FROM MOUNTAINS TO SEAS
PAPUA NEW GUINEA
“Shout our name from the
mountains to seas, Papua New
Guinea .” The strains of their national
anthem still play in my mind. I expected a great dive adventure. I didn’t
expect to fall in love.
Perhaps it was waking
anchored in calm inlets to hazy purplish sunrises with the distant call of
exotic birds, or looking out at the lush green islands of Milne Bay that
contrasted sharply against the clear blue skies and deep azure waters that drew
me in. Without a doubt it was meeting the wonderful people of the villages that
dot the islands so far away from the usual conveniences we take for granted.
Silently the dugout canoes
sliced through the water from each village as we neared. Men, women, and
children in canoes congregated at the sides and back of the live-aboard with
fresh fruits and vegetables to trade for staples like rice and sugar. Some displayed crafts of wood and shells to sell or trade for T-shirts. Some
fished. But all watched as we came and went in our dive gear. We were the
entertainment for the day.
The paradise above was
magnified in the treasures below. Abundant colorful marine life in all shapes
and sizes played over a patchwork quilt of colored corals. An abundance of
lionfish, countless varieties of nudibranchs, endless fields of anemones each
with their guardian clownfish, and the unusual—the hairy ghost pipefish All of
it kept us going back for more. On this 10 day trip, we were limited only by
our ability, stamina, and common sense.
Diving the wreck of the
WWII bomber Blackjack was one adventure that stretched our diving skills. Blackjack
(made legendary under the command of Capt. Ken McCullar who died on takeoff in
another aircraft) was commanded by Capt. Ralph Deloach when she ran out of fuel
in a turbulent storm during a bombing run to Rabaul. The pilot attempted to
ditch on a shallow reef but missed. The plane skidded into deeper water but all
members of the crew were rescued by the nearby villagers of Boga Boga. She now
rests in 165 feet of water.
Under the supervision of our divemasters, the more experienced and
adventuresome did a decompression dive to 160’ to photograph the props and the
gun turret that still turns on the well-preserved body. The rest of us went to
130 feet. Swimming out over the wreck, we had an excellent view of the plane
and the divers below.
A visit to Boga Boga
village followed. School children sat on grass mats laid in rows on the dirt
floor of their school and participated in a grammar lesson that resembled Wheel of Fortune without Vanna. The pens
I handed out went quickly—the children swarmed around me as if it were candy.
We shopped the craft market set up specifically for our visit and talked with
the villagers. Smiles abounded, some stained red with betel nut juice.
At breakfast one morning,
we learned a trap that had been lowered the night before and baited with
chicken now yielded a chambered nautilus. Cousin to the octopus, the nautilus
lives at depths of 2000 feet but rises to about 500 feet at night to feed on
crab and shrimp. No telling us twice to suit up. We descended to 60’ to
photograph and examine the mysterious creature that occasionally peeked out of
his creamy shell with the tanned markings.
Although my husband and I
were both nearing 100 dives when we arrived in PNG, we had never encountered a
seahorse. Knowing they were at Observation Point, we carefully combed the area.
Just as we were ready to give up, I looked down to find a yellow seahorse
clinging to a bit of reed in the sand near where my hand rested. We were as
excited as the shark hunters who had spotted some hammerheads a few days
earlier and the photographer who ended up in the middle of schooling barracudas.
Mornings came early and no
one missed the 5:30 a.m. call to rise before breakfast and go ashore to visit
the Bunama hot springs
before the heat of the day made it impossible. On shore, a mother and her
children greeted us. “My children want to see the white people,” she said. They
followed us through their village to the path that leads to the hot springs about a
half-mile into the jungle. The tall grasses and bushes gave way to a clearing filled
with steam from the boiling springs of hot mud and water that bubbled through the stone floor. We waited a couple of times for the geyser to
perform, took the posed tourist shots and then left as the sun began to heat
the morning sky.
On the way back through
the village, a friendly teenager, proud of his pet, allowed the braver souls to
hold his five foot green tree snake. I marveled at the simplicity of their life
as we passed by the huts on stilts, mostly open with some cloth draped for some
privacy, and the “kitchens” separate from the sleeping huts that were equipped
with a fire pit and a few pots and pans.
A manta ray cleaning
station was scheduled for our last morning dive before returning to Alotau and
the trip home. We dropped to 30’ and surrounded a small bommie that the mantas
were known to frequent. All of us knelt in the sand, bowing to the slight
current, watching the waters around us wondering if they would come. The sun
shone down, its rays played on the rocks and coral. I suddenly realized it was
Sunday. We looked as though we were worshipping at an altar. The mantas never
appeared but there was ample opportunity to give thanks for the wonderful
sights we had seen and the people we had experienced in the paradise called Papua New Guinea .
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