The Panawina Expedition - Part 1

Greetings all,

After another wonderful adventure, involving tropical islands, remote villages, shipwreck, and a hint of witchcraft, I have arrived back to the mainland of Papua New Guinea, awaiting my flight home to Brisbane. Before I go any further, I had better mention Maiwar’s fate. It is with a combination of poignancy and relief that I can now, finally, say that she has been laid to rest. Upon my arrival to Panawina, it quickly became clear that Maiwar was beyond repair, and there would be no hope of towing her back to the mainland. It gives me great relief to know that, for better or worse, the last chapter of Tom’s Pacific Journey has come to an end, the finality of it all is like a firm handshake.

The Panawina Expedition:

At ten minutes to midnight on New Year’s Eve, I received the following message:

“Hello. I have information on Maiwar your boat. Please text me as soon as you see this message.”

I was in disbelief; it had been almost three months since I had last seen Maiwar, sine we had parted ways off Vanuatu. I replied, asking to know more.

The next morning, I received this reply:

“Your boat was found in the Calvados Chain of islands, its currently on a little island called Panawina located in Milne Bay Province, Papua New Guinea ''. “It was found by the islanders of Panawina. They pulled it a shore and currently it's there. Panawina is located in the Calvados Chain of islands in the Milne Bay Province in Papua New Guinea.”

 There was nothing for it but to get up there as soon as I could and find Maiwar.

When one wishes to travel to a remote island in Papua New Guinea, over 300 kilometres from the mainland, and is without a boat of their own, other avenues must be pursued. The closest airstrip to Panawina Island lies on Misima Island, 80 kilometres to the north-east. At first, this seemed like a good option, until I learned that, in the year just passed, the runway had been vandalised into disrepair during a tribal fight; planes no longer land on Misima. This meant the only way to get to Panawina, to find Maiwar, would be to fly to Alotau, on the mainland, and then jump aboard a local trading boat heading east.

Alotau, a small provincial capital, services the many islands that make up the Louisiade Archipelago and Milne Bay, including the Trobriand, Conflict, Engineer, Calvados, and Samarai Island groups, as well as many more. These islands are all serviced by small wooden trading boats, built locally in the villages, that run constantly, supplying remote and untouched places with basic foodstuffs and supplies. Alotau is the traditional watercraft hub of Papua New Guinea, with approximately 60 local vessels in operations, as well as hundreds of sophisticated sailing canoes, almost unchanged in design for hundreds of years, providing the mainstay of transport throughout the archipelago.

And so, after two flights from Brisbane, Australia, I found myself walking amongst the throng of locals at the bustling small craft wharf in Sanderson Bay, Alotau, hunting up a boat that was heading east. The boats are all anchored stern-to, tightly packed, loaded with passengers, crew and general roustabouts. Bags of rice, flour, sugar and biscuits are loaded into the hulls. Men can be seen inspecting engines, pumping bilges, chewing betel nut and smoking cigarettes. The atmosphere is thick and pungent, street vendors wander about with their loud voices, selling drinks from under their arms, newspapers from atop their heads, and long lengths of dried, plaited tobacco from their shoulder bags. Exquisite carvings from the Trobriands are unloaded from one vessel, while a chainsaw mill is loaded into the next. The M.V. Tave lets go her mooring lines and black smoke billows from her funnel as she heads off on yet another run. Fibreglass dinghies bustle about like bees, finding a place in the shallows to moor, and as I look out and scan the horizon, I see a lone sailau, a traditional sailing canoe, swiftly making her way into the bay. The stone age meets the 20th century. And as I see these dark men gallantly sailing in, I wonder just how long they’ve been travelling. It could be over a week, and over one hundred miles, since they left home.

“The atmosphere is thick and pungent, street vendors wander about with their loud voices, selling drinks from under their arms, newspapers from atop their heads, and long lengths of dried, plaited tobacco from their shoulder bags.”

I was fortunate enough to be given a local guide, Jonathan, who works as supercargo aboard the M.V. Miss Maddy, a trading boat owned by Australian man, Tim Abel. On a journey such as this, with the intent of procuring a boat back from the locals, a guide would be imperative, and I doubt one could find a better guide than Jonathan - bright, good natured, friendly, and above all, well connected amongst the seamen of Milne Bay; he would prove to be the perfect friend and ally for the journey. Jon knows the name of every boat in the harbour, and most of the captains, engineers and supercargos. He assured me it wouldn’t be long before we found a boat.

After a few days, getting the lie of the land, and chatting to seamen, we came across the M.V. Wel-Tuso, a small trading boat that runs semi-regularly out to Tagula on Sudest Island, to supply the few small trading stores there. We met the captain, Samuel, an old relic if you ever saw one. He stood no more than five and a half feet tall, had a bushy white beard that parted in the middle and grew in two separate fuzzy tufts that touched his chest. His teeth and lips were stained red from chewing the betel nut, he wore thick, wire-rimmed spectacles and a curious black cloth wrapped around his head like a turban. His face was old and wrinkled and only his right eye opened, a cross hung around his neck; he was known to some as ‘hell-driver’. He could have cut an intimidating figure were it not for his jovial nature and chubby cheeks. We were in safe hands.

Samuel told us he would be leaving for Tagula at 6:00pm sharp the following evening. By this stage Jonathan and I had already run around town and procured all the odds and ends necessary for an expedition out into the unknown. Thankfully, we both like to travel light, so there really was not much to bring, save for the tools, plywood, glue and a brand-new tow rope. We arrived at the wharf in the afternoon, bid farewell to our friends at the slipway, and waited for the Wel-Tuso to load the last of her cargo. The passengers mixed and mingled, chewed and smoked as we all waited for the small-craft inspector to sign off on our departure, ensuring we were not overloaded with rice, sugar and flour.

There was just a faint hint of purple left in the western sky by the time we were all allowed onboard. The hatches had been battened, the crew were ready, and one by one we, the passengers, filed aboard. The Wel-Tuso is only 30 feet long; her hull was completely filled with cargo, leaving the decks for passengers. Every square inch of space was taken up with a body. Jonathan quickly climbed aboard the cabintop where we staked our claim; this would be our berth for the next 30 or so hours; rain, hail or shine. As we began our journey through the night, I hung my head over the cabin and looked into the miniature wheelhouse, Samuel was at the wheel. I was surprised to see no form of modernity - no GPS, no radar, no radio, nothing. Where I’m from she would be a vessel from a bygone era, here she was just another working craft. I asked Jonathan how the captain would know where he was going on this dark night. Jonathan explained that Samuel had a compass and a watch, he knew exactly how many minutes to stay on each compass course, and when to change. Once we got out to sea, he would steer by moonlight, past the string of islands that lead out to Panawina. There were no formal watches aboard the Wel-Tuso, instead, Samuel, the small crew, as well as a passenger or two, would take turns at the helm. There was a small bunk running athwartships just abaft the wheel, with no mattress or blanket, this was for the captain and engineer, while the crew found a few feet of deck space wherever they could to curl up and take a kip.

Atop the cabin I settled in for the night, rolling out my sleeping bag, using my duffel as a pillow and lying back to watch the stars overhead. I began to revel in the vastness of it all, the minor insignificance of my expedition and the goals I had set. I couldn’t help but laugh at the whimsy of it all, thousands of miles from home, chasing a lead that my boat was on a small island - I was heading out into the unknown. Now, more than ever, I felt like a time traveller, this was a scene from yesteryear. I had read and romanticised situations just like this. The South Pacific holds so much charm, wonder and adventure, and there I was, once again, living and breathing it.

I slept contentedly, the seas were calm, the night warm, and the moon was a bright waning gibbous. I woke up periodically, each time looking to starboard to see the outlines of enchanting islands slipping by. The sound and the vibration of the engine lulled me into a light sleep, until the sun rose in the morning.

We were heading straight for the Conflict Islands, one of the few privately owned coral atolls in the world, home to a small resort. The locals aren’t allowed to step foot ashore, but there was nothing stopping us from taking a shortcut straight through the middle of the lagoon. The morning sun was still rising as we made our way through the western pass and into the bright lagoon; a pod of dolphins accompanied us into their territory, playing delightfully in the bow wave. Breakfast was navy biscuits and tea.

After transiting the atoll, we were back out in the open sea, heading for the Jomard Channel, a deep passage through the archipelago used by international shipping to shortcut the route between Asia and the Antipodes. Our little Wel-Tuso was insignificant compared to the two mighty container ships we avoided. By this stage the day was heating up; the women and children had the luxury of the covered aft deck, the men were in the full heat of the midday sun. I managed to find a few feet of shade on the foredeck, curled up, and tried to snooze through the zenith.

As the day wore on, and on, and on, I began to get a little impatient - the thrill of the journey had worn off, and I was anxious to get to Panawina, to know Maiwar’s fate. I kept asking the crew, and passengers, how long it would be until we arrived to the island, but each and every person seemed to have a wildly differing concept of time, our ETA was a mystery, it seemed, to most. As we continued to motor past the numerous islands, travelling at about 6 knots, the sun made its way down in the west. By this stage my guide Jonathan was getting impatient - he had run out of betel nut to chew, and resorted to asking around onboard, with little luck.

It was well past dark by the time I was woken by the sound, or lack of sound, of the revs decreasing on the motor, we were getting close. I sat up to see the strong outline of a large island just to starboard. We could see intermittent fires crackling on the beach in the distance and the odd battery powered light. Meanwhile, captain Samuel was expertly piloting his ship through the reefs to the placid waters outside Bomalou village. Soon, the anchor and its chain rattled over the bow and onto the bottom. We began to signal the shore. Jonathan and I got our bags together, including the tools, glue, screws and gifts for the villagers, and prepared to be taken ashore.

We then heard the familiar sound of a two-stroke outboard; a large fibreglass dinghy appeared, a wiry old man was at the helm, a small boy stood in the bow. They came alongside, we threw our luggage aboard, said goodbye to the captain and crew, made them promise to come back and get us, then jumped down into the dinghy. We were leaving the safety of the mothership - soon to be arriving at a safe port with electricity, reception, and shops – and headed for what was to us, an unknown village on an unknown island, being escorted by an unknown host. There was nothing for it but to embrace the absurdity and adventure of it all - heading out into the unknown to look for a rowing boat I had lost three months prior.

We made our way to the shore, a short distance. As we slowly motored in, I began to hear the faint sound of men singing, I looked around and saw nothing but blackness. The singing became louder, it pierced the still, tropical air with a resounding sweetness – I was captivated. It wasn’t until the boy in the bow turned on a large torch that the huge sail of a traditional sailau canoe became clear. Jonathan explained that it was common for the people of this area to sing while sailing their canoes, to pass the time while ghosting into the village in a dying breeze. The scene was utterly captivating for its timelessness and beauty.

Soon the bow of our dinghy touched the sand, we jumped out into the darkness, and were instantly surrounded by dozens of villagers of all ages. While standing on the beach at the head of the village the old man who had taken us ashore introduced himself and explained that he was the Magistrate of Panawina, we would be staying with him.

Magistrate is a lofty title for a man with only a rudimentary high school education, nonetheless, he is the most erudite of the Panawinans, he has lived and worked on the mainland, has a fibreglass dinghy instead of a canoe, and has a house made of boards, not palm leaves. Robert is paid a tiny wage by the government to be the general overseer on the island, to ensure that his village is happy, and that any disputes are resolved. Robert explained that he had only heard the previous day that we would be arriving, but, as a good magistrate and, more importantly, a good Pacific Islander, he made it very clear that he would do whatever necessary to cater for our needs. Indeed, as we climbed the steps to Robert’s house, and placed our bags inside, I saw two pandanus mats rolled out under a mosquito net, ready for his two guests.

But, before we could finally lay our heads down late that night, it was important that I address the village. What a scene it was, on that dark, still night, to see dozens of the villagers standing in a circle around a lone plastic chair, the only one on the island, where a strange foreigner was sitting, telling tales in plain English of his travels across the Pacific in the rowing boat they had found on the reef. Following my talk, I answered many questions, then fished a bag of sweets out of my luggage. The children were too scared of me, having never seen a white person before, so the treats were given to Jonathan to hand out. The kids seemed content. I was desperate to see Maiwar, but was quickly informed that she wasn’t in this village. She was on the beach in a small hamlet across the bay – we would go there in the morning.

The next day, I woke to the sound of a rooster crowing at the rising sun, I heard pigs rooting around under the floorboards I slept on, the sound of a bush knife cutting through branches, and children running and playing. I rose and walked out onto the front veranda; this was my first impression of the village. What a strange feeling it is to wake up in a foreign land, a strangeness that is only amplified when one feels as if they have travelled back in time millennia. I looked around me to see small thatched huts made from mangrove, sago and coconut palm, they were built up on stumps, 4-5 feet off the ground – rudimentary ladders made from wonky branches led to doorless entries. Grey smoke seeped out from under the eaves as the cooking fire inside was stoked for the breakfast meal of bananas and island potatoes. Pigs, chickens and children roamed freely about, while the adults walked past purposefully, bush knife in hand, or woven basket atop their heads, going towards the family garden to harvest food for the day. Canoes were launched and sails hoisted. There were no cars, no roads, no televisions, no music, no sounds from the developed world – it was perfectly peaceful. The children younger than eight years ran around naked, the men and women wore old shirts and shorts, some wore grass skirts.

A few moments of meditation passed before Robert came up the stairs – he had been awake for some time. We re-introduced ourselves, and got a good look at one another. The man I saw before was small and wiry, there was not a scrap of fat on his tiny frame. He had a large, bald cranium, and a pronounced jaw, a noticeable underbite and a toothless grin – he was old for Panawina – into his sixties, yet maintained an active life, zooming about the archipelago with his 15-horsepower dinghy, he exuded a youthful energy that belied his age.

Not long after, Robert’s sister appeared with a bowl full of freshly cooked bananas for breakfast. By this stage I was starving, having skipped dinner the previous night, and was delighted to fill my stomach with fresh island fruit. It was decided that we would visit Maiwar after eating. A village boy was told to prepare the dinghy, get the fuel tank, and load the boat with my tools and supplies. We then boarded the dinghy, the starter cord was pulled, and we made our way across the bay. It was only now that I was able to take in the whole of Bomalou village. It stretched for perhaps five hundred metres along the northern side of the island, protected from the west to northwest by neighbouring islands, from the south by the large mountains, and from the east by the headland. The village is no more than two houses deep, wholly built on the sandy and lightly wooded strip that runs along the bottom of the mountain. I counted roughly 50 small huts and over 10 large sailau canoes on the beach, as well as dozens of smaller sailing and paddling canoes.

The bright green island was a stunning backdrop to our excursion across the bay. Panawina, as well as the other islands in the area, are easily distinguished by their rolling green, grassy hills, punctuated with areas of dense vegetation which lead down to a shoreline mostly covered with dense mangrove swamps that transition into brilliant blue water.

I knew not what to expect as we approached the hamlet where Maiwar lay, although I must say I was not overly hopeful, even up until this moment, I had still not heard a single eyewitness account of the boat, which seemed strange in such a tight knit village. I was expecting the unexpected. As we entered the shallows and neared the beach, I could clearly make out Maiwar’s crisp white hull – a stark contrast to the natural tones around her. Immediately it was clear that her shape which I, and so many others knew so well, was badly deformed, my heart sank. I thought it might have been bad, but certainly not this bad. As we touched the shore I jumped overboard and made my way straight to Maiwar, it had been over three months since we parted. She was a sad sight. Her cabin was torn completely off, just a ragged edge remained. Her decks were buckled and cracked, deck beams were broken. The stern was damaged and the forward end was even worse; the first two feet of her bow were completely missing; the stem was split right down to the keel. What’s more she was totally stripped of any remaining hardware. Her interior had been gutted.

I stood there and felt like a broken man. It was grievous to see her in such a state, after all that we had been through together. Looking at her there I felt like the wind had been taken right out of me. My mind raced – questioning everything I had been told and led to believe before I arrived. There was no way she could be patched in a few days with rudimentary tools and towed over 100 miles back to civilization. Where was the family who initially contacted me? Maiwar was not at their house as I had been told. Nothing added up. Nothing made any sense. None of it was logical.

We then met the man and his family who inhabited the hamlet, who had found Maiwar. This man, Moeleo, explained that he had been out sailing his canoe with his boys when they saw Maiwar on the reef in the afternoon. They bailed out water from her cabin, righted her, then jettisoned much of the stores before towing her back, a journey that took an estimated five hours. Moeleo then took us through his thatch hut and showed me the pieces of equipment he had salvaged. The life raft lay deflated on the ground; the sea anchor was hanging from a beam in his house, his children slept on the bunk mattress, the bilge pumps had been removed and were sitting under a coconut palm. How surreal it was to see all these relics from the developed world, and from my life, scattered around the village. Nothing quite added up, it did not make sense why some things were there and others, that would have survived the reef, were nowhere to be seen. Robert and Johnathan began to question Moeleo about some of the things I was seeking. He seemed to have a different story each time.

It must be understood that I had no intention of taking anything that the villagers could find useful. As far as I was concerned, I wanted them to have as much as possible, but it was frustrating to see my handheld radio in the case where my satellite phone belonged – a cheap attempt at deception. The satellite phone would be of no use to them there – being far too costly to be practical, and needing new registration anyway. I had heard whispers too that a case full of SD cards with footage had been distributed amongst the islanders. Over many nights Johnathan and I sat around the campfire and tried to explain to the villagers that these SD cards did not work in a mobile phone, and were therefore of little value compared to the immense value they held to me. It seemed to fall on deaf ears.

Amazingly, the two AGM house batteries onboard Maiwar survived the whole ordeal, and were highly prized. These we took back to the main village and gave to the school. Back at Bumalou there were constant little signs of Maiwar. There were water bottles everywhere (highly prized), I saw one young man with the stainless buckle from my life jacked hanging around his neck as a medallion, and a couple of young men must have found my repair kit, as they had zip ties for rings on their fingers.

After an hour or so in the hamlet with Moeleo and Maiwar, I became involved with the strangest of interactions with a man who was the pastor of the ‘C.O.C’ church on Panawina. When I enquired as to what ‘C.O.C’ stood for he was simply unable to tell me, but to prove his credentials, he pulled out his church identification card that had, ‘Churches Of Christ’ written in large typeface which made me wonder if the reading glasses atop his shiny head were not a grand farce. Anyway, he was adamant that the batteries belonged to him, we begged to differ.

I saw no reason to stick around in the hamlet, and we unanimously decided to go back to the main village. I would have had my head in my hands for the journey back were it not for an unshakable enthusiasm that seems rarely to fail me in the craziest of situations.

Was it a blessing or a curse?

Why was I really out there?

What could be gained from this wonderfully strange experience?

These were all questions I was yet to answer. But, above all, I felt a resounding sense of relief. From the day of the rescue, I had felt very strongly that I would see Maiwar once more. This meant the journey was never quite over – there was still one unanswered question, one final piece of the puzzle. How would Maiwar continue her way across the Pacific?

This question had been answered, and thankfully for me, I now knew that Tom’s Pacific Journey had finally come to an end. It was closure. It was like a firm handshake, a job well done. There would be no repairs or rebuilding, no lengthy tows, no expensive shipment to Australia, nothing. Right there and then the journey had come to an end and I couldn’t be happier about it. The sun shone down on Maiwar, myself, and the whole village, the final chapter had ended. It was time to move onto the next adventure…

Stay tuned for Part 2: My time on Panawina, dodging a cyclone, the witchdoctor, and return to the mainland.

I must take this opportunity to give my sincerest thanks to Tim Abel of ‘Discover Milne Bay’ and ‘Milne Bay Boatbuilding’. Tim went above and beyond to do as much as possible to help me reach Panawina. Without his assistance the whole expedition would have been very different. I really cannot thank Tim Abel enough. 

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