By Ship, Train, Bus, Plane & Sometimes Hitchhiking

By Ship, Train, Bus, Plane & Sometimes Hitchhiking

Traveling the World in the 1960s & 70s

By Walt Christophersen

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Walt Christophersen

License Notes: All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages.

ISBN 978-0-9837235-1-6

This book is also available on real paper

Buckeroo Books

Arizona USA

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Table of Contents

The real Pacific

Getting swamped

Marshall Islands footnotes

Field Trip I

Ponape footnotes

Truk footnotes

Guam footnotes

Yap footnotes

Palau footnotes

Field Trip II

The finale

South Pacific

Tahiti & the golden letter

Circling Tahiti by thumb

The ‘dangerous islands’

Tahiti’s sister island

Bali Ha’i is calling

The Samoas: divided by history

Feasting in the last Polynesian kingdom

Fiji and the girls of Vanua Vatu

French accent

New Zealand, quickly

Australia coast-to-coast

The rock

The road north

Penguins & other creatures

South America

Sailing down the Amazon

Amazon footnotes

Traveling companions

Rio!

Striking out

Tierra del Fuego

Riding the rails to Lake Titicaca

Norway

A cruise that went somewhere

The beginnings

Inspiration

Europe welcomes the lower classes

Setting foot in Europe

Living like the Brits

Bedbugs & Sara

A lift in Spain

Hosteling

Rules of the road

Backroads of Algeria

A small town in Macedonia

Asian odyssey

Taking a break

The Alexandria scam

Valley of the Kings

Working, briefly

The road to Baghdad

U-Turn on the river

Bumpy road to Afghanistan

Kabul and the Khyber Restaurant

Long day at the airport

Adjusting to India

Shocking Agra

New Year’s in Bombay

Hot and grubby Madras

Oh, Calcutta!

Packed like sardines

Refreshing Nepal

Two wild and crazy guys

Burmese days

Bangkok: Oriental LA

Detour to Vientiane

The bus to Angkor

Stranded in Saigon

To Singapore by train and taxi

Slightly upriver in Borneo

Brunei and Labuan

The visa/ticket dilemma

Bunking with the Peace Corps

Amazing coincidence

At home on the Star Ferry

Pizzas in Taiwan

Slipping and sliding to Japan

Hitching to Tokyo

Home at last

Footnote

The real Pacific

Getting swamped

The sea was choppy as a heavily loaded boat with nine people aboard left the beach and bounced through the surf at an island called Faraulep, heading for a ship drifting off the coast.

It was late afternoon. Rain made the water look gray and put a chill in the air.

As the driver gunned the outboard motor, the 14-foot boat was hammered by the waves. One man went flying overboard. Other passengers quickly pulled him in.

The swells were running four feet high as the small wooden boat drew alongside the ship. Grabbing the swinging rope ladder was tricky. One man trying to climb aboard lost his footing and fell into the sea. But he managed to get a grip on the ladder and pull himself up.

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It was day 15 of a field trip through the outer islands of Yap in the western Pacific. People were returning to the ship at the end of a daylong stop at the island.

After the shore boat arrived for the final time and the last few passengers were scampering up the ladder, a big swell flipped it over. Drenched crewmen righted the boat and hooked a cable to the bow so it could be hoisted aboard.

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I was the guy who slipped off the ladder.

It was January of 1971 and I was getting my first taste of the Pacific on a trip through Micronesia, a vast area between Hawaii and the Philippines that had remained virtually untouched by commercial tourism.

I was a freelance travel writer at the time, contributing articles and photographs to a number of Sunday newspapers. My experiences in the islands were summarized in a two part report:

Micronesia

South Seas without Ruffles

How do you like your islands?

If you’re willing to sacrifice the luxuries of Hawaii and Tahiti for the thrill of discovering the real Pacific, then just change planes in Honolulu and head west until you reach Micronesia.

Here, in a patch of ocean as large as the United States, you’ll find plenty of islands that haven’t changed much since the days Melville, Maugham and James Norman Hall sailed the Pacific.

Micronesia means little islands - a well-chosen title. There are more than 2,100 of them, but they’re so small you could lump them all inside that reliable old comparative Rhode Island and have lots of surfing space left over.

Located just north of the Equator, Micronesia would certainly fit anyone’s concept of the fabled South Seas.

Consider these diversions. Swimmers can collect sea shells along an untouched coral reef or flirt with angelfish while exploring the mysteries of a barnacle-encrusted shipwreck at the bottom of an emerald lagoon.

Landlubbers can soak up the sun on a deserted white beach, climb into the cockpit of a Japanese Zero that was peppered in an air raid in 1944 or maybe visit an isolated island inhabited by happy people who have never seen a telephone or an ice cream cone.

Tourists may still be a novelty here but in the past Micronesia played host to an odd variety of visitors including planters, missionaries, whalers, blackbirders (slave traders) and assorted scoundrels.

The islands changed hands three times in the past 74 years - each time as spoils of war. The Spanish, who moved in during the late 1600s, sold out to the Germans after losing the Spanish-American War in 1898. The League of Nations gave the islands to Japan following Germany’s defeat in the First World War. The Japanese broke their lease at Pearl Harbor.

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Most of Micronesia (except for Guam and some British possessions) is now officially known as the U.S. Trust Territory of the Pacific Islands, a designation dating from 1947 when the U.N. granted landlord status to the United States. The Trust Territory - or TT as it’s called - consists of six districts.

The Marianas and the Marshalls each constitute a district in themselves. The Caroline Islands are divided into four districts: Ponape, Truk, Yap and Palau. The TT’s administrative headquarters is on the island of Saipan in the Marianas.

Each district has at least one language of its own, in addition to English, and a slightly different culture. Total population is about 100,000.

The geography ranges from lush mountainous islands in the west to dry low-lying atolls - small islands perched on circular coral reefs - in the east.

Strict security kept tourists out of Micronesia during the Japanese and early American administrations, but now the area is virtually wide open and, thanks to a fairly new air service, more accessible than ever.

Air Micronesia, a subsidiary of Continental, has two island-hopping jet flights a week between Honolulu and Saipan. The fare is comparatively low. You can fly all the way to Palau for less than it costs to get to Tahiti, which is half as far from the U.S. mainland.

Since the TT is under U.S. control, Americans can stay for as long as 30 days without a passport or visa. Those who wish to linger awhile need an entry permit.

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The eastern gateway to Micronesia is Majuro, an atoll that serves as the district center for the Marshall Islands.

Majuro’s main island is a crescent-shaped sliver of sand and palm trees about 30 miles long. It used to be a chain of islands until the U.S. Navy filled in the empty spaces to build a road - or, more accurately, a 30-mile string of potholes.

Majuro is short on tourist attractions, the chief point of interest being a village at the far end of the road. The downtown area resembles the other district centers in that it’s a conglomeration of new houses and stores mixed in with weathered quonset huts and shacks made from old shipping crates.

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The next district center to the west is Ponape, a jungle-covered island with mountain peaks that poke through the clouds to a height of 2,500 feet. Ponape is known for its ancient ruins and boisterous bars.

The ruins are those of Nan Madol, a city built of volcanic rock some 700 years ago. It’s located across the island from the main town of Kolonia, but due to a lack of roads, it can be reached only by sea. Tours cost $25 per boatload and the trip takes 90 minutes each way.

Ponape is the drinking capital of Micronesia. Kolonia boasts 15 bars - one for every 230 men, women and children. To the distress of many Ponapeans, all bars were temporarily closed a few months ago following a shootout between imbibers and police.

A footnote on lawbreaking: it isn’t uncommon in any district center to see a small work detail of convicts cutting grass with machetes. Their guard is always a policeman armed with only a billy club.

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In the Truk district, the main island is Moen. The name Truk refers to the 40-mile-wide lagoon that surrounds Moen and nearly a dozen other large islands.

Truk is a scuba diver’s heaven. The Japanese used the lagoon as a naval strong-hold until American bombers neutralized it by sinking an estimated 60 warships.

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To get to the rest of Micronesia, you must pass through Guam, a full-fledged U.S. property with no political ties to the TT. In addition to being the economic hub of the western Pacific, Guam has a number of good hotels and restaurants that attract thousands of vacationers and honeymooners from Japan each year.

North of Guam is Saipan, a familiar name from World War Two. Saipan has the finest beaches of all the district centers and is one of the few islands in the trust area with paved roads. War relics include a Japanese command post and a crumbling prison where some people believe Amelia Earhart was held.

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Yap and Palau are linked to Guam by DC-6 flights.

Yap - the home of stone money and topless women - is undeniably the most interesting part of Micronesia, probably because it best fits our idea of what the South Seas should be like.

The stone money is easy to find but the bare-breasted women are becoming more elusive as Yap grudgingly yields to progress. Although many Yapese men still prefer loincloths to trousers, most women don blouses before venturing into the district center, Colonia, to do their shopping.

Yap’s airport is a treat for war buffs. The remains of more than a dozen Zeros are scattered about the area.

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In Palau, the rock islands are the main attraction. These geological oddities are dome-shaped masses of rock blanketed with thick vegetation. Hundreds of them, many resembling giant green mushrooms, dot the lagoon between the district center of Koror and the island of Peliliu.

Peliliu, the scene of a two month battle during the war, is a living museum. The concrete shells of a Japanese navy barracks and a communications center are still standing. Half-sunken landing craft in the harbor and tanks in the jungle sit where they were when the fighting ended.

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The hotels in Micronesia range in quality from deluxe to barely habitable. Half were built within the past two or three years.

Room rates run from $4.50 for a shared bath single at the Kaselehlia Inn in Ponape to $28 for a plush double at the Continental Travelodge in Truk.

The most unique hotel is the Ponape in Ponape, where guests stay in modern thatched huts with private bath for $12 double. It’s located in a Polynesian village out of town.

The worst hotel has to be the very plain MIECO (Marshall Islands Import-Export Company) in Majuro. The minimum tab of $7.50 includes running water several times a day and candles for use when the electricity goes out.

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Bring along plenty of mosquito repellent. Despite a lack of tropical diseases, the mosquitoes have gluttonous appetites.

The TT government has prepared an excellent guidebook loaded with useful information on all the district centers. Ask for it at any Continental Airlines office or write: Office of Tourism, Trust Territory of the Pacific Islands, Saipan, Mariana Islands 96950. Yes, each district has its own Zip Code.

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The real adventure in Micronesia begins when you step onto a ship for a visit to the untouristed outer islands.

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Micronesia’s Outer Islands

Don’t Step on Any Starfish

Any adventurous soul who has more time than money and doesn’t mind roughing it a bit can visit the unspoiled outer islands of Micronesia by hopping on one of the government ships based in each of the six district centers.

There are a dozen such ships whose goal is to call at every one of the 90-some inhabited outer islands at least once a month. The average voyage, or field trip, lasts about two weeks and covers six to eight atolls and islands.

Each voyage has a threefold purpose: to carry passengers, transport round trip government employees who tend to the needs of the islanders, and unload food and supplies in exchange for copra (dried coconut meat used for making products such as soap, margarine and nitroglycerine).

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Most of the ships are around 150 feet in length. The larger ones have space for as many as 20 cabin passengers. Nearly all the bunks are filled by government people, a doctor, representatives of the local trading company and a few Peace Corps volunteers.

Fares are based on the number of miles in a straight line from the home port to the most distant island on the itinerary. Cabin passengers pay four cents per mile, plus a $1 a day bunk fee. Meals cost another $5 per day.

I spent two weeks sailing the Marshalls for $37.40 and three weeks in the outer islands of Yap for $56.60, not including meals.

One of the first things I learned from the old-timers was that it was wise to carry your own food because you can eat much better at half the ship’s price. The cooks tend to favor corned beef with rice, even before the chicken runs out.

You also must be prepared for bad plumbing, rationed shower water and a complete lack of privacy - roommates can be of either sex. But despite all the drawbacks, it’s worth it.

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Yap and the Marshalls are decades apart in development.

The Marshallese have adopted more Western ways because of a deeper exposure to foreign influence and a lack of natural resources. They have a strange affinity for corrugated metal roofs. Many have forsaken their outriggers for factory-built boats with 20-horsepower engines. They rely on the field trip ships for a good deal of their food and clothing. Men wear shirts and slacks while women prefer muumuus or simple cotton dresses.

The conservative Yapese enjoy life the way it is and see no reason to rush into the 20th Century. They still roof their homes with palm fronds, build sturdy sailing canoes without the use of nails and refuse to abandon their traditional attire: loincloths for men, lava-lavas for women and grass skirts for girls.

Some of the lava-lavas, or knee-length skirts, are store-bought. Others are made by the women on looms.

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The most unusual experience of the Yap field trip was a five-day stop at Lamotrek, where chiefs from all over the district gathered to hold an annual conference.

The women pooled their efforts to make leis and fix meals for the chiefs and other visitors. After a concluding dinner featuring sea turtle, pork and tuna, guests were entertained with songs by the young women of the island.

The ship used on that trip was the 178-foot M/V Ran Annim (a Trukese greeting similar to aloha). Two steel chambers erected on the fantail served as cabins, each containing 10 bunks. In addition to the usual passengers, there were two American professors from the University of Guam, two Swedish medical students and the Yap elementary school superintendent, an American who brought along his fearless wife and two young children.

The worst part of the voyage was when the showers were shut off for 12 days to conserve water. People got so grubby that when the ship hit a rain squall everyone ran onto the deck with a bar of soap for a mass cleansing.

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In the Marshalls, I sailed on the M/V Militobi, a ship named after the eastern and westernmost islands of Micronesia. The 158-foot Militobi was considered one of the better ships with 18 bunks divided among five cabins.

I was assigned to a four-bunk cabin equipped with two closets and a functioning cold water wash basin. It had about as much floor space as three phone booths. My roommates were a Marshallese public works official, a young American employed by the school system and a Peace Corps girl.

There were two showers down the hall that ran for one hour each day.

The only other fare-paying cabin passengers besides me were the elderly wife of a Majuro-based missionary and her visiting daughter, a freelance writer who specialized in marine biology. They were lucky enough to have their own cabin.

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Since the ship was sailing north from Majuro, the captain opted to take on water and fuel at Kwajalein, a U.S. missile base that was technically off-limits to tourists. Air travelers arriving at Kwajalein were confined to the terminal unless they had business on the island. Every American aboard the Militobi, however, was permitted ashore with no questions asked.

The military end of the island bristled with towers and domes, making it look like Expo ’67 from the sea. In the residential section, the architecture was U.S. Army Modern: rows and rows of cinderblock houses with well-trimmed lawns and a rat guard on every palm tree.

Kwajalein’s well-stocked stores, with their low PX prices, were ideal places to pick up field trip supplies.

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The first outer island we stopped at, Likiep, held a real surprise - a large house built by a Portuguese trader around the turn of the century. It stood about five feet off the ground on heavy stilts, had three rooms and was surrounded by a wide veranda.

Although the house was generally dilapidated, the people maintained the sitting room as it was 50 years earlier. A chandelier hung directly over a circular table and four outsized chairs. In one corner was a roll-top desk, its veneer cracked and peeling from the humidity. There