by KEVIN PAMBA
Braving the rough seas as part of life’s daily struggles to
survive
IT IS that time of the year when
Papua New Guineans confront rough seas to ensure life goes on for
them.
Despite Government warnings, people do get killed or are found
adrift, due to bad weather and rough seas.
People find themselves in these situations, not always because
they are careless and stupid, but they have to get on with life.
And if that means taking risks on the rough seas in the infamous
banana boats – for many it is the only mode of transport.
Last Saturday, I experienced what I will call “a sneak preview” of
what ordinary Papua New Guineans face and even die for in the use
of this notorious mode of transport.
The time was 8.20pm. It was pitch dark. No stars could be seen.
Clouds formed above the sea in the distance. The sea from the
safety of this innocent-looking Karkar Island beach was calm and
assuring. A calm before the storm?
Indeed, that was what turned out to be some 10 minutes out at sea.
Out there in the waters between Karkar Island and mainland Madang,
I was with six others on a 23-foot banana boat (dinghy) powered by
a Yamaha 40-horse-power outboard motor, left to the mercy of
Mother Nature.
Flashes of lightning relentlessly sliced open the dark sky and
thunder roared in the distance ahead as the speed of the 40hp
motor challenged the sea.
During calm weather, the trip would have taken 40 minutes from
Kumbukam, our destination along the North Coast Road of mainland
Madang.
As the lights from our departure point near Gaubin Lutheran Health
Centre continued to grow dimmer, the space before us became darker
and darker.
The darkness was complemented by the warm sea water splashing onto
us as the dinghy sliced through the choppy sea.
Some 20 minutes into the trip, rain started to fall. The lifting
and thumping of banana boat increased.
Two burning questions occupied my mind: When will be the bang that
will flip the boat over and empty us into the sea? What will I, a
Highlander, who is not used to the sea, do if that happens, since
there is no safety equipment on board the banana boat?
As these and other questions cropped up, we were soaking with rain
that by now had become heavier and colder and the aggression of
the sea intensified.
For every few metres the boat covered, the sea’s aggression
intensified.
In between visualising the questions in my head and wiping the
salt water from my face, I kept looking out to see if there was
light, which would indicate that the mainland was near.
I heard back at Karkar Island that it took only 45 minutes to
reach the mainland from where we left. But there was no light and
time appeared to stand still.
As the rough sea continued to pound our dinghy, one of the senior
passengers called out to the skipper to slow down the engine and
not challenge the waves at high speed.
The skipper, an energetic young Karkar Islander with so many
similar trips on this waters under his belt, obeyed for a while
and then revved the engine, saying “chief em bai orait, bai mipla
go inap.”
These reassuring words were perhaps one of only few spoken
throughout the entire journey as everyone had retreated to the
security of their inner beings and as one would say in Tok Pisin:
Lusim olgeta samting long han blong Papa antap (Leave everything
to Father in Heaven).
Then after a bracket of complete silence I wiped the salt water
from my eyes and peered through the pitched darkness ahead. Then I
saw what appeared to be some light.
Five minutes or so later, the skipper broke the silence: “Yumi
kamap pinis (we have arrived).”
After another three minutes, the skipper ploughed into the calm
waters of the small bay that makes Kumbukam, our destination,
which was under a heavy rain.
The time was 9.45pm.
Our safe arrival was later credited to the skipper who does this
trip virtually every day and knows the waters here like the palm
of his hand.
On board this banana boat was People’s Labour Party (PLP) leader
and Usino-Bundi MP Peter Yama, his wife Dr Mary Simoi, their son
Ishmael, prominent lawyer Ben Lomai, a community leader from the
North Coast of Madang, the boat skipper and his crew.
As we stood on the wharf of Kumbukam that Mr Yama built when he
was the MP for Sumkar in the mid-1990s, we looked out to see if
the other two boats were coming. They were not in sight.
The two boats had other PLP delegates including Kerema MP Ekis
Ropenu on board.
We waited and waited with the rain pouring at will.
To my disbelief, the skipper of the banana boat that had just
off-loaded us, said he was turning back for home to Karkar Island.
He was persuaded to remain and return in the morning. But there
were several passengers waiting to go home, so he took them. The
boat skipper borrowed Mrs Yama’s diving torch and off he went with
his passenger.
About 30 minutes of waiting in vain, we decided to leave Kumbukam
on Mr Yama’s 15-seater bus. As he drove down to Madang town along
the coastline, Mr Yama stopped occasionally to sea any light from
the two dinghies. There was no sign.
We drove to town quietly hoping that the MP for Kerema and his
fellow passengers were safe.
They were. They arrived at Kumbukam at 2.20am.
They had travelled up the coast when the two skippers lost track
of us and were only directed by lightning that showed them the
lights of Megiar Catholic Mission.
Spotting the lights, they sped straight at Megiar but one of the
boats ran out of fuel about 3km from shore. So one towed the other
and they slowly followed the coast down to Kumbukam and eventually
returned to town.
Those who were used to the sea said it wasn’t that bad a storm; it
was an average one.
May be it was. For me, it was an apt reminder of the difficulties
our people face in the rural coastal areas and many a time, some
of them lose their lives.
The trip described above can be viewed as careless. It was, if one
does not consider surrounding factors.
There are no passenger ships or ferries serving Karkar regularly.
There are no airlines serving the densely populated island endowed
with a lucrative coconut industry either, although the colonial
era airstrip is there.
The Yama family boat, MV Unity, was on the trip to Karkar. But the
dignitaries wanted a quick journey to and back from the island. So
they opted for the dinghies and allowed Unity to ferry other
supporters.
The calm sea, one could say, also fooled everyone.
The three dinghies had no safety gear – a requirement by the
Maritime authorities. All the dinghies operating as “sea PMVs”
around the country are.
And it seems, this treacherous anomaly is not likely to be
corrected soon.
