Location: Blogging from the town Poppendetta, Papua New Guinea.

Having just completed our journey through the villages of the Barai tribe, I am proud to say that every member of our team came away with unforgettable experiences. It is a cliché, but the time we spent around Itokama, Kokoro and Tahama with the generous-hearted people of the Barai has been touching, heartbreaking, and even lol-worthy at times.

This is the story of what happened out in the jungle of Papua New Guinea, deep in the heart of the rainforests virtually untouched by the outside world. Each of these upcoming posts will be an edited version of my daily journal. Excuse the length, I’m merely sharing what we saw and experienced, enjoy the photo journal, have your eyes opened to this unique part of world.

Day 1 – Monday 21^st January

Sunrise on the runway at Cairns

Woke up at the crack of dawn (4.20am) in Cairns, Australia, drowsy yet excited for a new adventure. Flight out to Port Moresby, the sunrise vista from the airplane took my breath away – a dreamy haze covered the landscape of green rolling hills caressed by low-lying clouds. A river winded gently through the mountains.

Landed in Port Morseby. The rain worried us a little about whether the next small plane would be safe to take-off for Itokama. 

Liz and Mel: waiting in the hanger for the plane to Itokama

Nerves and excitement were running high as we prepared for to begin our journey. Strapped in tight, staring out the window of a tiny plane, watching the pilot’s controls in the cockpit, hopeful and wondering what on earth we were getting ourselves into.

Landing in Itokama, greeted by an incredible view of lush tropical rainforest – green, green, everywhere! As we landed on the tiny grass airfield in Itokama, local villagers of all ages had gathered around to welcome us – children waiting patiently, shoulder-to-shoulder behind a string with coloured flags flapping in the wind.

View of the opposite side of the village and clouds floating over the hilltops from the airstrip in Itokama

The Barai children are beautiful. Everything about their appearance screams out need - many have bulging bellies from malnutrition, dirty faces and runny noses from limited access to clean water and poor hygiene, old tattered clothes that were once worn by someone lucky enough to be born in a developed country. Likely their only set of clothes. And yet, when they smile or laugh, they do so with all of their soul, they take pleasure in the smallest of things.

While waiting for the rest of the team to arrive on the second flight, we wandered the village, checked out the rooms (bamboo huts) where we were staying. There was a small market, a simple open-air wood hut, with a few wooden benches were people sold tiny bundles of peanuts, tomatoes, watermelons, pumpkin leaves, and other knick-knacks. The whole surrounding area was crowded with people sitting around, waiting and interacting with each other.

Tomatoes, spring onion, pineapples and other produce at the market

A house in Itokama with a hand-made billen bag hanging at the entrance

We took a stroll across the grassy airfield to the other side of the village where the clinic was located. This was the building (hut) area where we would later hold our vaccination clinics. It was similar to how I had seen it in photos mum brought back from last July – a huge strip of tarpaulin stretched over wooden poles, an open-air bright blue tent on the muddy grass.

We explored (the doctors and nurses explored – I watched, took photos here and there and tried to learn/recognize drugs I read about yesterday and today) the stores of medicines, and began to pack supplies to take to Tahama tomorrow.

The hut with the blue tarpaulin area outside where we ran clinics day and night

Drugs supplied to the health clinic from the local government

Aged posters stuck onto the walls of the clinic rooms

Very little really sunk in my mind in those first few hours. It didn’t really hit me that we were actually in Papua New Guinea, however stupid it may have sounded. It vaguely registered to me as abnormal as we walked through the ‘improved’ health clinic (last July it was described by Jodee as absolutely filthy, with betel nut spit stains covering the walls and floors, and other nasty things). Faded health posters of AIDS and disabilities I had never heard of were plastered on the wall, and the room was constructed out of a kind of bamboo or simple wood – very basic resources.

The staircase leading up to the hut where we slept

Water filters for clean drinking water

Hand-drawn sign in the classroom which was used as a storeroom for medical supplies

The airplane after landing in Itokama

Harry (above) and Liz (below) with an adorable child named No name

Eventually the second plane arrived, and after everyone had gathered we were honoured with a welcoming ceremony. Traditional dancers dressed in colourful cultural costumes led us through the village, as a crowd of people lined along the fences to stare, smile or stand as we walked past. Handmade necklaces of peanuts and flower petals were placed around our necks, we were accompanied by festive song and dance, and in particular a man dressed in ceremonial battle wear who pretended to aim his spear at us.

Without a doubt, it was a beautiful gesture of friendship between communities and a unique, culturally-rich welcome. But I couldn’t shake that numb feeling of being uncomfortable, slightly embarrassed to look the people in the eye who were watching us expectantly, or maybe even not.

I found it incredible humbling – they were treating us with such kindness, and yet I was worrying how much we could give to these people, and whether we could truly make a difference. And on a selfish level, as a fresh-out-of-high-school noob with zero medical experience, it was the first feeling of being out of my league – what was a I doing? What could I possibly do? I could only hope that I can make a valuable contribution while I’m here, and not waste the resources I spent getting out here.

In the afternoon, the exciting part began. After a bit of a hustle getting ready, everyone doing what they can to pitch in – by setting up tables and chairs, gathering and setting up supplies, delegating roles, etc, we held our first afternoon clinic at Itokama!

From about 4pm-8.30pm, everyone in the medical team worked hard to make the clinic run smoothly. Most people tried out a few different roles, but in general mum and Liz triaged and treated, Elayne treated, Paul triaged and took blood collections (perhaps?), Gary the paramedic took blood samples, Mel and Liz B vaccinated, Jodee discharged, Harry and I ran a small glasses clinic.

Liz and Mel vaccinating

There were challenges. We had to set up in a way that could accommodate for some rain. Harry and I struggled at first to work out a method that could determine a rough refractive error. Everything was hot, humid and sticky. When the sun went down, light was minimal but insects were in over-supply. The doctors triaging found that there were many patients suffering from conditions that we didn’t have the resources or time to treat.

Sarah taking heights and weights by light of a head torch

Petros (left) and Paul (right) triaging

There were a few unusual cases, and when they occurred mum would try to call Harry and I (the med students) to come over and have a look. One was a mother with unusual lumps on her head and neck. Another was a woman suffering from a fungal infection on her skin – her arm was covered in dry, scaly patches that itched. A young boy was severely jaundiced, his palm was sickly yellow and his heartbeat was fast, as if struggling to pump blood around his body.

Harry did a fantastic job with the glasses. He worked out a system, with the help of a translator, where we would talk, test and guestimate our way to find as close a match as possible. He would ask whether they had problems seeing up close (ie. Reading/long-sightedness) or far away (walking, recognizing faces – short-sightedness). Surprisingly, most of the cases turned out to be middle-aged/old males requiring reading glasses. This was unfortunate as the positive glasses were in limited supply, and they soon began to deplete. It was a fascinating exercise, a testament to med on the go – where we would make do with as much as we could – hold up the sheet of small print, move it closer or further away; try on a few pairs and ask about improvement. It was time consuming, and difficult going back and forth, but there was a real feeling of joy and relief as a patient would declare that it was “good” or “better” (“mareh”), often with a smile, and walk away a proud new owner of a pair of glasses.

It was an incredible happy ending to see the kind of difference the donated glasses made to the people around the Barai community. Over the next few days, running these simple glasses clinics with the help of local translators would be one of my favourite parts of the clinics, and definitely the most gratifying.

There was also the opportunity to see examples of eye cataracts and terribly damaged teeth and gums due to beetel leaf chewing. Bloody, red-mouthed, black-tipped teeth – it looked horrifying and painful.

I found that the most emotional part of the first clinic was the treatment of a young boy named Hanson, who had an infected foot. It was yellowy and brown from encrusted dirt and infection, with three pale white lumps filled with pus. I held up the light as he lay on the bed, clutching the knitted doll in his right hand, writhing and tearing as Sue wiped down the sores with some medicinal liquid. It got worse – mum carefully drawned the pus out of just one of the sores, and the pain was so terrible that the father held him down as he squirmed, then finally sobbed and wailed.

I realized in that moment that its so easy to forget that there’s a human attached to the infected foot. But the pain was so real, so human. These people are made of strength, and the brave child writhed until he couldn’t hold his tears back any longer.

I absolutely love the clinics, and I think I understand how people get so excited and medical obsessed. But I can’t say I love the discomforts of living here. I’m becoming aware of how spoilt and privileged a life I’ve led, where I’ve basically never had to experience (endure) anything less than very or extremely comfortable, heck, luxurious. I cringe when my boots squelch in the mud, at the outhouse toilets (which aren’t even thaaaat bad), the constant worrying about mosquitoes/malaria, and the icky icky humid feeling. City girl shame.

Late night journaling under the mosquito net by light of a headtorch, laptop perched on my lap as I sat cross-legged on the sleeping bag. Others in the room are asleep, Sue was the first to snore. Some kid of animal snuffled and snorted in the mud about a metre under the floorboards of the hut. Probably a pig.

Carrie xx