"You need a ride somewhere?" a larg woman asked; I was inclined to agree. She pointed me to a Toyota Hilux vehicle, populated by two men who both spoke english very well. The parking lot was small, and the crowd low key; in fact, there were no touts at all among the crowd, but merely people waiting for friends and family from the aircraft. Less than 50 metres away, across the street from the airport, was a long sandy beach. The water gleamed a deep blue-orange as the last of the sun's rays retired for the evening. The truck started up, and we headed east.

We weaved away from the shoreline and into some hills, with tall grass. Crowds of people could be seen amongst the jungle trees, preparing meals and walking on foot along the road. I had requested the guesthouse with a sign at the airport; a few minutes later we pulled up to a large house in the jungle, with a cabin to the side. I got out, and grabbed my bag. "Kina?" I asked, expecting to pay something small for the ride. "No, it doesn't matter," the driver said, and smiled; an odd shock to me. Dogs surrounded me and started barking; someone called from a balcony on the second level of the house.

"Come up!" he said: an old gentleman, with weak legs covered in peeling skin. I shook his hand and took a chair. His name was Tony Bias, and was well aware of the political goings-on of the region, and the country for that matter.
I chatted with him for an hour about the region, about Northern Papua New Guinea, about tourists and visitors, missionaries, and West Papua; I admitted an interest in visiting Irian Jaya, but was disappointed that it was not possible to go by land from Papua New Guinea - or air, for that matter. Both options had been shut down over the last few years.
"No, I think the border is open now," he said, thinking. "The government of Indonesia has recently killed an important member of the Free West Papua movement, and since then the border has been open." The task of getting there from Wewak, though, was not simple: there was no road to the border from here; there is only a four-times weekly flight.

The insects were creating a notable level of din from the jungle. The dogs, sniffing around the yard, often staring at me, the sole white man. I signed their guestbook, the only visitor he has had in two weeks. "We receive mostly missionaries," he told me, "but plenty of tourists as well." His idea of 'plenty' certainly wasn't mine; indeed, over the decade or more he has been here he has seen many faces; but one or two parties a month, at most, is a busy time for these parts.

With that, I retired in the foul humidity and drifted into a deep slumber. My, it had been a long journey, and my internal clock was still flashing "12:00" endlessly.

Into Wewak



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