When it rains it pours ….. and pours.

                                       When it rains it pours … and pours.

During early 1970 I had arrived as a new bride to join my husband on the construction site of a copper mine on New Guinea’s Bougainville Island just south of the Equator. Families had had to wait for accommodation to be completed before relocating to join their husbands and fathers. It was a cosmopolitan group as most had previously been on other mining sites around the globe.

When I had completed my resume I had hoped to continue working in the Personnel field but when my teaching experience was noted I was assigned to the newly built school.

There were many adjustments to be made when arriving at a construction site in the tropics. As we were high in the mountains the temperature was hot but without the high humidity of the coastal areas. It was essential to get used to the daily torrential downpour. The heavy clouds would rise up the mountain slopes during the morning then as they reached the peaks, almost to the minute, the heavens would open and the rain would bucket down, then abruptly stop. The water would run off into the rivulets and drains and life would continue. Becoming soaked was a frequent occurrence as umbrellas or raincoats were no protection. Our lightweight clothing dried quickly and in fact it was often a pleasant cooling down.

One day, a few weeks after my arrival, the rain didn’t stop. The water around the school area and in the creek began to rise so the Principal decided to send us all home early. The staff and older students piggybacked the younger ones across the ankle deep water and we waited for the minibus to collect us. Houses had been built on benches cut into the mountain at different locations on the site and we lived at the furthest area about a kilometre from the main centre. The seven children and I were the last to be collected.

The young indigenous driver began the slow, winding trip up the mountain. It was a narrow road on a solid stone base built for the conditions. Visibility was reduced and the constant swishing of the windscreen wipers only just enabled us to see our way. We were more than half way around the mountain when suddenly the bus jolted to a stop. A land slip totally blocked our route. Trees had been uprooted, rocks had cascaded across the roadway and the loose soil was being further washed over the road edge by newly formed waterfalls higher up the slope. The driver’s rapid pidgin English was not understood by the children or I, but it could be clearly determined from his actions that our radio wasn’t working. Without a radio we had no way of letting anyone know of our predicament. The mothers would not be expecting their children yet, the bus couldn’t turn around or even try to reverse down the steep road and back at the mine HQ no one would notice a missing bus till the end of the shift when the men would need to be transported to their homes or quarters.

The driver was agitated and opened the door. I thought we needed to chock the wheels quickly with large rocks so I followed him outside. Suddenly he was off. His red shirt flickered through the dense bush and then he was gone – not in the direction of the mine centre but most likely returning to his village. We were on our own. The oldest student helped me with the rocks we could manoeuvre and we lodged them behind the wheels. We were going to have to walk back but I hoped if we stayed a little longer in the shelter of the bus, the rain would stop. My decision was changed quickly however when a mild tremor rattled the bus and rocks and more debris were dislodged ahead of us.

Tremors were a regular, if unnerving, experience. Some were man-made with the blasting and others were part of living on a fault line. The walk down the hill was going to be slow. Still the heavy rain didn’t ease. We spread out holding hands and carefully watched our steps as we splashed and at times, slipped down the muddy incline. The children were great as from an early age they had learnt to live with the unexpected and deal with it, no complaints. The creek was now rushing down the mountain side and rising steadily. It was normally a clear, cool stream that we could splash in at the end of a hot day but the muddy run-off made it a boiling, swirling torrent pushing large boulders along with its force, its roaring blocking out the calls of the many tropical birds.

Eventually we turned the last corner and were close to the main road with the buildings in the distance. We heard the rumble of a heavy utility and through the rain we could see the bright yellow of the metal canopy heading our way. Later the driver, one of the mine executives, laughed about the mirage that appeared out of the rain before him – a huddled drenched little group waving madly. He stopped. A quick explanation followed and we bundled into the back tray so glad of the canopy for shelter from the incessant drops. The rain stopped even before we reach HQ but already the boss had issued his radio instructions and we were quickly checked out, draped in towels and our clothes dried.

We weren’t able to go home that night. We joined the fathers and my husband in the Mess for the meal and then the men stayed at the single quarters and the children and I bunked down at the school. A few songs and a couple of stories then the exhausted little group was soon asleep. Late the next morning the anxious mothers were able to get down the mountain and gathered at the school.

Would any of the children remember this day? I doubt it, as their lives were full of adventures but the incident remains graphically etched in my mind as an early introduction to life on a remote island mine site.