It should be noted that safety and maintenance are not the prime concern of drivers in Papua New Guinea. This is shown most dramatically among the PMV fraternity. The PMV (for Public Motor Vehicle) is the major mode of transport for the ordinary citizen. I assume there is some type of exam to pass to obtain a PMV licence but there is little evidence that the standards are all that rigorous. Picture demolition derby drivers, drunk, with an attitude. Seatbelts do not exist in PNG, unless perhaps you are referring to a drink while driving. In the event that a PMV is the only way to go it is wise to do a circle check of the vehicle. Examine the tires for excessive wear. If braided cord is clearly visible, or tube patches can be seen through what remains of the tire, wait for the next bus, especially if you plan to travel through the mountains. It often seems that Highlands government road budgets are spent on digging potholes and not on building guardrails.

Rental or private vehicles are generally in better shape than your average PMV. Problems begin if you have an accident. The quaint cultural peccadillo called "payback" may come into play if you hit a pig, a woman, another vehicle or, god forbid, a man. Should any of these happen you are well advised not to stop. While you may be willing to make restitution in a civilized fashion, the local citizenry may decide on more immediate justice. Many people have been killed by angry relatives while waiting for police to arrive. An interesting variation on this theme is often employed by the more entreprenerial types. Villagers drag the corpse of recently expired grandma down to the side of the road and hide behind a convenient bush. At the appropriate moment they hurl the deceased relative out in front of a speeding vehicle. Should the vehicle stop, the villagers act as bush lawyers and negotiate a settlement between the driver and various grieving relatives that happened to be present. I suppose if too many drivers followed conventional wisdom and just kept driving the scam would sort of fall apart until the untimely death of another "lapun mama" (old woman) puts them back in business again.

The opening of the Highlands Highway in 1964 paved the way for the onslaught of vehicular mayhem that exists today. All of the major Highland centers were able to transport their coffee to the coast for export which in turn generated enormous income for villagers. What better way to spend money than on a brand new Toyota LandCruiser? Driving a vehicle is one thing, maintaining it is quite another. These people did not have the advantage of watching fathers check the oil and add water to the radiator as all Western children have done. While our dads were asking us to hand them a wrench theirs were busy tuning up the family axe. Consequently, if a driver knows that a vehicle required water and oil as well as gas he/she may not know when or what hole the respective fluids go into.

A typical scenario would be a tribal leader/coffee baron driving his brand new LandCruiser into town with as many wantoks (friends, literally one, or same talk) as possible squeezed into the tray in the back. LandCruiser trucks aren't too popular in North America but they are very popular in PNG. The engine, which has never been serviced, runs out of oil or water or both. The engine overheats and seizes up. Now is the time to get service concludes the owner. Some of the boys are sent to town to find a relative or tribal member to tow them in. The driver gets bored and tries to start the engine. If he is very unlucky the engine has had time to cool and will start up again. He gets going as fast as possible reasoning that the faster he gets to the service station the sooner this little glitch will be rectified. Soon all four wheels lock accompanied by the screeching of tortured metal as the engine seizes again, this time parts are melted and if he lives on the coast, it could be sold as an anchor. The cab and tray itself can now be used as a planter for coffee seedlings as the wheels of commerce, if not the wheels of his Toyota, continue to turn.

It would be unfair to exclude myself from tales of mechanical incompetence in view of an unfortunate safari to Mt. Wilhelm in Chimbu Province. Mt. Wilhelm is the highest mountain in the country at about 4509 meters. Why would someone who has never even climbed the lowest mountain in any country agree to scale the highest? It is supposed to be "easy if one has even a moderate level of fitness" said one guidebook thrust under my nose by Ms Flying Wallenda, alias Ruth, wife from hell. Mt. Wilhelm is one of the few sites in the Highlands that have been developed with the tourist in mind. This snow-capped mountain has a well-maintained trail with sleeping accommodations near the summit for hikers to spend the night. Much against my better judgement, Ruth, while threatening to withhold an already sporadic family resource, talked me into driving our ancient LandCruiser truck to the base of Mt. Wilhelm and hiking up. She thought a friend and her two children would enjoy the trip as well.

I knew the brakes were not great on the LandCruiser and the four-wheel drive capability had been effectively nullified by the removal of the rear drive-shaft. I really expected to drive on reasonable roads to the base of the mountain, park, and then plod to the summit. That is my story and I am sticking to it. I did not expect to get lost. Road signs in PNG are generally a good source of firewood so you should sort of know where you are going. I thought I did but the scenery became increasingly unfamiliar and sure enough, I was lost. Our one-lane dirt track started getting narrower and less navigable as the comments in the front seat got frostier and less supportive. We rounded a curve and started up a steep grade with a 1000 foot sheer drop-off on the left straight into another curve with the same drop-off on the right. A goat would hesitate to go up this road but I was committed since there was no place to turn around. The question of proceeding further was then solved for us. The engine of our elderly LandCruiser was simply not going to pull us any further up that hill. We were in first gear with accelerator to the boards and we were standing still. Brilliant! I was now faced with ever so slowly, backing down this road with acrophobic drop-offs on either side. I released the brake slightly and we began to creep down the hill. Then a little faster, then faster still until I was standing on the brake and we were still accelerating. I then experienced a little left-side, right-side brain squabble. The Richard Petty half wanted to careen around both corners in reverse ending up in control where the road leveled out. The Percy Dovetonsil half said, "Steer this hunk of junk into the wall of the hill while we still have a chance." Percy won, no contest. I cranked the steering wheel counter-clockwise and bonked the tray and its occupants into the soft clay wall that formed the non-thousand-foot-dropoff side of the road. The passengers in the front were fine, those in the tray played a little impromptu human pinball but, being kids, emerged unscathed.

An accident in PNG always produces an instant audience. Our little spot on the road previously deserted now had twenty or so villagers, laughing, pointing, giving unsolicited advice and generally making my life worse than it already was. I had a very heavy vehicle stuck like a preposterous dart in the side of a hill with the back wheels off the ground. I had one tool with which to rectify the situation that being a large philips screwdriver.

"Pinhead", you are saying. "What kind of festering half-wit takes several people up and down mountain roads in a geriatric truck with wonky brakes and no tool kit?"

Well don't bother saying it because Ruth covered those sentiments adequately, thank you. So, I learned something that day. From then on I didn't go to the end of the driveway without enough tools to disassemble the Hubbard telescope.

It didn't take too long for the multitudes to come up with an idea for extricating my vehicle. Highlanders are nothing if not enthusiastic and helpful when it comes to a situation like this. No one had a rope to tow the car out but a smiling fellow with a row of kitchen matches stuck in holes in the top of his nose appeared wheeling a spool of electrical cable, obviously liberated from some construction site. The matches, incidentally, are used as retainers which, when a feast or a marriage is to be celebrated are removed and replaced with bird of paradise plumes. A giant granny knot secured the cable to the front bumper and we uncoiled fifty feet off the spool and up the road. About twenty of us laid hold and put our backs into it. That truck did not budge, not one micron. The thought crossed my mind that I might have to leave the truck overnight and bring back a tow vehicle in the morning, if I could find one. Abandoned vehicles don't survive well in the Highlands. If you can imagine those shipwrecks on the coast of Ireland where all the villagers come running to collect the floating cargo, well, you get what I mean. It's sort of a natural right of salvage, only on land. The only other units of energy around were about 50 children, most naked and all under 10, who had come up from the village to view the proceedings. No one seemed to object when I suggested that they be added to the tug of war line. Our pal uncoiled another 100 feet of cable and with a communal shriek of enthusiasm the kids joined in. In two seconds the truck was wobbling and in another two all four wheels were on the ground in the middle of the road. The kids had pulled my truck and my fat out of the fire.

The really embarrassing part came when a village man, who knew what he was talking about, suggested that I shift the truck into low-range four wheel drive for the trip down the hill. I pointed out that I had no rear drive train, to which he replied that shifting into low range not only engages the 4WD but puts the engine itself into a lower range which acts as an effective braking system. If I had known that readily apparent (to him) fact none of this would have happened.

Just when you start feeling like Albert Schweitzer bringing hope and civilization to the savage hoards some stone age Mr. Goodwrench shows up and blows your cover.