CHRIS OVERLAND
MY first patrol, in late 1969, involved walking from Kerema to Kaintiba Patrol Post. Along the way, I was to join Catholic priest Father Alex Michelob who would teach me the art of surveying road routes through the mountainous jungle.
I was supposed to accompany Assistant District Officer John Mundell on this patrol but he had to return to Kerema within a week of setting out, so I carried on under the benign guidance of Alex.
The patrol route took us deep into the heart of the Kukukuku country, so I was issued with a Smith and Wesson .38 calibre revolver and a Lee Enfield .303 carbine.
I soon gave up carrying both: the revolver was wildly inaccurate beyond a range of five metres and my police sergeant was a much better shot with the carbine.
Officially, the area had been declared "controlled" only a very few years before, possibly not long before John Stringfellow's army patrol in the area.
I gather that this was done mostly to satisfy the United Nations that Australia was on trajectory in pacifying the whole territory.
The track between Kerema and Kaintiba was very tough going for even a fit and experienced bushman, let alone a novice kiap like me.
For the first few days I struggled to get to grips with stifling heat, incessant rain, and muddy and slippery tracks.
Two weeks into the patrol I got malaria and was obliged to lay up on my camp sleeve bed until the curative effects of Chloroquine took effect. The Chloroquine treatment was only marginally less awful than the disease.
The Kukukukus who accompanied our patrol were the usual suspects: small, wiry, strong and very mercurial in nature.
They were always armed to the teeth, with small one pound axe heads attached to long, black palm handles being the weapon of choice for close fighting. Then there were the usual bow and arrows for distance work.
Happily, a steady supply of twist tobacco, rice and tinned meat kept them pretty contented most of the time.
Some of the Kukukukus wore the thigh bones of enemies they had killed in battle. The women had necklaces holding the tiny mummified hands of babies that had died in infancy.
All the people wore capes made of beaten bark to keep off the rain and help stay warm at night. I soon purchased a cape for myself, as it was more serviceable than my slouch hat. They derived much amusement from seeing me slogging up the muddy track wearing it.
Each morning around dawn, Father Alex would say mass using a rough bush table as an altar. He put on his robes, arranged the chalice and other paraphernalia and said mass.
He was invariably surrounded by the Kukukuku warriors, who squatted near the crude altar and paid close attention to his every move, sometimes muttering quietly amongst themselves.
It was a remarkable sight, especially when the sun rose over the mountains silhouetting Alex with chalice raised, his robes glinting as he moved quietly through the mass.
Anyway, after 32 arduous days I arrived back in Kerema 15 kilograms lighter, covered in infected leech bites and convinced I had demonstrated that I had the "right stuff" to be a proper kiap.
Like John Stringfellow, I count myself incredibly fortunate to have had the opportunity to walk in that country in those days when it was still basically untouched by modernity.