On one occasion, our patrol team planned to overnight in a little village nestling within a majestic fjord, its deep emerald green waters flanked by towering rocky headlands.

In the dinghy travelling towards the village, I overheard talk of an old man, a chief in this area, who was a notorious handcrusher but, at the time, I didn’t take much notice of the advice.

We arrived, unloaded our cargo and were sitting in the hauswin, when suddenly a man stepped out from the mangroves and strode purposefully towards us.

He was a lean but powerfully built man of about 70 years with short greying hair and a beard that gave him a rugged yet commanding and dignified demeanour.

His eyes were kind and wise, sharp and enquiring and he carried a steel axe over one shoulder.

He was clearly returning from a day hollowing out a tree trunk for a new canoe.

The man wore just a small strip of purple loincloth, fastened in the traditional manner with a small overhang in front.

But for cloth instead of tapa, and steel instead of stone, I might have been looking at an ancestor. I was totally mesmerised.

Interrupting my thoughts, I heard the women of our team whispering urgently, “that’s him…that’s the old man!”, as they pretended to busy themselves with various activities.

As the old man drew near, he greeted a few of the men and, seeing the ladies busy, he turned and spotted me.

He approached, stretching out a muscular, calloused hand.

I gulped silently, looked him in the eyes and smiled, and offered my hand, ready to have my fingers squashed to the bone.

To my surprise, his grip was firm but not overpowering as I had dreaded. It seemed the old man understood and restrained himself and I silently appreciated his thoughtfulness.

I immediately and took a liking to this grandfather and Korafe tribe chieftain.

By now, the women had slipped away towards the river.

At night, the old man joined us at the hauswin for dinner. He still wore the purple loincloth and now carried a small solar-powered torch to provide more light for us.

As we ate, he began a story. Someone in the group politely reminded him that not everyone in the group spoke Korafe. He quickly apologised and transitioned seamlessly into Tok Pisin.

His voice was clear and deep and his Tok Pisin was of the beautiful old school, pre-independence era.

He told us about how, when he was younger and working for a mining company in Western Province, they had flown in a small plane to an airstrip near the border with West Papua.

Stepping out of the plane, he said, he cried out in fright when he saw all over the airstrip were West Papuan warriors wearing nothing but penis gourds of different shapes and sizes.

Everyone burst out laughing but I couldn’t help but think of the irony of a badass-looking dude wearing a loincloth telling fully-clothed people of his experience of being intimidated by men wearing penis gourds.

The old man was a master storyteller, though, and had a fantastic sense of humour.

The next day, as we prepared to leave for the next village and were loading the dinghy, he came to see us off.

Everyone was busy and the girls had already jumped into the dinghy and were calling their goodbyes when I decided to do the unthinkable.

I approached the old man, looked him in his eyes and smiled, and offered my hand for a last handshake.

He smiled and gave me a firm shake, and I could tell he appreciated my 'bravery' in this manner.

I do hope the old man is well, and I hope I can get to see him again and listen to more of his stories.