Papua New Guinea's Kokoda trail

It’s considered one of the world’s most challenging walks, but for Australians in particular Papua New Guinea’s Kokoda Track is not so much a trek as a pilgrimage. Words & Photos by Don Fuchs.

JUNIOR IS “TWENTY – MAYBE?” He is not sure. A rainbow-coloured Rasta beanie hides frizzy hair carefully rolled into five-centimetre-long spikes. This shy man is very proud of his eccentric hairdo which gives him the appearance of a hedgehog. His smile is rare; even for the camera he wears a serious expression.

For Junior there is not much to smile about; he has just drawn the short straw. We are at the airstrip in Kokoda and he has been appointed my personal porter. His job will be to look after me. For the next 10 days he will have to carry my trekking backpack which includes my solid three-kilogram tripod. It’s the heaviest of all the packs. He also will have to make sure that I don’t injure myself, slip, fall or do anything stupid. If I reach the other end unscathed, he will have done his job well. He will also have to cope with the myriad questions I will bombard him with along the way.

The other end, where Junior’s responsibilities will finish, is Owers Corner, 96 kilometres away. In between lies no blood, hopefully, but profuse sweat and occasional tears. And jungle; lots of it. It covers the Owen Stanley Range like mould on a forgotten sandwich in a school bag. We are about to embark on the Kokoda Track.

That first day the track leads through rubber and cocoa plantations past the village of Kovelo then to the hamlet of Hoi. I walk next to Junior as we try to become acquainted: two men from different worlds with different ideas of what the world is. I ask him if we will see birds of paradise. A short but convincing “yes” is the answer. He is a man of few words.

Then reality sets in – the first steep climb through steaming rainforest to the now-abandoned village of Deniki high on a spur of the abruptly rising Owen Stanley Range. Although I consider myself to be fit and an experienced trekker, I puff as if I’m at an altitude of 5000 metres; sweat pours off me. Junior dances up the steep slope and doesn’t seem to need to breathe at all. And he is carrying my huge backpack, his personal items and a tent. It is a sobering and embarrassing experience.

I finally find my rhythm and plough on to Deniki. The location, with its small grassy plateau and simple guest-house – nothing more than a ramshackle hut – is breathtakingly beautiful. The view goes all the way back to the Kokoda airfield and to the dark mountain range opposite. Cumulus clouds tower over the rainforest; the high-pitched noise of insects fills the sweet evening air. Two hornbills fly past. Later, after the tropical night floats down on us like a velvet blanket, Junior and his porter colleagues, most of them members of the Seventh Day Adventist Church, sing hymns in perfect harmony.

My group is a mixed bunch, with an assortment of motivations for tackling what is generally perceived to be a gruelling trek. Trekking for the trekking experience, for most at least, is not one of them. For many Australians, and it is more or less a solely Australian affair, walking the Kokoda Track is a pilgrimage. It is paying homage to those who died here for it was along this muddy jungle path in 1942 that Australian and advancing Japanese soldiers were engaged in a brutal and merciless struggle. And it was here that Australians, for the first time in their history, needed to defend Australia directly on what was then Australian soil. Trekking is the only means of reaching the remote battlefields but the majority of those who walk the track are not experienced or fit and therein lies the myth that the Kokoda Track is one of the most difficult in the world.

But it can be so much more. It is an adventurous walk through a magnificent rainforest-covered mountain range, an almost untouched tropical ecosystem of great beauty. It is also a thrilling cultural experience and a success story. In 2000 fewer than 100 people walked the track between Kokoda and Owers Corner. In the following eight years the number of Australians tackling the track expanded to nearly 6000. Trekking tourism fuels a rapidly growing local economy. It creates jobs for people living along the route. Villagers are employed as guides and porters, guesthouses and camp-sites generate money for their owners and locals sell fruit and soft drinks along the track. Junior, like his colleagues, is well paid by Papua New Guinea standards. He earns 60 kina a day while a bus driver in Port Moresby earns only 25 kina a day.

Inevitably, during the first days when everyone is still in the process of acclimatizing and getting to know one another, conversation is dominated by what happened here between August and December 1942. First there is the memorial and little museum in Kokoda itself and on day two the memorial at Isuvara and, accessible via a short detour, Oela Besi, a memorial to the Japanese soldiers. Local people there collected rusting helmets, mortar shells and rotting shoes and piled them near foxholes high above Eora Creek. These sites are reminders that this track was once a remorseless killing field.

We spend our second night in the village of Alolo where women sell bananas, passionfruit and mandarins. There is much laughter as we become an attraction for the villagers. Everyone is happy. On the way from Alolo to Eora Creek we hear an eerie whooping sound. I look at Junior with a big question mark in my face. He says “pigeon”. That’s when I learn that he likes to hunt the big, fat, green birds that we can hear but not see; their emerald plumage blends perfectly into the rainforest canopy. Junior uses a slingshot, he tells me, but admits that it is a challenge to find the dead birds in the thick vegetation. As he finally starts to relax, I begin to learn – about him, about his world and his people, about the birds and animals in the forest. I start to tell him about my life. Two strangers are on their way to finding each other.

From Eora Creek the track continues up and down, slowly gaining altitude, before leading to Kokoda Gap and the track’s highest point, Mt Bellamy (2190 metres). The history of war, although still present, begins to fade into the background. After four days on the track, the focus is shifting. The beauty of the rainforest begins to captivate almost everyone and, like Junior and me, the other group members and their personal porters are starting to grow together. The food porters, who walk at their own pace ahead of us and are rarely seen during the day, are losing their shyness. Bonds begin to form.

With Mt Bellamy traversed the big descent begins and the realization that on the Kokoda Track the climbs are easier than the downhill sections, especially when it rains. Then the steep tracks turn into dangerous mudslides and it is impossible to walk and look around. The chance of injury, even in good conditions, is very high. The tangled mass of slippery tree roots and soap-like loam demand 100-percent concentration.

The western slopes of Mt Bellamy are a floral wonder world. Giant pandani, which normally grow not much taller than six or seven metres, rise 30 metres into the canopy. Towering trees with buttress-like roots, like columns in a cathedral, line the narrow track. Then there is the less obvious but equally beautiful world of mosses, ferns and fungi. Every now and then Junior identifies the call of a bird of paradise but the bird, Papua New Guinea’s national emblem, remains elusive.

A rest day in the village of Efogi is an opportunity to connect with the villagers. A soccer match with porters, trekkers and locals creates much laughter. Junior shines; he is a gifted and fast player and his energy seems unlimited. Later, the arrival of a plane on the steep airstrip below the village creates more excitement. An AUSAid delegation is paying a flying visit to announce a regular Friday flight service from the village to Port Moresby. Subsidized airfares for locals will be 130 kinas per person, with an additional two kinas for every kilo of produce. We witness progress in the making.

Progress is also in the sights of the Port Moresby-based Kokoda Track Authority (KTA). We meet a delegation walking the track to assess what work needs to be done. Safety concerns for trekkers and locals drive their assessment which will recommend to the Australian government what infrastructural changes need to be made, including proposed swing bridges that in the future might replace dangerous log-crossings of creeks and rivers.

Safety on the track is an issue that needs to be addressed. During the peak season the sound of a helicopter flying over the mountains is an almost-daily occurrence. “Every time you hear a helicopter,” comments local guide Tom dryly, “it means medivac.” As there are many people on the track who should not be there because they are unfit, untrained, unprepared and sometimes with underlying medical conditions but driven by the desire to have walked the Kokoda Track once in their lifetimes, accidents occur. And occasionally people die.

At Brigade Hill, six days into the track, the war once again catches up with us. A modest memorial at the highest point commemorates the battle here, a military debacle for the Australians. Below the summit, locals from a nearby village have set up a little market. Bananas, cut cucumbers and paw paws as well as colourful handmade bags are on offer. The atmosphere is jolly. Far below, visible through a gap in the rainforest, is Menari, Junior’s home village.

Menari sits in a broad, sloping valley; there is an airstrip and a water-hole beneath lush gardens. Houses built on stilts with walls of bamboo matting are grouped around a square of bare soil. At one corner is Faole Bokoi’s hut. Faole is approximately 101 years old and is one of three surviving legendary Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels. Without the help of these dedicated locals, the Australian war campaign might not have been successful.

Menari Gap forms the next obstacle. After a steep descent, one of the rare flat sections of the track awaits. Yet this section can become a serious challenge during heavy rain when the broad valley turns into a waterlogged swamp. A steep spur leads to Nauro village and the roller-coaster continues: down to Ofi Creek and up to Irobaiwa Ridge. We pass the point the starving Japanese soldiers reached in their bid to attack Port Moresby.

On the second-to-last day, somewhere between Irobaiwa Ridge and Ua Ule Creek, Junior suddenly stops me and points upwards. “Bird of paradise,” he whispers. I look up and at that moment the bird takes off, a flash of colour in the green canopy. There is no chance for a photograph; I also miss photographing Junior’s beaming smile. I am more prepared for that rare but special event when we walk together through the wooden arch at Owers Corner that marks the end of our journey.