by Tim Flannery
Beyond these archipelagos lie the more isolated islands, which include Kiriwina in the Trobriand Islands, Woodlark and Alcester.
CHAPTER 1
Woodlark, the Wandering Isle
It was the lure of being able to travel in time as well as across the seas that first carried me to the islands. It was 1987 and I was in my early thirties, and I must admit that daydreams of Polish anthropologist Bronislaw Malinowski’s fabled Islands of Love were part of the attraction. Malinowski had lived on Kiriwina Island in the Trobriands Group during the 1920s, and in The Sexual Life of Savages he’d reported in lively terms on the seemingly promiscuous young people he’d found there.1 At the time I was in charge of the mammal department at the Australian Museum in Sydney, and while girls in grass skirts are, technically speaking, mammals, they most emphatically did not fall within my research remit. Instead it was the distributions of possums, bats and rats that would need to set the agenda.
I’d been employed as a research officer. In pay and status it was the bottom of the scientific totem pole, but I couldn’t have cared less. What mattered was that I was expected to carry on the great tradition of the curators who’d preceded me and conduct research on the mammals of New Guinea and the southwest Pacific Islands. The museum had a proud history in the Pacific, and I soon learned that its collections held many important specimens, some acquired during the age of sail. As I pored over the mammal collections, the rudiments of a geography of the distribution of Pacific Island mammals began to take shape in my mind. But even when combined with what I learned from published sources, the picture was woefully incomplete—like a jigsaw with nine out of every ten pieces missing. A new book on the mammals of Australia had just been published, and it occurred to me that there should be a similar book for the southwest Pacific. But with so many ghastly blanks in our knowledge, an immense amount of fieldwork would be required before I could put pen to paper.
While full of goodwill for my aspirations, the museum could provide no financial support for my plans beyond my modest wage. So it was clear that I’d need to find a source of funding. And this, in the case of the Islands of Love, as they became known, was provided by TAMS—the Australian Museum Society. Headed by the wonderful and ever-gracious Susan Bridie, the society consisted of several hundred mostly well-heeled supporters of the museum, some of whom who were keen to participate in scientific research.
And so it was that on a bright, breezy August day in 1987 I found myself standing on a wharf in far north Queensland alongside a group of people I hardly knew. It was the season of the southeast trade winds, the sea was covered in whitecaps and the wind was relentless and salty. A mountainous pile of scientific equipment—from traps and nets to supplies, along with great silver vacuum flasks of liquid nitrogen (so that we could store samples of DNA that might reveal how the creatures we hoped to encounter had reached their island homes)—lay on the dock beside an aluminium catamaran with the name Sunbird on her bows. She’d been purchased for the Australian Museum by Suntory, the Japanese whisky producer, though just why alcoholic beneficence had smiled upon the museum in this particular guise I never discovered. Perhaps some past director was a great supporter of their product, I mused as we heaved the gear aboard.
The whole business of the expedition seems ridiculously romantic from this distance in time. TAMS had seen fit to organise and fund the work, the quid pro quo being that five of its members would participate in this voyage of biological discovery. Our objective was to survey one of the most inaccessible large islands in Melanesia—Woodlark in the Trobriands Group. Woodlark attracted me because of its size, its small human population and the abundance of undisturbed habitats. Furthermore, it was home to an unusual cuscus (a cat-sized marsupial), and I felt that other biological novelties might lie hidden there. But it lacked an air service—hence the need for the Sunbird.
Woodlark had been visited by scientists interested in mammals only twice prior to our expedition. In 1894 Albert Meek, one of Lord Walter Rothschild’s most adventurous biological collectors, had tried to reach the island on a seven-metre whaleboat. He wrote later of his foolhardy attempt that, ‘I had no knowledge at all of navigation and had not even a compass aboard … I was to learn in the school of experience that navigation was not a matter that could be taken in the casual way.’2 Day after day the understating Meek found himself driven back by the same trade winds that we experienced on the dock in Cairns, until he was finally blown far out to sea where he had to proceed by the light of the moon towards an unknown shore. Without matches, food or shelter, Meek was forced to abandon his first attempt to reach the island.
Months later he tried again, but a great wave washed him and his crew clean out of their vessel. He said it was only the pain of being severely cut about the legs by coral that gave him the impetus to save himself from being battered to death. But an Aboriginal boy who was travelling with him perished on that jagged shore. Clearly, a more substantial vessel was required, and so Meek purchased a nine-tonne cutter. Upon finally reaching Woodlark in 1895 he found what was, from a zoological point of view, a virgin island: nobody had previously collected there. When I first read Meek’s classic account of his experiences, A Naturalist in Cannibal Land, I was hoping for a rich word-trove of experiences and observations, and was appalled to discover that he dealt with the island in just four lines.3 Perhaps he was too exhausted or ill to write more, or perhaps he found the place dull. Whatever the case, among the discoveries he made on this most inaccessible isle (which he fails to mention in his book) was a peculiar kind of possum whose coat was spotted in black, brown, yellow and white like a crazy patchwork quilt. Remarkably, every individual had a unique pattern—a characteristic seen more often in domesticated rather than wild animals.
Nearly sixty years were to pass before another biologist followed in Meek’s footsteps. This time the researchers came from the American Museum of Natural History and were part of a well-organised and well-funded expedition. In 1956 it spent three weeks exploring the south and west of Woodlark Island and reported that the island’s lush forests were deficient in mammal species. The researchers thought that the unusual cuscus was very rare. Although they added some bat and rat species to the limited list of mammals collected by Meek, I was far from convinced that they had exhausted all avenues of research. Now, I thought, as I sat on the dock in front of the Sunbird, it was my challenge. What, if anything, would our team discover?
As I pondered our prospects, a white-haired, denim-clad figure emerged from the Sunbird’s cabin. A pair of slightly sun-damaged but still bright blue eyes shone deep in his weather-beaten face. ‘I’m Matt Jumelett, skipper of the Sunbird,’ he announced in a thick Dutch accent. Then a considerably younger blonde woman emerged from the same hatch. ‘And I’m Mipi, the crew,’ she added as she extended her hand in welcome. ‘Come aboard and have a cup of tea! ’
So we expedition members climbed aboard—leaving the loading of the cargo for the moment—to introduce ourselves to the Sunbird’s captain and crew. Our team consisted of Aziz Irani, an ever-smiling businessman of Persian descent; Robert Saunders, a publisher seeking adventure; Tish Ennis, a nurse; Des Beechey, a computer expert and amateur shell collector; and Michael Holics, an environmentalist and state-government employee. On Woodlark we would rendezvous with two other expeditioners: biologists Dr Greg Mengden, a Texan and world authority on venomous snakes, and Lester Seri of the Papua New Guinea Department of Environment and Conservation. Lester and I had already undertaken three expeditions together to remote parts of the New Guinean mainland, and we were to become lifelong friends.
Following a cuppa we loaded our gear into the Sunbird. It was a tight fit, with boxes of traps and nitrogen flasks in every nook. Matt said that crossing the Coral Sea from Cairns to Samarai would take four days, and that due to the southeast trade winds, which were against us, he expected to make the trip under power. I was disappointed that we wouldn’t be sailing, but as it was the first time that the Sunbird
had left Australian waters and the wind promised a rough crossing, I understood the decision.
Soon we were in it, the wind in our teeth, the hum of the engine filling our ears, and a relentless buffeting of waves against the Sunbird’s hull. I slept in the for’ard cabin that night, where the low hum of the motors and the thump, thump, thump of the waves lulled me to sleep. But some time in the wee hours I woke to a thump that sent the whole vessel into a great spasm. In my groggy state I had the sensation that we were going down, down and down—and were not coming up. We had left the protection of the Great Barrier Reef and entered the Coral Sea.
It must have been around 2 am when, too excited to sleep, I made my way onto the deck to be greeted by a sky the likes of which I had never seen before. It was alive with stars spread from horizon to horizon. Phosphoresence trailed in our wake, and every now and again a flying fish would hit the aluminium decking with a thud. It was the kind of night that is more glorious than any day, when bed seems a dull thing indeed. Not everyone was as fortunate, however. Des Beechey was a martyr to seasickness. I was grieved to learn that he couldn’t leave his bunk, and he looked more dead than alive when I went to him the following morning. Tish administered a sedative that seemed to relieve his agony, but despite this Des barely left his bunk for the entire voyage. None of us was surprised when he chose to fly back to Australia from Port Moresby at the end of the expedition, rather than endure another sea crossing.
To my landlubber’s eyes, our days and nights on the Coral Sea were filled with wonder. We passed mysterious foamy lines in the ocean where currents met, and there we would sometimes see pilot whales and strange sharks floating on the surface. In such places a great mahi-mahi would occasionally take the lure trailing behind the catamaran, and we would pull the sparkling fish aboard. These wedge-shaped predators can be a metre long, and are built for speed, their prey being flying fish. The creatures flapped on the deck and pulsed with life, their iridescent yellow and blue-green colours dazzling us. Empathy is unwelcome when you’re fishing for dinner, but how sad it was to see their eyes still and the vibrancy of their colours vanish.
At other times the lure would be taken by a tuna so enormous that it took our combined efforts to drag it in. The mahi-mahi, which are among the most delicious of fish, we filleted and ate, but the tuna were consigned to the freezer. I already knew something of the customs of the people we were to visit: a tuna is a fine gift for a boatful of visitors to bring to an island.
As the voyage progressed I grew close to our skipper Matt. He told me that during World War II he had been in the merchant navy, then he had become a submariner. After many experiences on and below the sea, Europe seemed too small for him, and he had come to the South Pacific where he had joined the renowned trading company Burns Philp. While with them he’d captained every type of vessel in the great company’s fleet, from the meanest, most cockroach-infested intra-island copra-boat to their top-of-the-line freighters. What he did not know about New Guinea’s waters was not worth knowing, and he exuded an aura of salty confidence that inspired all who travelled with him. But one thing about Matt was clear: after years sailing as the only white man in Papuan crews, he was The Captain. To crew and us alike, his word was law.
I never once saw Matt refer to the Sunbird’s navigation system. Instead, he preferred to chart our course with compass and dividers on a map he spread across a table on the bridge. And the man never seemed to sleep. I tried to join him on the night watch, and would listen as he told the most outrageous stories—of sinking smuggled hand-guns into barrels of grease to sell to Chinese merchants, of tidal bores on the Fly River that could sink a ship, and of near misses with reefs and hurricanes in vessels that should not have been afloat—but I could never last the night. And, when I awoke, Matt was always still there, sipping on a coffee as his eyes scanned the northern horizon in solemn concentration.
Our fourth evening aboard the Sunbird was balmy, and for the first time the wind had died away. Clouds had drifted in. Matt quipped that the night was as dark as the devil’s arsehole. As I sat propped against the mast and blanketed in the black velvet night, my nose was assaulted with an unmistakable, acrid smell—the smoky odour of a New Guinea house fire. It was six years since I’d first visited New Guinea, but I knew the smell well. It gave me the sensation that I’d been transported instantly to land, and was crouching before the fire, surrounded by black skin and flashing eyes. An hour or so later the odour of the smoke was joined by another immediately identifiable scent: tropical vegetation decaying in the eternal dank of a sago swamp. After four days at sea my nose was sharper than it had ever been, conveying the proximity of both village and bush on the mysterious island of New Guinea.
It was long after dark when we reached our anchorage in China Strait, at the far eastern end of New Guinea. There we awaited the coming of the dawn and a customs officer. For some time I’d had qualms about meeting this official. Quite apart from the mountain of scientific equipment I’d have to explain, we’d purchased duty-free alcohol rather enthusiastically in Cairns, and a sizeable excise bill seemed likely. Matt, however, remained imperturbable, and at the approach of the customs launch at around 8 am he greeted the officer fluently in pidgin English as if he were a long lost brother.
As soon as the crisply uniformed fellow was aboard, Matt offered him, by way of breakfast I assumed, a cold can of Foster’s lager. This was gratefully accepted and drunk, at which point a second was immediately offered. Shortly after, Matt opened the locker holding our extensive supply of duty-free alcohol, and to my great surprise nothing was said about duties payable. As to our equipment, it was evidently nothing out of the ordinary. Either that or Matt had skilfully diverted the officer’s attention with another beer.
Thus far things had gone smoothly, but then the customs officer requested our passports. The research team had theirs at the ready, but Matt fiddled about and said, again in fluent pidgin, ‘Passports? What’s this about passports? That’s new to me!’ It was twelve years since Papua New Guinea had declared its independence from Australia. I was horrified, expecting that we would be sent packing and the entire expedition aborted. How, I wondered, would I explain this to the museum director? But, to my astonishment, a saintly sort of long-suffering look began to take shape on the customs officer’s face. Then he sighed and murmured half to himself, ‘Taim bilong masta.’ In pidgin, the phrase refers to the colonial era, and conveys both fond memories of a period when government worked, at least vaguely, and irritation at the often high-handed ways of the colonial masters. Perhaps our customs officer had had a good colonial experience, for he turned to our passport-free captain and said in English, ‘Next time you visit our country, you really should bring your passport. We’re independent now!’
After this seemingly miraculous customs clearance, we went ashore at the tiny island of Samarai to buy food and to stretch our legs. The town is so small that you can walk around it in minutes. Yet it was once of considerable economic importance, for it is located in the China Strait—the keyhole through which most trade between China and Australia passed during the age of sail. And there, awaiting the passing ships, were the accumulated riches of Papua. Copra, pearls, trochus shell and bird-of-paradise plumes once filled its ample storehouses and cluttered its docks. But by the time of our visit the emporiums of Samarai lay locked and rusting, all but empty. Slowly tropical nature was reclaiming the island as its own. Saplings were sprouting between the sheds, and the submarine pylons of the dock were clad in languorous sea-fans and elegant long-spined sea urchins, around which flitted clouds of tropical fish so bright and sprightly as to take one’s breath away.
Not all trade is gone from Samarai, however, for in place of the pith-helmeted traders of yesteryear we found shy Papuan women. Some sat before the derelict stores, their wares meticulously laid out before them. A piece of brightly patterned cloth might display a fan of betel nuts, lime, daka and piper leaves—all the necessaries for that great Melanesian pastim
e of buai chewing—laid out with a precision and elegance that would do a great department store proud. Others held just a dozen or so small limes, while others displayed tropical seashells. At the news of these last offerings, Des Beechey rose from his bunk of misery and purchased a few of the more unusual ones. For a moment I felt that the trip might have been worthwhile for him, but Des’s parole was brief. With our legs stretched and our curiosity satisfied, the Sunbird set out northward, across the white-capped Solomon Sea, forcing Des once more into his bunk. He was, I thought, enormously brave, for he could have disembarked at Samarai and made his way home.
To approach a tropic isle by sea is a matter of great anticipation. At first, perhaps only a cloudbank might be visible—a chimerical sign that could evaporate into nothing. But below it might indeed lie the desired island. A slender grey smudge hugging the horizon might next be glimpsed—still an uncertain sign which might transform into a reef or current. But if the smudge takes shape, and the peaks, forests, reefs and bright beaches hove into view, the journey’s end is in sight. Thus was our approach to Woodlark. Muyuw, as its people know it, is large, mysterious and isolated, with most of its 800 square kilometres covered in primary rainforest. Arriving felt like drifting a century back in time.
