An Unwanted Invitation

‘Mr Marsh, we have no record of you entering the country.’ That was not expected and it was most unwelcome. The last thing I wanted was a few nights as a guest of the Government of Papua New Guinea.

It was 1997 and the trip had started well. I got a free upgrade to Business Class for the flight from Sydney to Cairns. Now I can’t compare the Business Class service back then to what happens today, but the meal was served with a linen napkin, real plates and cutlery. There were few security concerns in those days.

Sopas Hospital

Sunday afternoon in Cairns was most enjoyable. I spent some hours walking around and one day I might find some of the photos I took. I had not realised till then that Catalinas had operated out of Cairns in WW 2. Dad’s cousin by marriage, Don Day, had been a Catalina pilot so may have spent time in Cairns.

Monday morning and I was scheduled to catch an Air New Guinea, or ‘Air Arse-Grass’ as I believe it is called - to Mount Hagen at eight in the morning. At Mount Hagen I was to meet a staff member of Sopas Adventist Hospital who would take me to my planned destination about 20 minutes out of Wabag, the capital of Enga Province.

Now everyone knows you have to be at the airport two hours before the departure of an international flight, so I turned up at six. An hour later signs of life began to emerge.

By 8 a.m. we were all seated, ready to depart, but there was a delay. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,  will you please leave your bags on the plane and return to the Departure Lounge’ came the message. ‘We have a technical problem’. So we did.

Some time later: ‘Ladies and gentlemen,  please return to the aircraft, collect your belongings, and return to the terminal. We have a fuel pump problem.’ Time passed.

Finally the announcement came. ‘Passengers for Mount Hagen on flight number whatever, your flight is now ready to leave. Will you please proceed to the aircraft.’ Then, as we were leaving the terminal we heard the announcement: ‘This is to advise passengers on Air New Guinea flight whatever, due to depart at 10 a.m., your flight has been delayed.’

Where I slept

So I arrived at Mount Hagen two or more hours late, only to face another delay. I had a special visa that was available to Church employees owing to the fact that we did a lot of travel to PNG. It was managed electronically. ‘We are sorry Mr. Marsh. We can only process your visa when we have a landline connection to Port Moresby. Because you are late you will have to wait for the next flight to arrive - in about 2 hours time.

So there was nothing to do but relax and enjoy the comforts of the Mount Hagen International Terminal. It was nothing more than a shed with a tin roof. No air conditioning, food, or other services one  normally expects at an airport. As for customs and immigration control? Anyone could walk through the terminal at anytime and talk to whoever they wanted to.

My hosts had already been waiting for some time pick me up. Now we had the opportunity to get to know each other a while longer before we started on the trip to Sopas. Eventually the next flight arrived, the connection was made, my visa processed, and we were on our way.

It was a trip to remember. The vehicle was a Toyota Land Cruiser, a multi-purpose vehicle that served as ambulance, goods carrier, or taxi. On the return trip I really felt for a couple of passengers lying on  stretchers in the back. I can't remember any mattresses, only the stretcher placed directly on the metal tray.

The road was little more than a pot-holed, corrugated gravel track. The truck rattled and every irregularity in the road was felt. I remember the only thing that attached the glove box lid to the vehicle was the latch at the top. The bottom was free to flap in the breeze.

Hospital

Then, of course, there was the unexpressed - and, I hope, well hidden - anxiety that armed rascals may have prepared a welcome around the next corner. It was a relief to finally arrive without incident. The hospital was forced to close a couple of years later because of the danger to staff and patients from rascals and tribal rivalries.

My first night I was thankful I had followed the advice of my hosts. I had spent six weeks in PNG with the RAAF in 1975, including an hour or so on the ground in Mount Hagen. It was hot and humid all the time. So when I was told to take a change of warm clothes my first reaction was ‘Why?’ No way, I thought, what a waste of space. It was only a last minute, spur of the moment decision to throw in a jumper. The couple of nights I slept at Sopas I needed blankets.

Fortunately,  I escaped without any rascal experience.  Despite the fact I was there to work it was a relaxing experience. At 1,830 M or 6000 feet above sea level the climate was comfortable. There were no mosquitoes, which are a concern in much of the country. Without television and an early enforced lights out owing to the fact that the facility relied on generators for its power supply, relaxation was virtually mandated.

The trip also gave me a real appreciation of how fortunate I am to live in Australia. I cannot imagine how we would feel in Australia if the Sopas ambulance arrived at our door in response to our emergency call. Well equipped is not the word to describe it. Even spartan appears a little too luxurious.

Conditions at the hospital were little better. It was clean, but medical equipment and supplies were quite basic. A well stocked first aid room in an Australian factory would probably be better off.  But it provided a much needed service in the Wabag Province.

After leaving Sopas I flew from Mount Hagen to Port Moresby as I had a few days scheduled at Pacific Adventist University, located just out of Moresby. Another delightful Air Arse Grass flight in a seat with a backrest that would not stay upright.

Then it was time to return to Sydney. I duly presented my passport to immigration. Then, “Mr Marsh, we have no record of you entering the country.” Instantly I had visions of rats, fleas, a concrete floor and a bucket in the corner for a toilet. Perhaps my vision of the type of accommodation I imagined could be offered to me by by new hosts was a little unkind, but I think not.

Some fast talking, explaining that I had entered at Mount Hagen, and I was on my way home. Perhaps the Immigration Official had had previous experience with the landline from Mount Hagen, or maybe he was a very nice man who believed my story and gave me the benefit of the doubt.