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On one of those trips across town, we stopped for gas |
On Saturday, I embarked on my journey from the Highlands to the coast, but we were only 20 minutes into it before we were rolling to a stop. Flat tyre. Four trips across town and an hour later sent us on our way (only to repeat the flat-tyre experience five hours closer to Madang). But, considering the drive, I suppose it’s a wonder that we didn’t have to replace tires more often!
The roller coaster ride began anew as we trundled toward hills that soared upwards beyond the view of the windshield. Caution: 17% Gradient, proclaimed one sign. Another calmly observed: Steep and Winding Road.
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Those are indeed clouds, and they are indeed below us. |
Finally (and most succinctly), red-painted letters: SLOW.
Their reassurance was stifling. The van’s joints creaked and groaned just like that ancient High Flyer as gravity weighted me into my seat—not unlike an airliner’s take-off. Out my window, the road’s so-called-shoulder plummeted down the cliff, rivaling Six Flags. For a moment, we teetered at the top of the hill, an instant of spectacular scenery—the Highlands mountains tumbling and folding into crevices like a rumpled quilt. Then, over the peak and down… I shoved my knees into the seat ahead of me as we pitched forward at 100 km/hour, leaning around the curves as I braced against the window or ricocheted into my seat mate.
More Highlands mountains, heading down into the valley |
Although driving may technically be on the left, in reality, it occurs where the least potholes are (nothing is marked anyway), which makes for hair-raising encounters as you come around the bend and find a massive truck racing toward you on the same little spit of smooth road. Pothole-avoidance is a finely-honed skill and our driver proved his worth, slaloming expertly through a road pockmarked with ditches, as if someone took a massive shotgun and peppered the asphalt with crater-producing bullets. When he couldn’t dodge the holes, our driver skidded to a near halt, then crept forward, gingerly dropping the wheels down the cavern until I was certain the undercarriage must have scraped the ground, before the rest of the vehicle followed suit, and then up again over terrain akin to mountain-goat habitat. Such a strategy assumed, of course, the road was paved—which was only occasionally. Gravel roads, on the other hand, benignly sported rocks the size of paving stones and washed out canyons that lurched and jolted our spring-loaded seats. Occasionally, I would attempt to read, but when the words blurred into an unintelligible smear from the bouncing, even my strong stomach kindly asked me to give up and look out the window.
In the Ramu Valley. We came down those mountains. |
When we finally reached Madang and I climbed over the seats and out of the PMV, it was with same that rather incredulous belief you have after clambering out of a roller coaster—the realization that solid, unmoving ground still exists.
And to think, I used to pay to stand in long lines and go in a looping circle in order to come to the same conclusion!