MEDICAL TREATMENT IN PAPUA NEW GUINEA
by Charles Sollinger

During our circumnavigation in our sailboat, we were in Papua New Guinea at Christmas time 1991. Even in this modern world, we were told that the local people believed in witchcraft and various folk remedies for illnesses and ailments.

We set out to visit the remote Duke of York Islands, east of Rabaul. The island people are very territorial and local custom says that you must obtain permission from the chief of an island before visiting or anchoring off that island -- the water around their island is their front lawn.

A younger man spoke a little English and helped me find the chief. As I talked to him about his island and asked permission to visit the next day, I saw the younger man bringing in bananas, papaya, oranges, and various things. We were used to trading for things the islanders needed such as flour, canned meat, and sugar; so, when I found out that these were gifts for me, I asked him what he would like. He said, “I like money.”

Next day, as the younger man showed us around the island, we passed by the chief standing under an outstretched tree limb. Sitting on the limb about a foot above his head was a chicken. The chief looked ill, as if he had a head ache.

After our tour of the island we again passed by the chief as he stood under the chicken; but this time I saw a curious white spot on his head and there was a funny smell in the air.

When we got back to the boat I told Dot that we had just had a visit with the “head chicken shit.”

THE SAN BLAS ISLANDS
by Dorothy Sollinger

We visited eight islands. One island, we found no place to land and just anchored and waited. Soon an older man paddled out and invited us to his island. He led us up to a private dock and right through a house where a woman was cooking. She completely ignored us. Later we read where it is impolite to close your house in any way, and so there are no doors or closed windows on their bamboo houses and everyone is welcome.

The chief of another island took us in his dugout canoe, with Chuck helping to paddle, to the mainland where all the people get their drinking water out of the river. The trip was 4 or 5 miles across the bay and then up a river to where it ran down from the mountains fresh and unpolluted. Each island sends someone every day to get drinking water for their island.

On the way back to the boat, we stopped at a small single family island. It was so small that they built pens for their chickens and pigs out over the water. Whenever we visited an island, women would come out and stand mutely, holding their molas under their chins. The molas were all beautiful and the women had such hope in their eyes that we felt like buying them all. On this small island, the woman who lived there had a pretty mola on the front of her dress which I admired. She immediately took it off her dress and I gave her $5 for it.

In all of the islands we saw only three or four women wearing western dress. They wore the traditional dresses with molas sewn on the front and back. They wore gold earrings and nose rings and had many bracelets around their arms and ankles. On their heads they wore bright red and yellow scarves. The men, however, wore traditional western shirts, blue pants and baseball caps. One day an older Indian came to the boat wanting fish hooks. He wore blue pants, a blue shirt, very thick glasses and a baseball cap with AARP printed on it

This was a memorable visit but one place that is likely to change soon. We counted ten TV sets and several outboard motors and young girls are using sewing machines in school and learning how to decorate T-shirts for tourists.

Going on to the canal we stopped overnight at Isle Grande. It was surrounded by high mountains and had sandy beaches. On the chart the entrance to the anchorage looked straight forward between two islands and then turning starboard behind the island. As we approached, however, we saw the sea breaking heavily as though we were heading for a reef. I was frightened and shouted that we must have made a mistake and should turn before it was too late. Chuck kept saying, “Just a minute. Just a minute.” Suddenly I felt us raising high and then with a great push from the seas we were shoved into a smooth quiet inlet. As I glanced at the shore I saw facing us, appropriately, a huge cross.

SCAMMED IN BALI: Fighting Back
by Bill Rose

My departure from East Timor was sudden and rude - on a specially chartered evacuation flight along with other weary election observers and grimy foreign journalists, the day after the result of the of the Timorese independence referendum was announced. Although the referendum itself had gone fairly smoothly, chaos broke out afterwards and it was no longer safe to remain in Dili, the capital city. The plane, chartered by the Portuguese government primarily for its own nationals but open to others on a space available basis, was bound for Jakarta; when it made an unexpected stop in Bali. I impetuously grabbed my bags and hopped off. I was short on food and sleep and had been scared out of my wits by hostile pro-Indonesian militia gangs. What better place to unwind than Bali?

I would recommend ‘Mandara Cottages’ without hesitation to any budget traveler. It's within easy walking distance of Denpasar Airport, and despite being close to the heart of Kuta neighborhood's bustling tourist industry it's as quiet as a monastery inside the compound.

The rooms are spacious but rustic (ceiling fans, no air conditioning) with a sort of faded elegance that adds to the appeal. Renovations would ratchet the price up to the level of Kuta's higher class hotels; but as it is, bed and breakfast go for 50,000 rupiahs a night (about six dollars and fifty-cent). The grounds are graced by flowering hibiscus and frangipani trees, coconut palms and groves of bamboo - an ideal environment for relaxing.

The hotel staff were unfailingly friendly and attentive, but I could sense the head cashier getting a little antsy after I'd stayed for a full week: "You pay now...?"

"Sure --- no problem. Gotta go out and buy some rupiahs. I'll be right back."

There were dozens of money changing stores along Jalan Kartika, the main street, all with rates hovering around 8000Rp per dollar, and I stopped at one offering 8100. The young man at the counter was shifty-looking, with a nervous darting glance and giving off very bad vibrations. But we were in a public place, and I didn't see how anything could go wrong. He flipped out a calculator, punched up the number 810,000 when I asked to change a hundred dollars. He took out a bundle of 10,000 rupiah notes. I carefully counted out eighty-one of them. He carefully recounted them on the open tabletop. I bundled up the bankroll and handed him a hundred-dollar bill; walked a few blocks back to the hotel and paid for my week's lodging, recounted the remaining bundle of 10,000-rupiah notes, found it to be 200,000 rupiahs short. I couldn't believe that after all my travels in Asia and all the stories I'd heard about other tourists being scammed by sleight-of-hand artists, I'd finally been had myself!

I walked back to the money shop, not knowing exactly how I was going to handle the situation. A new guy was at the desk, not quite as evil-looking as the first one. Playing the role of a brand-new customer, I asked the going rate for a hundred-dollar bill. He punched up the number 810,000.

"Then give me the rest of my money," I growled. Amazingly, he did so. Just as amazingly, I let him keep 50,000 rupiahs of the ill-gotten gains: the lesson had been worth at least that I thought, and in any case the value of the rupiah had been plummeting because of the Timor crisis so I was still coming out ahead.

If I'm ever in this situation again (and this could easily happen: despite my years of globe-trotting I tend to be somewhat gullible) I know exactly how I'll deal with it: I'll determine the exact amount I've been chiseled out of. Wait for an hour or so, then return to the money-changing store. Probably Guy Number One will have been replaced by Guy Number Two, who's also part of the scam. I will repeat the charade of being an innocent tourist, calmly lay my dollars on the tabletop. When the money-man pulls out a matching amount of local currency I will count out my missing sum and pocket this along with my U.S. dollars. Then I will walk - not run - back out to the street.

I seriously doubt there'll be any whistles or burglar alarms.
Bali September 1999