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Authors: Josh Gates
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Super Mario as he scampers across the tarmac, out of breath. His mouth and facial hair are covered in a thick bloodred juice, and just as he’s about to shake my hand, he literally doubles over and drops to the ground with dizziness. This is my introduction to buai.
The chewing of this bizarre combination of ingredients is nothing short of a national addiction in PNG. Also immensely popular throughout the Pacific and Southeast Asia, buai is actually the fourth most consumed drug on the planet after nicotine, alcohol, and caffeine. A seemingly random recipe of betel nut, mustard stick, and lime (the chemical, not the fruit) is combined and chewed, producing torrential amounts of bright red saliva, which Papuans spit on just about every surface in sight. While it’s used universally as a mild pick-meup, its narcotic effects seem to render the population in a daze. I wait patiently for Lucas to regain his footing and look over as our pilot and copilot leave the aircraft; both men’s mouths are stained red, and they spit liberally on the tarmac. I’m suddenly feeling lucky to have landed in one piece.
The jeeps we arranged aren’t at the airstrip for some reason, but Lucas promises that they’re en route. While we wait, Lucas introduces me to two local cops who will accompany us on the expedition. Steve and I exchange a wary look as the two men present themselves. Both have buai spit stains on their shirts, and neither looks much like a police officer. I ask one of them to show me his gun, which he unholsters and places in my hand. I look down at a rusted Smith & Wesson revolver that appears to have been pried out of the dead hand of Wyatt Earp. I pop open the ancient cylinder to discover that all of the chambers are empty. I ask him if he has any ammo, and he fishes through his breast pocket to produce a handful of loose change and two bullets. One isn’t even the right caliber.
The jeeps finally arrive, but actually getting out of town is a challenge. I’ve experienced “island time” in my travels, but Papuans have taken ass dragging to a whole new level. It takes an hour to get the jeeps fueled and another hour to buy a few loaves of bread and bottled water. The estimated drive time to Nokon Village, the epicenter of supposed mermaid activity, is eleven hours, and we haven’t even started. My watch reads 3:00 p.m. It isn’t overly safe to drive through these jungles after dark, but we have little choice at this point. I’m just hopeful the local cops can use their one good bullet to put down any form of rebellion we might meet along the way.
The first few hours are a dream. Small villages glide by, and a riot of green rushes past the windows. Along the road, locals emerge from the brush, almost all of them carrying enormous machetes. Even the children are well armed. Still, they wave excitedly as we pass by, then recede in a cloud of dust and smiles. Eventually, however, the road falls apart, and we lose ten to fifteen kilometers per hour to absorb the bumps.
As darkness sets in, the machete-wielding villagers suddenly seem a bit more ominous when they appear in our headlight beams; most of the population retreats away from the road altogether. We finally call it quits in a nondescript village in the middle of God knows where. There’s not much to see here, but we’ve been told there’s a rough guesthouse to call home for the night. As we unload our gear into the basic cement rooms, I can hear a distant preacher yelling through a megaphone somewhere in the jungle. After settling in, we hit up what passes for a neighborhood bar, a thatched-roof hut with a transistor radio and a few wooden chairs. We gulp down warm South Pacific brand beers, and Neil and I throw a few rounds of darts onto a tattered board. The only food being served is some sort of mystery sausage that tastes gamey and dry. Possibly goat meat. But out here, who knows?
We eventually stroll back over to the guesthouse, tired, drunk, and
The chewing of this bizarre combination of ingredients is nothing short of a national addiction in PNG. Also immensely popular throughout the Pacific and Southeast Asia, buai is actually the fourth most consumed drug on the planet after nicotine, alcohol, and caffeine. A seemingly random recipe of betel nut, mustard stick, and lime (the chemical, not the fruit) is combined and chewed, producing torrential amounts of bright red saliva, which Papuans spit on just about every surface in sight. While it’s used universally as a mild pick-meup, its narcotic effects seem to render the population in a daze. I wait patiently for Lucas to regain his footing and look over as our pilot and copilot leave the aircraft; both men’s mouths are stained red, and they spit liberally on the tarmac. I’m suddenly feeling lucky to have landed in one piece.
The jeeps we arranged aren’t at the airstrip for some reason, but Lucas promises that they’re en route. While we wait, Lucas introduces me to two local cops who will accompany us on the expedition. Steve and I exchange a wary look as the two men present themselves. Both have buai spit stains on their shirts, and neither looks much like a police officer. I ask one of them to show me his gun, which he unholsters and places in my hand. I look down at a rusted Smith & Wesson revolver that appears to have been pried out of the dead hand of Wyatt Earp. I pop open the ancient cylinder to discover that all of the chambers are empty. I ask him if he has any ammo, and he fishes through his breast pocket to produce a handful of loose change and two bullets. One isn’t even the right caliber.
The jeeps finally arrive, but actually getting out of town is a challenge. I’ve experienced “island time” in my travels, but Papuans have taken ass dragging to a whole new level. It takes an hour to get the jeeps fueled and another hour to buy a few loaves of bread and bottled water. The estimated drive time to Nokon Village, the epicenter of supposed mermaid activity, is eleven hours, and we haven’t even started. My watch reads 3:00 p.m. It isn’t overly safe to drive through these jungles after dark, but we have little choice at this point. I’m just hopeful the local cops can use their one good bullet to put down any form of rebellion we might meet along the way.
The first few hours are a dream. Small villages glide by, and a riot of green rushes past the windows. Along the road, locals emerge from the brush, almost all of them carrying enormous machetes. Even the children are well armed. Still, they wave excitedly as we pass by, then recede in a cloud of dust and smiles. Eventually, however, the road falls apart, and we lose ten to fifteen kilometers per hour to absorb the bumps.
As darkness sets in, the machete-wielding villagers suddenly seem a bit more ominous when they appear in our headlight beams; most of the population retreats away from the road altogether. We finally call it quits in a nondescript village in the middle of God knows where. There’s not much to see here, but we’ve been told there’s a rough guesthouse to call home for the night. As we unload our gear into the basic cement rooms, I can hear a distant preacher yelling through a megaphone somewhere in the jungle. After settling in, we hit up what passes for a neighborhood bar, a thatched-roof hut with a transistor radio and a few wooden chairs. We gulp down warm South Pacific brand beers, and Neil and I throw a few rounds of darts onto a tattered board. The only food being served is some sort of mystery sausage that tastes gamey and dry. Possibly goat meat. But out here, who knows?
We eventually stroll back over to the guesthouse, tired, drunk, and
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