There are few places left on this planet whose very name still invokes an aura of mystery, isolation, and antiquity. The last century has witnessed colonization, modernization, and globalization expand to nearly every corner of the map, shrinking the world through expanded societal connections and greater accessibility to regions that the early historical explorers once viewed as utterly alien. Yet even beyond the dawn of the 21st century, some places have quietly managed to stand the test of time, remote and forgotten realms that hold onto traces of life within a primordial landscape. On the edge of Oceania, the last re-discovered "continent" of the South Pacific, sits the remote island of New Guinea, a location with which many people will likely have zero familiarity. But despite relative obscurity, it plays a crucial part in the history and appreciation of our collective humanity. This country of less than 12 million people is a veritable anthropological wonderland, home to 840 distinct languages with nearly as many indigenous groups, granting it the title of most ethnolinguistic diverse nation in the world. Its lush rainforests host nearly 7% of the world's biodiversity on merely 1% of the planet's landmass, placing it within the top 20 ecologically megadiverse nations. As one of the least developed states, with only 14% of the population living in urbanized areas, nature as old as life's origins has been allowed to flourish practically untouched. Yet despite these celebrated rankings, PNG is unfortunately a "fragile" state with more than a few undesirable qualities. Ranking exceptionally low on both the poverty and corruption indexes, PNG has been plagued for nearly half a century by rampant gang-related violence and frequent outbursts of tribal warfare, consistently making it the second most dangerous nation in the world for violent crime, homicide, and sexual assault. That combination of attributes made many of my friends jokingly question why I hadn't visited PNG already, though I must clarify for the record that I do not actively seek out reckless excursions; unstable nations just coincidentally tend to be more interesting. Since youth, Papua New Guinea had always embodied a sense of primeval paradise, though growing up gradually revealed to me the less romanticized reality of a young nation struggling to sustain itself amidst centuries of internal conflicts. Nevertheless, its colorful cultures and legendary landscapes kept beckoning to me, to a point where it could no longer be ignored. Traveling in PNG would be logistically challenging, financially expensive, and filled with uncertainty (if not anxiety), yet I felt it imperative to finally seize the opportunity and fulfill a childhood dream alongside my equally adventurous father. As usual, I only hoped that this trip of a lifetime would not potentially lead to a lifetime of regret.
Due to security concerns and a lack of basic infrastructure, in addition to recurring health concerns from my aging father, we felt that traveling independently was not ideal, even despite our extensive solo travel experiences in unconventional destinations. Tourism is not extensive in PNG, and the few groups that did have set departure dates advertised expeditions requiring upwards of ten thousand dollars to partake. While setting off in a canoe down the Sepik River to visit a tribe of former headhunters seemed like an unforgettable experience, the cost alone felt like sacrificing an arm or leg... maybe even a head. We reached out to Christopher Bartlett, a widely-published British photojournalist turned expedition operator who had decades of experience in the region. He offered a "budget" program that arranged basic transportation and accommodation to thrill-seekers, or anthropology enthusiasts in my case, wishing to attend the renowned Goroka Show - PNG's most acclaimed indigenous festival and purportedly the largest tribal gathering in the world based on the sheer number of different native groups in attendance. Taking place around the time of the nation's September independence day in the highland town of Goroka, the festival assembles tribal communities from all over the country, exhibiting elaborate cultural attire and performing war dances and folkloric performances for three colorful days. Due to few accommodations in the town that had already filled up, we would be staying right on the festival grounds, in the basic communal dormitories of the national sports institute and relying on simple street foods during our time in the Eastern Highlands. Months of email correspondence with Christopher over the arrangements quickly began to give me a sense of who would be organizing this for us - the arrogant, condescending, self-stylized "explorer" type. Regardless, we still relied on him and his networks to get to Goroka and to secure us a limited spot at the event, which surprisingly seemed to be selling out in the month prior to the festival. How could a festival in the sixth least-visited country "sell out"?
Port Moresby: The World's Most Dangerous Capital
Soaring above the clouds, we chased the dawn sun on the horizon, which gradually illuminated dense green jungles crisscrossed by spiraling riverways. After 21 hours of flight time, not including a brutal six hour layover in Manila until past midnight, we landed in PNG's capital and only major city, Port Moresby, a characteristic equatorial city of decaying concrete buildings and corrugated tin shanties spread out haphazardly over a hilly terrain interlaced with overgrown banana and papaya plots. The most unique attribute of the city's central areas was its plethora of murals and decorations, an array of colorful graphics depicting animals and native peoples connected by strings of national flags that hung from both commercial and residential buildings. The streets were surprisingly clean of refuse, aside from the prevalent blood-red blotches and streaks of spat betel nut. Driving into the hot and humid city, the air was also filled with a sense of something celebratory. Feelings of excitement and dread competed for my attention; I had finally arrived in the "mysterious" Papua New Guinea of my childhood fantasy, while simultaneously stepping out onto the streets of the world's worst crime capital (as of 2025 rankings). Port Moresby was an ongoing battleground between a corrupt federal police force and the Raskols, the most notorious gun-wielding, machete-swinging gang in the South Pacific. While I prefer to believe that most locals have good intentions, particularly having experienced some of the warmest hospitality in purportedly hostile areas, I was also told that it didn't hurt to be extra vigilant in a city where muggings and murders were commonplace. Security was a visible issue, as a number of complexes were surrounded by barbed-wire walls with multiple guards positioned at the entrances to government offices, hotels, and malls. Large vehicles even had their windows blacked out by protective metal grills.
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| Flying over the rather provincial capital of Port Moresby |
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| A lot of signage called for unity among the different tribes, a rather telling attribute |
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| Signage placed all over the city hyping up PNG's 50th independence anniversary |
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| One of many Land Cruisers sporting the national flag |
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| Vision City Mall and the stadium in the background were the centers of festive action |
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| Example of a car with completely barricaded windows, a frequent sight in PNG |
Ironically, while every article I read stressed not walking around Port Moresby even during the day, thousands of the city's inhabitants nevertheless took to the streets en masse that morning, a sea of people radiating national colors with fluttering flags and feathers, parading around in celebration of the country's special 50th independence day anniversary from colonial rule. The normally subdued avenues of the city roared with the sounds of cheers and chants from lines of fully loaded pickups and banner-bedecked land cruisers making their rounds through the boulevards, people hanging off all sides of their vehicles as they raced down the main avenue. The national flag decorated cars, buildings, and even the people themselves, draped in red and black capes bearing stars and a flamboyant emblem outlining a yellow bird of paradise. With so much raucous excitement in the air, we knew we couldn't remain concealed all day behind the massive iron perimeter fence and security patrols of the hotel. From our place at the Lamana, we crossed the street onto the grounds of a stadium complex, where a craft market selling national color clothing, woven bilum bags, and finally crafted shell jewelry surrounded an open space occupied by an indigenous group performing a sing-sing with hand drums, their voluminous grass skirts twirling like dervishes with every spin. It was our first taste of one of the nation's many ethnic groups and their unique ancestral chants, echoing right in the heart of an urban capital. The chaotic area around Vision City Mall, the only mall and cinema in the county, was surreal as even the average city-born Papuan donned elaborate face paint and elements of traditional dress and jewelry out of national pride for the special holiday. Fully costumed "warriors" walked barefoot through the aisles of a supermarket, past mobile phone stores and coffeeshops like a scene into a parallel universe where ancient tribes somehow took over a modern city center. A loud boom roared overhead, as everyone rushed to street corners and balconies to witness several flyovers by the military's fighter jets, as civilians below cheered below at the rare and exciting spectacle. As the evening hours approached, more people began to cram into the stadium area, which was a sign for us to retire for the evening. Despite an extensive police presence, frequent reports of crowded venues and celebratory gatherings descending into drunken brawls and potential violence suggested that we not risk spoiling the delightful afternoon we shared with otherwise welcoming locals. We safely enjoyed the colorful explosions of fireworks overhead from the confines of our heavily guarded hotel, the roar of freedom echoing beyond the coconut palms.
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| One of several indigenous groups performing a sing-sing during the festivities |
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| Papua's tribal diversity is comically caricatured on storefronts promoting holiday sales |
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| Many people showed national pride by donning their specific tribal dress |
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| Never thought I'd run into a Suli Muli warrior at the grocery store |
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| Nearly everyone's faces were painted that day |
Our second day in Port Moresby delved into the ancient history and diverse cultures of New Guinea, a land of 800 plus languages and just as many ethnic groups. The quaint National Museum in Waigani district seemed deceptively small from the outside until one passed beyond the unassuming reception desk into a series of spacious atriums dominated by towering totemic carvings and ancestral effigies. The surprisingly sleek and modern concrete galleries with soft lighting were drenched in the earthy colors and abstract designs of PNG's famed tribal arts, a rich kaleidoscope of statuary, pottery, basketry, weaponry, and masks - my ethnographic playground. The intricate anthropomorphic and spiraling forms of the Sepik River tribes, particularly the crocodile cult carvings of the Iatmul and Chambri, were among my favorite pieces in the collection for their artistry. The Kerewo exhibited finely decorated skull racks, which in the not too distant past once held the swinging severed trophies of the region's fiercest headhunters. Finally, the massive fire dance masks of the Baining took on extraterrestrial forms, their bulbous eyes staring out over a room filled with hundreds of yam cult fetishes. I was so enamored with these exquisite sculptures, that the man at the museum's reception desk informed me of one that he could sell, a high quality Eastern Sepik "crocodile man" effigy. The deal was too hard to pass up, although I was playfully skeptical if it was indeed a modern work and not simply a surplus antiquity taken from one of the galleries. While the ethnic arts captivated my attention, the upper levels devoted to PNG's role in WWII Pacific campaigns completely overcame my father. From Japanese firearms and Australian army relics, to actual wreckage from one of many American planes that were swallowed by the jungle, the exhibit recounted in vivid visual detail the many battles between the Allied and Axis powers during that bloody decade. The Papuans themselves did not escape the global conflict, with many tribesmen forced into forming infantries of shirtless soldiers with sarongs and rifles, ready to fight on behalf of their Commonwealth colonizers against a new group of Imperial colonizers. Until coming upon this wonderfully curated exhibit, the naval battles of Bismarck Bay and guerilla tactics used along the Kokoda Track were both aspects of the war I had only vaguely heard about through casual reading, a part of WWII history that's often overshadowed by the well-known atrocities in Europe. The hangar out back behind the museum contained the decaying remains of aircrafts, including an exhibit on aviation pioneer Amelia Earhart, whose mysterious unsolved disappearance started with her departure flight from PNG. After visiting the museum, our taxi eventually returned to take us a few miles back to the hotel. The jolly man was flabbergasted to hear that we were walking on our own the previous day, and that we were frequently crossing the street to pick up food and groceries from the Vision City supermarket. He offered to drive us one block to the market and back free of charge, insisting that it wasn't safe for us to even traverse such a short distance independently due to possible kidnapping. We weren't entirely sure how to feel about this insight coming from a local, but we nevertheless appreciated his genuine concern. Thankfully, it was our last time crossing the street.
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| The entrance to the museum recreated a traditional Haus Tambaran, or Sepik spirit house |
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| One of the museum's impressive galleries featuring various totemic carvings |
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| Girls in folkloric attire pose within a traditional Tolai shell currency ring |
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| The newly opened museum hangar for the remains of WWII aircrafts |
Goroka: Journey to the Eastern Highlands
At dawn, we set off back to the airport to catch our domestic flight to the Eastern Highlands. With only two roads (which don't even connect) servicing less than 10% of the country, the only way to reach the town of Goroka was via a turboprop plane or small jet. The haphazardly-ran domestic terminal was probably the only place where we encountered other foreign tourists since we arrived, ladened with backpacks and photography gear that clearly suggested we were all attending the same festivities. We flew less than an hour above the jungle terrain, which gradually transformed into misty peaks cut by deep gorges and cliff sides. The Eastern Highlands was a mountainous province of richly fertile soil, a land of dense emerald forests intermittently broken by plantations of bananas, sweet potatoes, and highly valued single-origin coffee. Stepping off the small aircraft onto the tarmac, we entered the provincial town of Goroka which was built entirely around the airstrip. There were already thousands of people walking the streets in a chaotic frenzy, with more pouring in from either direction along the main highlands highway connecting other provinces. The little town's population would later increase by tens of thousands for the exciting Goroka Show that weekend. After nearly an hour of waiting, a beat-up microbus from the national sports federation finally came to retrieve us and a handful of other travelers, all of whom had equally frustrating correspondences with Christopher Bartlett. We immediately found an odd sense of commonality with the small group, sharing stories of confusion and lack of communication regarding his program. Driving into the sports federation, we observed three spacious football pitches, each actively being decorated with thatch structures and sound equipment in preparation for the grand festivities. Two blocks of humble dormitories and a dining hall was nestled behind the stadium bleachers and security fence, an arrangement that felt oddly reminiscent of summer camp accommodations. The national sports federation dormitories provided lodging and meals for training athletes and their families from across the country, some of whom were even regarded as prospective Olympic candidates. In the week leading up to the Goroka Show, a selection of rooms was typically opened up to tourists looking for basic and budget accommodation, literally steps from the festival grounds. Rows of tiny 50 square foot rooms with a single bed and desk lined each block, with communal showers and toilets at the end of the open porch. Aside from a few spiders on the bed and the scurry of a harmless roach, the amenities actually exceeded my expectations and were quite clean, with even a brand new towel and bar of soap included in the room for our use. Meals needed to be ordered in advance, unless one felt brave enough to cross beyond the protective fence to find food among the flood of locals in a town with hardly any street lamps. The security guards told us it was safer to explore the town in a group and, much to the amusement of the locals, all of us "dormies" strolled rather conspicuously along the main road towards downtown. Hundreds lined the sidewalks selling local produce and handcrafted items, as well as engaging in games of darts and gambling. We stopped by a local kai bar for some amazingly cheap hot foods to go, including sheep tongues, lamb hearts, and fried fish. Taking photos of all the delectable options, the lady behind the counter insisted we retake them in order to capture her best angle, a touch of comedy that further supported my observation that Papuans actually love to be photographed. After lunch, we visited a small local museum next to our dorms that had a surprisingly decent collection of regional ethnographic arts and WWII relics. For me, an archival photo gallery of early 20th century Australian explorations by the (in)famous Leahy brothers gave a fascinating insight into the region during first contact, particularly the bloody cane-swallowing initiations of the Bena tribe. Returning home at dusk, a simple chicken dinner in the dining hall was followed by an early bedtime, though the blasting of music and constant festival sound checks past midnight meant that neither of us actually slept.
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| Catching the next flight to the town of Goroka in the Eastern Highlands |
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| The dorms of the National Sports Institute would be our home for the next four nights |
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| The dorms were surprisingly nicer and cleaner than I had anticipated |
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| Picking up ready-made lunches at a local kai bar |
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| In a country lacking real restaurants, the kai bar was a food heaven |
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| The waitress insisted we retake a glam shot of her posing with our lunch |
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| The sheep tongues, lamb hearts, and fried fish were our favorites |
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| One of countless WWII era aircrafts that went down in the Papuan jungles. |
A Day With The Asaro Tribe: In Search Of "Mud Men"
Early the next morning, Christopher Bartlett arrived by road from Mt Hagen, giving us all a chance to finally put a face to this overbearing character. Much to our surprise, the man seemed considerably more tolerable in person than his poorly phrased emails made him out to be. His knowledge and passion for PNG and its people made him suitable for getting us around the area and navigating the complexities of the festival, as well as organizing a day trip to visit tribal communities in the vicinity of Goroka. A visit to the Asaro tribal community of Korokoreto proved to be one of my most entertaining and memorable experiences with an indigenous community. Perched on the slopes of a mountain, the Asaro village was like a primordial Eden, with its traditional thatch huts and family gardens linked by manicured trails of colorful blooms and exotic foliage. Blossoms of wild ginger, orchids, and flowering trees created lush living partitions between plots of earth filled with sweet potatoes, cassava, taro, corn, and cabbages. Along the quaint tree-lined pathways sat older women and village children selling traditional woven crafts, beaded jewelry, clay figurines, and betel nuts. The sense of welcome and hospitality was strong, as the entire village came out to participate in the activities planned for our visit. We all climbed to an open stretch of land at the top of the hillside, where men were putting together a traditional mumu earth oven that would prepare our lunch. Related to the ancient subterranean cooking methods that can be found in cultures all over the South Pacific, the mumu was unique in that the whole pig, accompanying tubers, and side vegetables were not simply thrown into a pit with hot stones, but rather partially buried under a mound of it coals insulated with banana leaves. A bamboo tube was inserted until it reached the inner chamber of the mound, through which water was poured and then resealed to very slowly steam its contents.
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| A serene image of daily life in the Asaro village of Korokoreto |
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| This sweet woman was proud to show me her humble home of meager possessions |
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| Many villagers appeared suddenly through the vegetation |
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| An Asaro child traditionally dressed for the occasion |
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| Village elders displaying their finest ceremonial wear |
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| Constructing the mumu earth oven with layers of hot stones in a pit to steam the pig |
Over the course of 90 minutes cooking time, the villagers directed us along forested trails to a circuit of open patches of land, where different groups of villagers performed native dances and traditional folk theater retelling mythological tales from the region. The tribal costumes were elaborate and visually stunning, with ornate beaded shell jewelry, vibrant body paint, colorful feathers, and fresh leaves transforming everyone into walking floral bouquets. Some of the dances were comical in nature: sagging bare-breasted older women playing leapfrog, the story of a skeleton villager defeating a child-stealing demon (whose long vine tail kept getting snagged), and a hilarious men's fertility dance that employed rather long phallic representations crafted from banana trunks. Other dances took on more serious tones, which were naturally the most captivating performances given PNG's historical infamy with witchcraft and cannibalism: intimidating warriors following a mock funeral to consume the heart of a dead chief, actually biting into an raw pig heart for extra genuine effect (likely from the same unfortunate sow that was slowly cooking for us). Interestingly, the Asaro themselves were not historically cannibalistic like some of their neighbors, though that fact didn't make the performance any less mesmerizing.
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| A girl donning the festival attire of the Western Highlands tribes |
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| The Chimbu "skeleton men", recreated for us by the Asaro |
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| Asaro elder with that classic stoic expression |
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| The chief of the moka, a fertility dance with comical sexual overtones |
By far the most awaited folk dance of the Asaro was that of the holosa, or "mud men". Covered in pale air-dried mud and donning massive clay masks with ghoulish and demonic expressions, the mud men slowly crept out of the foliage in silence, wielding bows, spears, and clubs. Like cats, they stalked us like prey in a creepy and menacing way, sometimes releasing their bows or making sudden jerking movements with their weapons to shock members of the unsuspecting audience. No one is entirely sure when the mud men tradition began, but plenty of legends for this mysterious dance abound, from representing ancient warrior ancestors using scare tactics, to mythical spirits seeking revenge on enemy tribes. The massively heavy masks were made from simple clay, taking only one day to fashion but upwards of a week to dry. Following the performance, we returned to the mumu with great anticipation. Unwrapping layers of steaming leaves, lunch finally revealed a perfectly moist whole pork, as well as steaming hot cassava, sweet potato, plantain, and breadfruit leaves. The entire village gathered to set up the lunch, which also included freshly cut pineapple, papaya, cucumber, and granadilla passion fruit. Such an exquisite meal saw my father find his way to first in line to partake, and maybe even a sneaky return for a second helping of succulent pork. A large cake from Goroka was brought out after lunch, both in celebration of PNG's 50th independence as well as an anniversary for Christopher's kinship with the village head, drawing out an endless stream of excited village children seeking a slice of the rare frosted treat. The afternoon brought a heavy monsoon downpour that completely drenched us to the core, even despite huddling under bamboo groves and holding large banana leaves overhead. Once it subsided, the final entertainment of the evening brought out the entire village to the base of a 30-foot pole lathered in gelatinous axle grease, a collection of valuable prizes tied precariously to a wooden frame at its apex. Any individual or group of men who could successfully reach the top may potentially win whatever prize they could grab - a shovel and machete set, a large cooking pot, a thick blanket, or bills adding up to several hundred kina. The entire crowd cheered and erupted in contagious laughter as various groups of men struggled to climb the pole over the course of an hour, whimsically slipping and sliding before crashing into a pile of greasy bodies below.
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| The famed holosa warriors, commonly known as the "mud men" |
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| The heavy mud helmets were used to frighten away enemy tribes |
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| Can you imagine running into this in the forest during the explorer days? |
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| Today's warriors are playful and know how to strike a good pose |
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| The moment we all waited for: Uncovering the mumu |
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| The sow was meticulously butchered into a porkapus |
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| Pigs are precious and only eaten for special occasions |
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| The village also prepared a wonderful array of homegrown tubers, vegetables, and tropical fruits |
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| The grease pole was the most anticipated entertainment for the village |
Goroka Show: Great Gathering Of The Tribes
The day had finally come. We awoke at dawn, the main day of the grand Goroka Show, the most significant sing-sing festival in the county and the largest pan-tribal gathering in the world. Initiated in the early 50's by Australian kiap patrol officers as a way to peacefully bring tribes together and counter centuries of warfare, the festival's popularity eventually transformed the occasion into a massive annual production ensuring that Papuan folkloric traditions would continue to survive. We were granted VIP passes, which allowed us early entry to meet and photograph the various tribes as their elaborate processions arrived from across the country and entered the large field. The Papuan public entry would only commence at noon, giving foreigners four hours of space and security to interact with the tribes before releasing the floodgates of locals. Over the course of the morning, innumerable tribal groups poured into the showgrounds, each with entourages of up to 20 members, all dressed over the top in the most dazzling and dizzying display of ethnic finery. Colorful plumes from thousands of tropical birds, across a multitude of species, fluttered from flamboyant towering headdresses. Many hair pieces were created from actual whole birds, their tiny taxidermy talons and beaks jutting out from the wearer's head. One towering headdress of the Kalam tribe glistened with hues of emerald and aquamarine from thousands of iridescent beetle exoskeletons fastened in rippling patterns. For the Huli, their famous "wigs" were grown and meticulously fashioned from their own hair, treated and matted to a texture reminiscent of felt. Bouncing up and down, the tribes jingled and rattled from heavy layers of elaborate jewelry and accessories fashioned out of cowrie shells, dried seeds, boar tusks, and animal bones. Some warriors made collar decorations from the massive protruding beaks of hornbills and animal skulls, while highland women donned blouses of tree kangaroo fur and tassels of cuscus tails. Skirts of grass, leaves, moss, and bark covered some groups, while others pranced around nearly completely nude, covered solely by banana fiber thongs and intricate body patterns of natural pigment. Older topless women of the Melpa people swayed their way into the field, their large sagging breasts swinging along to the rhythmic beats of their handheld kundu drums. Even as the massive arena began to reach capacity, more tribes began to enter, some carrying on their backs giant eight foot tall brightly painted masts crafted from bamboo and woven jute fabric appearing like a boat's sail. The procession of these lofty banners gave the atmosphere an almost carnival-like aura, except the people themselves had transformed into the parade floats.
Like falling right into the pages of a National Geographic, the entire field became a veritable playground for amateur anthropologists and ethnographic enthusiasts. A number of the most iconic groups attended, their arrival causing visitors to trip over themselves like paparazzi in an effort to obtain the most dramatic photographs. These included the famed Huli "wigmen" of Hela province, the black-faced Suli Muli of Enga province, the beetle-bejeweled Kalam of Madang province, and the boldly painted Melpa warriors of the Southern Highlands, all of whom expressed some of the most intimidating appearances from their warpaint and weaponry. From the remote Sepik River region, the famed "crocodile" tribes of Iatmul, Chambri, and Abelam attended, wearing intricate facial designs that echoed the painted depictions of ancestors on the colorful lintels of their tambaran spirit houses. From the island of New Britain came the Tolai and Baining peoples in their more tropical Oceanic style of attire, complete with grass skirts and sea-faring imagery on their headdresses. Yet there was no shortage of lesser-known tribes, whose names and villages I'll unfortunately never be able to recollect, all possessing equally stunning artistic styles and energy. While some could rely merely on their exotic looks and intricate costumes to draw a crowd, many other groups captivated their audiences with unique performances and chants. One tribe's warriors danced in a circle while rhythmically beating their spears with sticks and stomping the ground, invoking an intense power that could undoubtedly rally anyone to battle. Another group of Tolai men used long dried plant stalks to whip each other in a ritual demonstration of strength, cracking the air like firecrackers and causing onlookers to cringe from the perceived pain. There were skeleton-like men that fainted in the presence of a masked ogre, as well as a group of Apenda clan members from Morobe province that snaked their way around the crowded field carrying a hundred foot long black jute serpent, all reenacted folk dances and mythologies that perplexed the viewer while lacking any context. Some tribes formed dance circles reminiscent of Native American powwows, some marched across the field in regiments like soldiers while bellowing battle cries, and others formed long drum lines that rhythmically bounced. It seemed as if around 60 different groups made the journey to Goroka this year, which was actually a fraction of the normal attendance despite the showgrounds still being completely filled to capacity. The field ultimately inundated with thousands in a human kaleidoscope of colors and textures, a whirlwind scene that was pulsating, frenetic, cacophonous, and visually mind-blowing.
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| The "black-faced" Suli Muli of Enga province |
Beyond the fence surrounding the field was a second field filled with indigenous craft merchants, huddled on the ground with their exotic wares sprawled out before them. Necklaces and jewelry crafted from massive kina shells, animal bones, and boar tusks were popular items, as well as mud men warrior figurines crafted from clay. Looking more closely between the mixture of wooden masks and rattan basketry, one could find some more bizarre ethnographic pieces. One man pulled out a puppet made from a bat skeleton, where a simple tug of the string caused its wing bones to flap up and down in a delightfully macabre manner. One merchant sold a shaman's traditional "magic bag" whose black woven exterior was covered in miscellaneous dangling bones. When asked what type of bones were used in its decoration, the answer was rather casual: a mix of animal and human. The food stalls towards the other end of the field proved to be our lifeline during the festival, as Goroka was seemingly devoid of substantial eateries aside from the overpriced Bird of Paradise hotel restaurant, a shady burger shack, and one Chinese place that ended up sending one tourist to the local clinic. Some of the local foods may have looked questionable, but they were quite delicious and unbelievably cheap compared to the pre-ordered meals at the dorm dining hall, as festival stalls could provide a filling meal for two people totaling to only five dollars. Over two days, we feasted on grilled chicken, lamb stew, battered fried sweet potato, crispy mushrooms, coconut rice, and delectable lamb vegetable skewers that were handed to me on a ripped piece of cardboard. Once the afternoon had arrived, the gates were opened and thousands of locals rushed the fields, filling the entire area to a choking maximum capacity. The craft merchants would frantically pack up by throwing their goods into a blanket and running off, presumably before items could get snatched in the mayhem. While hundreds of locals would pour into the second field to take in the colorful cultures of their native neighbors, the bulk of the masses flocked to a third field where popular Papuan pop and rock artists were performing live sets to a completely ecstatic audience. The festival police were quick to evacuate all foreigners from each of the fields for security reasons, tourists laden with large expensive cameras comically fleeing back to their private transport or, in our convenient case, across the border fence into our humble dormitory. With the evening monsoon downpour, we spent our time socializing with the rest of the dormies, sharing travel experiences and venting frustrations about misbehaving tourists from that morning. Like aggressive paparazzi, the rush to capture iconic "National Geographic" quality shots, alongside occasional photo-bombings that were either accidental or the result of indifference, often lead to small skirmishes or heated arguments among many of the tourists. To our collective ironic embarrassment, the most "tribal" people on the field during those two days ended up not even being indigenous.
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| A man casually sells a shaman's bag decorated with both human and animal bones |
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| Beautiful Sepik wood carvings featuring the crocodile spirit |
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| She ripped off a piece of cardboard to serve as my plate |
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| A filling lunch of astoundingly cheap festival foods |
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| Urban Papuans filling up the field next door for the live local pop and rock concert |
The National Sports Institute: An Unlikely "Home"
Life at the dorm became more routine, oddly starting to feel like a home during our brief stay in Goroka. Waking at 6 AM, my father and I would head straight to the communal showers to wash at our leisure and privacy while the other dormies slept soundly. By 7, we joined them in the dining hall for a very basic breakfast and instant coffee. By 8, we were already on the empty field, accessed through the heavily guarded gate in our dividing fence, where we anxiously awaited the tribes to parade into the showgrounds. By noon, the first round of locals had entered, giving us a chance to return to the dining hall to eat our festival foods in relative peace and out of the heat. The afternoon was spent craft shopping until the monsoon rains fell, when we returned to the dorms to either take a nap or head up to the game room and bar above the dining hall. At 6:30, the dining hall was open for dinner, where we gathered like school children at long tables to share our experiences and photos. Even though I don't often travel with other groups of people, something about the "Goroka dormies" made me feel a real sense of connection. In my belief, the people who visit places like PNG were likely the type who had already accumulated an extensive collection of unconventional destinations on their record, a group of knowledgeable travelers after my own heart. Lynn was a charismatic older British woman who spoke endlessly about her successful trek along the grueling Kokoda Track. Milkana was an amicable Bulgarian American who shared my absolute love for native arts and cultural customs. Another American, Robert, was actively living my dream of unlimited wandering (coincidentally, I came across his amazing Instagram videos before meeting him in the flesh). Carolina was a young Finnish pharmacist with a goal to explore all of Latin America within the next couple of years. Mike was a bubbly Irishman who really became popular with the locals, particularly after having his entire face painted as the PNG flag. Victor was the quiet American grandfather that had secretly visited nearly every nation on the planet, possessing an endless archive of intriguing tales if you happen to inquire. Christina was a lone wandering mother on a photography journey, who also happened to hail from good old San Diego. Barbara and Raffaele were a Polish-Italian couple with exceptional generosity, always keeping the group informed when Christopher Bartlett failed to do so and spotting others who struggled to exchange money. Lastly, the Hong Kong crew of four young influencers and filmmakers, never ceased to entertain us with their amusing interviews and extensive documentation, even of the moments that didn't exactly go to plan. Everyone had a story and passion for travel that resonated with me in the most inspirational way. By the end of our time together, some of us were already making plans for future adventures together.
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| Breakfast in the sports institute dining hall, gossiping about other misbehaving tourists |
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| Chilling in the game room/bar above the dining hall. Probably the nicest room of the facility |
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| The "Dormies". The coolest people are always the ones traveling on a budget! |
Entering the provincial Goroka airport, our luggage was manually searched, as the only x-ray machine had apparently been out of commission for the last six months. After waiting an hour to check in, we were handed two free bags of Papuan coffee beans in honor of the country's 50th independence anniversary, a totally unexpected and highly appreciated parting gift (despite it nearly putting our bags over the carry-on weight limit). The time of our flight's departure eventually passed, with no word from Air Niugini as to the cause of the delay. One hour eventually turned to two, then four, and then six. The airport staff lacking any kind of knowledge as to the whereabouts of the plane didn't help to ease the frustrations of the small waiting room filled with tired and confused tourists. Information passed around second or third hand throughout the day with little veracity, until we finally learned that the problem was a faulty plane. Suddenly, there were not enough aircrafts in the fleet to accommodate the backed logged flight schedule. Thankfully, the dormies helped pass the time with pleasant conversation, as waiting eight hours in solitude could've been a very different experience. Despite drastic changes to the flight manifest, we all made it onto the first flight out, a fortunate conclusion to the day considering that many tourists ended up getting stranded in Goroka after the second flight was unexpectedly cancelled.
Back To Moresby: Raggianas & Reflections
Bidding farewell to our new friends, we continued our last day in PNG staying in the slightly better developed area of Ela Beach, though the Crown Hotel staff still insisted that we not leave the guarded compound after dark. After a delectable but expensive iced frappacino, chocolate croissant, and coconut cake at the Harborside Duffy's, we went on to do what we always somehow end up doing in nearly every country at the end of a trip - go to the local zoo. The Port Moresby Nature Park was far more humble compared to the sprawling zoos of more developed nations, though certainly no less captivating. A beautifully manicured park complex of native fauna and flowering gardens next to the University of PNG campus, the nature park was remarkable for its massive network of interconnected aviaries containing a colorful collection of endemic tropical birds, most notably the famed birds of paradise, of which there are 45 different species. They flew between the trees of the aviaries, their colorful plumes fluttering in the air like the shimmering tails of comets, occasionally swaying side to side in whimsical vibrating courtship dances. The national Raggiana bird of paradise shared its domain with parrots, lorikeets, and hornbills, which were separated from another series of connected aviaries containing tree kangaroos, cuscuses, and kookaburras. Along the walking paths, large Victoria crowned pigeons, the largest pigeons in the world, pecked their way around one's feet for seeds and insects. A series of decks eventually took one above the open enclosures containing more aggressive animals like angry-looking cassowaries and grinning crocodiles, while the nearby forest of trees were decorated with hundreds of giant flying foxes fluttering their vampire wings like bulbous wind chimes. After admiring the tanks of pythons and frogs, we took lunch at the charming park restaurant, a surprisingly delicious meal of coconut chicken, steamed banana, and local greens, while cooling down from the heat with freshly brewed iced tea. We finished the afternoon with a stroll around the Ela peninsula, taking in the radiant betel nut red sunset before returning to the security of the hotel for one last night.
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| View of Ela Beach and the APEC convention center at dusk |
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| Victoria crowned pigeons are the largest pigeons in the world, about the size of a rooster |
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| The cassowary is known for attacking and inflicting serious injuries |
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| Colonies of massive flying foxes live in the trees of the park without any confinement |
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| The timid tree kangaroo is highly endangered |
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| Delicious local cuisine at the nature park's outdoor restaurant |
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| A view of Port Moresby Harbor |
Our time in Papua New Guinea was amazing in ways that we had anticipated, as well as eye-opening in ways that we had not. The cultural and linguistic variety, stunning visual and performing arts, and diverse exotic landscapes were all aspects that drew us to this fascinating country, certainly living up to expectations if not utterly surpassing them. The privilege of attending the Goroka Show, in light of the vast distances covered and amount of money spent, would forever be immortalized in my growing collection of life-changing travel experiences. Yet for all the negative and harrowing descriptions of PNG as a remote, lawless land filled with violence, the politeness and gentleness of the local people were undeniably some of the finest examples of civility I've ever encountered in the world, serving as a constant reminder that no population should be judged by the actions of a few bad seeds. Nevertheless, the relatively young country has faced a rather rough start since 1975, continuing to struggle mainly with corruption, poverty, and social inequality that only fosters disillusionment, crime, and conflict. Yet for what it's worth, the PNG I briefly witnessed, particularly during this special 50th independence year, was a welcoming land filled with a commendable amount of national pride, social unity, and economic potential. I wonder where Papua New Guinea will be when its 100th anniversary rolls around, and if I'll live to celebrate this beautiful land again.
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