Papua New Guinea
not going to make it.
The 60th annual Mt Hagen Cultural Show – the biggest display of culture in the Highlands of Papua New Guinea – kicks off in an hour, and we’re still at our resort, waiting for an American birdwatcher to stop arguing with the concierge.
Rondon Ridge Lodge is the premier accommodation in Mt Hagen, the Western Highlands capital and third biggest PNG city.
We’re about 2100m above sea level; the only way down is a treacherous 45-minute trip on unsealed road.
We’re not going to make it.
“This can never happen again,” chides the tourist in a vain attempt to control chaos.
Nice try. There’s something about Papua New Guinea that inspires dreams of control amid chaos.
For centuries foreign powers have attempted to bring order to this untamed land: the Portuguese and the Spanish gave it the names Papua and New Guinea some 59,500 years after it was first inhabited, but couldn’t penetrate beyond the coastline.
In the late 1880s, the eastern half of the island was split between the German Empire and Queensland.
German New Guinea lasted only 30 years, but Germanic names like Mt Hagen persist.
The Australians lasted a little longer, taking over from the Germans after WWI – and repelling the Japanese invasion during WWII – until Papua New Guinea achieved independence in 1975.
Since then, the native people of PNG – numbering some eight million with more than 850 languages – have settled back into the 60,000year-old harmony they’ve forged with the unforgiving environment; particularly the Highlands.
“Relax,” says David, the slowly spoken manager of Rondon Ridge.
Like any hotel manager, he knows chaos, and how to manage it.
“The show won’t start for a while yet,” he says. “Don’t forget, we’re on island time here.”
He’s not wrong.
Island time – that offshore-exclusive temporal elasticity that’s infuriating to holidaying slaves to the clock – is the local time in PNG.
Things happen when they happen, and never sooner.
So while David’s words are initially soothing, his next pronouncement fills me with dread.
“Besides, it’s only an hour’s drive from here.” Translation: we’re not going to make it.
The Mt Hagen Show is the biggest of its kind in PNG, and possibly the world.
Tribes from all over the Highlands put aside their differences and come together in a colourful, chaotic weekend of unity that attracts more than 50,000 tourists every year.
Over the past week, we’ve met some of these tribes – the Asaro Mudmen, the Chimbu Skeleton People, and the iconic Huli Wigmen – in their own villages.
Those encounters were intimate, revealing, and fun.
Could it possibly have the same impact with 90 different tribes all crammed into one football oval?
We arrive 90 minutes later.
Small stalls sell a variety of offerings, from single cigarettes to warm cans of Coke to betel nuts. Parlour games keep kids entertained.
People are everywhere, and face paint flows like wine.
Off the main drag, myriad tribes featuring make-up designs are gathered in a giant enclave to prepare.
Sili Muli men apply mud to their bodies, trying carefully to avoid sullying their long grass skirts.
The Dua Cultural Wor gang painstakingly attach leaf after leaf to their elaborate gowns.
A woman from the Daplam Singsing tribe, covered head to toe in white pancake makeup, chugs a Coke, while a pair of orange-faced Lufa men try to enjoy a sneaky smoke without setting fire to their feathered headwear.
Colours leap from every conceivable surface. Natural elements decorate some of the most outrageous costumes this side of Mardi Gras.
Feet sink into fresh mud caused by night rain.
Thin mountain air sets minds slightly adrift, mine most of all.
How is this going to come together? On the plus side, we weren’t late. Island time swings both ways.
Close to an hour later, we’re in the main oval. Tourists have been advised they’re allowed to mingle freely with tribes, and it’s as chaotic as it sounds.
In the distance, a manic MC shrieks into a mic. “Tourists, please head to the grandstands,” says the widely ignored message. The genie is out of the bottle.
As the Chimbu Skeletons emerge, hollering and chasing the clawed monster of their mythology, the MC says there are skydivers coming and we need to clear the oval to give them space.
But then the singing Koskala Gerupa dance up and I’m caught in the rhythm, carried along in a whirlwind of sound and movement.
A rainbow of people run in every direction, there’s no focus, it’s two hours past start time, there are two parachutists hurtling toward us from above, and it’s starting to rain.
This’ll be on the news tonight.
And then it happens: one of the parachutists pulls a cord, and a giant Papua New Guinea flag unfurls.
Suddenly, the crowd silently stands as one. “This is the highest our flag has ever flown,” says the MC, as 50,000 pairs of eyes follow the flag as it gently descends.
In the wake of the skydive, each tribe gets their moment to shine, and despite the heat, the rain and the sheer number of people, it works. For that brief, shining moment, there’s order. Our guide reminds us we’ve got to get to the airport.
It’s just 15 minutes up the road, but we’re parked in, our driver’s disappeared, and there are thousands of people lining the streets.
We’re not going to make it.
But it’ll be OK. We’re on Highland time.