most people thought were awful about Kerema came to be a source of enjoyment to me. It was never entirely comfortable there but it was certainly not the hell hole it was thought to be by people who had never been there.

The crowning glory of Kerema, in my eyes at least, was that it was the gateway to the vast mountain ranges that lay not very far north of the town. A short trip up the river took you past the Murua Agricultural Station to a small village that lay at the base of the foothills of what remains extremely rugged mountain terrain.

Kukukuku tribesmen, 1966

I undertook two arduous but rewarding patrols into those mountains where I met up with the infamous Kukukuku warriors who lived there. They were still widely feared by the coastal people at that time, mostly owing to their history of head hunting raids on coastal villages in pre-colonial times.

They certainly were tough little guys, rarely exceeding 160 cm in height. They habitually wore beaten bark capes to keep off the rain or keep warm and carried viciously sharp little half pound axes with long black palm handles which they thrust into their wide bark belts, all the while clutching their bow and arrows. They were never without a weapon of some sort.

They always seemed very alert and observant, even though as they walked along with my patrol they would constantly chatter amongst themselves, apparently cracking jokes or telling stories of past adventures.

They were enthusiastic smokers, carefully rolling very long and thick cigarettes using the stick tobacco and pages from the Post-Courier newspaper which the patrol thoughtfully provided for exactly that purpose. They would puff away contently, passing the enormous cigarette around amongst themselves until only a butt end remained.

Their women were even smaller and generally demure in their attitude and bearing. Some of them wore little necklaces which featured the mummified hands of their infant children who had died before even reaching naming age. This was sad but fascinating.

The people appeared to live in little extended family units and, so I was told, were extremely distrustful of strangers and jealous guardians of their land.

Quite what their attitude was towards a young, very inexperienced patrol officer I can only guess. Probably, I was just another young fool that they chose to humour because knocking me off would have caused too much trouble.

My overwhelming impression of the Kukukuku was that they were startlingly good-humoured and cheerful for people regarded with undisguised fear and loathing by other tribal groups.

I never experienced the slightest problem with them and so tended to regard the stories about their savagery and cruelty as being mostly apocryphal, although I subsequently learnt that some of those stories were true.

Now, as an old man, l realise I live in a time and a place far removed from that which I lived in as a mostly ignorant young Taubada Mereki. It feels to me that I have somehow been displaced in time and space into another world entirely removed from that which existed when I lived in Kerema.

Now, increasingly, I seem to be a sort of living fossil, doomed to blunder on uncomprehendingly in this new and bizarre place called the modern world until I am called upon to undertake my last patrol.

It is therefore gratifying to discover through Daniel’s article that, despite many changes, Kerema remains in some respects, very much the same as it was 50 years ago.

I cherish many good memories of Kerema and the Gulf in general. There is a good deal more to the place than those who have never been there may suppose.

So I am happy to echo Robert Oeka’s challenge: ‘Yu yet kam lukim’. Like Daniel Kumbon, you may find yourself saying ‘Mi lukim Kerema na mi laikim moa’.