Our first port here was an ever so slightly upmarket version of Alotau. I had booked in advance to join an ‘organised’ excursion. Although the ship has its own excursion desk, several passengers (who prefer to be known as residents) take the cheaper initiative to set up such trips for themselves and interested others, working a couple of ports ahead and contacting local tour operators etc.
Devotees of the writings of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle may consider that Sherlock Holmes had quite a bad day when he ventured to the Reichenbach Falls. However, that was a walk in the park for the esteemed sleuth compared with the day of drama I endured travelling to the Tenaru Falls.
I’d signed up for a hike that was advertised as “an easy three mile walk including a river crossing”. Doddle, I thought. 17 of us set off from the port at 9am in a minibus, the driver of which had been briefed that his first stop needed to be at an ATM, so that we could all obtain local currency to pay for the trip. We all piled off the bus clutching our cards; the machine was empty after eight of us had each withdrawn the equivalent of about 50 quid. The driver wended his way to another machine – out of order. A third one served two more of our party before declaring itself empty. The fourth managed to supply the rest.
“An easy three mile walk”
Having cleaned out the town we headed out of it along the coast for a few miles before turning inland and climbing slowly some 15 miles up a dirt track which disintegrated more with every mile. Arriving at Piringiju Mountain Lodge, we were welcomed and soon guided out to descend to the waterfall. A large sign declared (very precisely) this journey to be 2.74km, about 1 3/4 miles. It turned out to be almost three miles (each way), down an incredibly steep, muddy and slippery path, with handrails that were as occasional as they were rickety. ‘Easy’ it was not, and some of the older members of our party (all Americans except yours truly) struggled considerably.
The river and the falls
We finally reached the riverbed, where somewhat forced jollity abounded concerning the prospect of the return journey. The laughter soon died as we arrived at the ‘river crossing’. That had put me in mind of something like a rickety bridge (to match the handrails) or possibly stepping stones. Er, no. We had to ford two forks of the river with very strong currents. The crossing of the third fork was marginally aided by a very narrow and precarious plank. Starting to feel like I was in a version of ‘I’m a celebrity, get me out of here’, I dragged myself through/over these obstacles, while some poor people couldn’t make it and were therefore denied a view of the falls which were perhaps half a mile further on. The falls were moderately spectacular, but worth it? That would depend on the climb back, I thought, not realising that the drama was only just beginning.
Drama
Inevitably, different members of the party left the falls at different times. I did so alone after swimming in the water to cool off. I recrossed the river and started the long and very steep ascent. After about five minutes of up I came across the prostrate form of a guy in his fifties who rejoices in the moniker RJ Darling. His head was on a rock, and he was watched over by his worried wife. “He has a heart condition and has collapsed” she said, “those ahead of you are going to send help back down.” I continued the climb, being unable to offer anything further beyond prayers.
I soon caught up with others from our party, a couple perhaps in their early sixties. We sat on a convenient bench and discussed the ongoing crisis below us, speculating on the nature of the likely rescue. RJ’s wife had told me she was expecting a helicopter. I had looked speculatively at the thickly packed 200 feet high rainforest trees and also considered the fact that we were in the poorest country in the South Pacific. The prospect of a chopper rescue seemed highly unlikely to me, but I had not discouraged her hopes.
Suddenly, the lady of the couple sitting next to me on the bench said “I’m gonna faint”, and slid down onto her back, plopping her head into my lap. “No, no, no”. I said urgently. “Sit up. Lean right forward. Head between your legs. Now breathe, deep and slow in, long and slow out”. I counted her through this for a couple of minutes until she recovered. She toasted me with beer later, back at the Lodge, “Thank you to Doctor Chris!, he saved my life!” Americans do have a tendency to exaggerate.
I had climbed for a further hour and was almost back to the Lodge before any indication of assistance heading down to the invalid manifested. When it did, I was horrified to see that it comprised two young men casually strolling down the track with a bottle of water and a blanket. “A blanket!” I said to them. “He needs a blanket like a hole in the head. It’s 29 degrees; he needs a stretcher!”
I hurried to the Lodge, my concern mounting. I was the fourth of our party to return. The three before me seemed completely unfazed by the paltry rescue effort that was underway and were drinking beer and looking forward to their lunch of local curry. Quickly necking a beer myself to assuage my gargantuan thirst, I fell into conversation about the problem with some young Australian guys in their thirties, who were not in our party, and had simply come to chill, drink beer, and admire the views. They seemed pretty knowledgeable and were making helpful suggestions such as contacting the ship’s medical facility on their phone, which had a signal – none of ours did. The ship proved extremely unhelpful, saying they could not deal with medical issues that weren’t on board. The young Aussies finally admitted that they were doctors; however, it was clear they weren’t about to scarper downhill for two miles on their day off, after goodness knows how many tinnies. “We’ve got no equipment with us anyway”, they said. “You just need to get him up here and make sure there’s someone here with the gear when he arrives.”
They worked at the local hospital, so they put a call in there but were told to dial 911. The Lodge staff did that. Nobody came, and I for one was getting more and more concerned. I’d started buying the Aussies beers, to say thank you and keep them helpful. They started looking around at the age of my companions, then all of a sudden the short handsome one slammed his half empty bottle on the table, stood up, and said “Ah strewth, let’s go and get the old fucker”. The tall ugly one said, “I’ll stay here and man the phones”. Action man grabbed a folding trestle table and said to me, “how big is he?” Not very”, I said. “Ah strewth, let’s take two in case one breaks”, and he was gone, a table under each arm, with a couple of helpers. They returned more quickly than expected, absolutely lathered in sweat; apparently RJ had recovered slightly, given up on rescue, and decided if he was gonna die he may as well do it walking steeply uphill, so they’d met him halfway.
We all piled into the van, heading for the hospital, RJ Darling prostrate on the back seats. Halfway there, with the Aussie doc superhero checking him out, it was decided that he was probably suffering from heat stroke rather than his heart condition, so we headed for the ship. I hear he has made a full recovery so all’s well that ends well.
This is just the beginning of my South Pacific adventure. I hope not all days are as eventful as this one was!
