Right to the Edge: Sydney to Tokyo By Any Means by Charley Boorman Page A

slithering through the grass with half a dozen men trying to whack it to death.
    I bought a coconut from a woman squatting on a grass mat, and she sliced it open for me with a machete. The juice was delicious, perfect to wash down the fresh peanuts we had picked up to go with the bananas. They were so sweet, like an explosion of sugar in your mouth every time you ate one - almost like sweet peas straight from the pod in the garden.
    The higher we got the more the place seemed to change. We were climbing steadily now and at exactly the kind of walking pace where it would be easy for bandits to jump on board. Back at the truck yard I’d noticed the fuel tank had a bolt and seal over the cap, clearly there to stop anyone siphoning off the diesel. Koi said there was a good market for selling stolen fuel. He seemed a little nervous, not quite as laid-back as he had been in the low country. As we rattled through one pass in particular, his eyes were everywhere, and now and again he would point out someone with a gun. It was true, then: there were still bandits up in these mountains.
    Gardens were a feature here: the higher we climbed the neater the houses were getting. Huts were made from woven grass, built on stilts perhaps five feet off the ground, clearly to keep the snakes out. The roofs were thatch and the walls beautifully patterned. The people looked fairly self-sufficient and they clearly took great pride in their homes. The lawns were mown, the vegetable patches pristine and growing everything from bananas to ginger and coffee. Koi told me that he had a little coffee plantation of his own. He planned to work there full time with his wife one day, when he finally finished with truck driving.
    The hours ticked by and we climbed right into the high country. As dusk fell we arrived at the town of Goroka. Koi had been brilliant company, a great guide for our first full day in Papua, and we had covered a good few miles from the coast. We said goodbye and I watched him trundle off into the darkness while we made our way to Marcel’s place and, hopefully, a bed for the night.
     
     
    The next couple of days were really eye-opening. Marcel had arranged for us to stay at the VSO lodge in Goroka, a white, colonial-style building where he and his colleagues lived. I really liked Marcel, one of those people you immediately warm to. Over the past couple of years he had created a physiotherapy centre for the disabled at the General Hospital and, now it was up and running, he had branched into a programme of community-based rehabilitation (CBR).
    After a good night’s sleep, Claudio and I walked to the hospital, a whitewashed stucco building in the middle of town. Marcel explained that there is a huge stigma attached to disability in Papua, and in some areas disabled children are still killed by their parents at birth. I think I was more shocked by that than anything I’d heard on my travels. Marcel explained that many people believed in witchcraft and evil spirits, and disability was very much associated with that. Part of his role with VSO was to show people that someone with disabilities could not only live a fulfilling life, but be a role model to others.
    Arriving at the hospital, we were greeted by a young kid who was just such an inspiration. Moloui had been born with arms that stopped at the elbows and he had narrow pads for hands with only one finger on each. Marcel explained that life for a boy like Moloui can be very difficult indeed. Many people believed that his mother must have done something she shouldn’t when she was pregnant, or gone somewhere she shouldn’t, and Moloui’s physical impediment was the result of it.
    Marcel worked tirelessly to show people that Moloui and kids like him were just the same as anyone else, and not some bad spirit or the product of any kind of behaviour. He introduced us to Cecelia Bagore, a local woman who coordinates all the work done with disabled children. She showed us around the