dotlit: 'Hiking Boots and Chanel No. 5: Women Trekking Kokoda' by Helen Moye A handmade bracelet is still hanging from my left wrist. It is faded, matted, grey, and flimsy. The six small beads, in pairs, remain uncertainly attached. By contrast, the tones of the beads — blue, green, or violet, with stripes of red and yellow, orange and blue — seem heightened against the dull string. I often touch them, twisting the string around my arm like a primitive rosary. I can't take it off. The world might end if I do. I fear what might happen when it finally rots away, or breaks. Trekking through a jungle is neither the time nor place for vanity or affectation. There had been numerous warnings about security in Port Moresby, as well as on the Kokoda Track itself. So, when I returned home, I took out the diamond and gold jewellery I normally wear, but had left behind during my trip. The custom-made heavy gold bangle on my arm just didn't work any more. It looked gaudy and pointless against the more humble incumbent. I replaced it in the second drawer, where an opportunistic burglar is bound to find it sooner or later. Four weeks on, I continue to brandish my string trekking bracelet like a talisman, in the face of all the real and imagined perils of urban life and work. I wear my corporate suits, my 12 denier ultra-sheer pantihose, my other items of expensive jewellery, and my trekking bracelet. Psychologists have words for this inability to let go, to disengage from a group or an experience. In the progressive stages of group development, this has been called "adjourning". It is represented as a time of apprehension, or minor crisis. I know what they mean. The other girls have experienced the same thing, in varying degrees. Within a day of our flying back into Brisbane, there was a stream of emails and phone calls between us — making contact, expressing disbelief that we had actually been there and now were back, thanking each other for companionship and support, and almost universally acknowledging the onset of "big time post-Kokoda blues". By mid-week, the reunion we had planned for two months' time had been moved forward to the coming Saturday night. By then, a number of us had already been in almost continuous de-brief mode (admitting to get-togethers in homes, cafés and bars all over the city) and the five litres or so of water which we had consumed daily on the trek the previous week, had been replaced by an equally committed approach to good champagne and strong coffee. We were a mixed bag, this group of fourteen women: city-dwellers from Brisbane and Cairns, who had all decided, for their own reasons, to walk the Kokoda Track in Papua New Guinea in September, 2003; the first all- female trekking party to take up the significant challenge of completing what is acknowledged to be one of the hardest walks in the world. There were former representative level athletes. And there I was, the one who (prior to our group training) hadn't done any serious exercise for some four years. There were experienced campers and bushwalkers, and others who had never slept in a tent before, let alone used anything but a clean, flushing toilet. In the city we were school principal, plastic surgeon, recruitment consultant, events manager, lawyer, fashion retailer, full- time mothers, medical practice manager, property developer, school bursar, sporting consultant and coach, GP, accountant. On the Track, we weren't identifiably any of those things. Leading up to the trek, we had to anticipate and specifically train for very steep and protracted hills and steps, in slippery and wet conditions, while carrying packs. A customised ten-week training program was part of our preparation. It involved a gym or pool session, and two long hill walks each week. In addition, those of us who needed it were allocated extra sessions targeting our particular needs. The challenge of the ninety- four kilometre walk itself was measured not so much in distance, as in "ups" and "downs", as the route is a rollercoaster of terrain (and emotion). If we needed a gauge of difficulty at any given time, we could always rely on our trek doctor, an experienced trekker and self-styled "wilderness medicine guru". He had an impressive capacity to continue telling jokes even on the steepest hill. When Doc stopped talking, we knew it was one serious climb. He, together with our two trek leaders, constituted the "official" male component of the group. The leaders were former army personnel, with combined experience in SAS, commando and regular army units. Their military background and knowledge added a special dimension to our experience, as we retraced the steps of the young Australian soldiers, and their Japanese counterparts, who had fought all the way along the Track and back again in the final six months of 1942. This was arguably, for Australia, the most significant land campaign of the Second World War, as the Japanese pushed their way to within about forty kilometres of Port Moresby, before being forced to retreat. Victory for the Australians would not have been possible without the extraordinary contribution of the local people, dubbed "fuzzy-wuzzy angels" and honoured in the famous poem of that name by Sapper H. "Bert" Beros. They carried the wounded to safety, and returned with supplies. Many of them died. The Track (also known as the Kokoda Trail) runs from Kokoda Village to Ower's Corner, about thirty kilometres north-east of Port Moresby. It has been used by the locals for centuries as the sole transport and communication route over that section of the Owen Stanley Ranges. It has only been re-opened to trekkers in recent years, following a period of dispute with landowners regarding access rights. Those trekking today still encounter evidence of the Track's military past: from the gaping weapon pits, to remnants of ammunition tins, helmets and bayonets — and an aircraft propellor leaning against a tree in a clearing. Until recently, the military and historical significance of the Kokoda Track has passed largely unrecognised by the Australian public. It was only in August 2002, that the Prime Minister, John Howard, flew by helicopter to Isurava to open a memorial erected on the site of one major battle - the battle during which Pte Bruce Kingsbury died in the course of earning the first Victoria Cross awarded on Australian-mandated territory during World War II. Then, on 3 September 2003, it was announced that the first Wednesday in September each year was to be set aside as unofficial Battle for Australia Day, to commemorate the protracted struggles in Papua New Guinea during the war. On 5 September, 2003, we flew to Port Moresby to begin our trek. In retrospect, our timing seems significant. On the Track, to supplement the results of our training, Doc dispensed daily doses of berocca, guarana, gingko, and mystery vitamin pills of all sizes and shapes; he strapped suspect knees in the patient's choice of hot pink or cornflower blue tape; and would suggest other pills to assist with sleep if necessary, in preparation for the next day. Food was also a big-ticket issue. Each day we received a nutritionally balanced 'ration pack' containing a packet of pasta or dehydrated meal; two minute noodles; soup mix; muesli bar; tin of baked beans, spaghetti or sausage and vegetables; packet of sultanas; packet of nuts; tube of sweetened condensed milk; mini Snickers/Mars Bar; tea, coffee, sugar, salt, pepper. However, the most exciting items on the menu were those not anticipated in pre-trek information, but smuggled in by some of the group: red frogs, jelly beans, Snakes and coffee lollies. There was nothing better than to crest a particularly wearing hill, and have the sweets passed along the line as a congratulatory gesture. Our pre-packaged goods were also magnificently supplemented by the fresh fruit and vegetables offered to us at each village on our route: bananas, pawpaw, passionfruit, sweet corn, yams, potatoes and choko vine, which the locals eat rather than the choko itself. As much as we appreciated these additions to our diet, it was the gesture of welcome that they represented, and the smiling hospitality of the people, which especially cheered and humbled us. Fears of dehydration were averted by a conveniently (if unattractively) decanted bottle of Coonawarra Rouge Homme, produced to much acclaim on our second night on the Track, to accompany the communal rice-a-riso. This non-conformist approach to the whole business of 'roughing it' extended to our trekking ensembles. Walk into any camping/outdoors shop and you will be lulled into visual atrophy by the general lack of colour. Navy, khaki, beige, brown, black are the standards. Even the thermal underwear is depressing to look at (although great to wear). Many studies have been conducted into the psychological and physical effects of colour, and we set out to ensure that all the forces of the universe were working with us on this adventure. So while our standard issue trekking shirts were black and long-sleeved, these were privately supplemented by an impressive range of tops in what will surely become next season's industry-endorsed styles and colourways for the discerning trekker: sleeveless, muscle-back, singlet or T-shirts; red, aqua, sky blue, green, white and shades of pink. As well as the regulation-style trekking shorts with multiple zips and pockets, we modelled everything from bike pants to boardies (in the very attractive Hawaiian floral). Everyone sported a bandana in a colour of their choice, worn variously around the neck, or pirate- or bandito-style. On any given day, fashion consultations were available for those of us ready to affect new personae. Socks were largely uninspiring and predictable, although one of the girls persisted in producing the pink stripes (to match her shorts), as well as bringing along pink PJs. The greatest tribute to the power of colour was in the range of gaudy sarongs we wore when we made our way to the creeks for our bath. We matched the magnificent local butterflies in our brilliance. These would swarm, and circle us when we emerged into the open from the forest; or appear singly, and alight - like an airborne velvet bow of white, with purple ink wash — on a dirty boot at the end of a weary leg. In other respects, we were very much pale imitations of nature. The native impatiens was orange, maroon or hot pink with variegated leaves, growing in unexpected pockets of abundance. Giant trumpet flowers drooped in a rich creamy lethargy, and in places, the path was littered with berries like royal blue gob-stoppers, favourite food of cassowaries. I don't know what colour the local birds were. We heard them, but saw none. And we saw no animals, except the skinny dogs in the villages; with just the suggestion of wild pigs to be found in the woven fences erected around hillside gardens. Despite the pre-trek personal equipment guide recommendations regarding toiletries, there was an extensive range of additional "product" in use, including body scrub, loofahs, hair conditioner, and Chanel No. 5. As one of our number observed, "A girl's got to do what a girl's got to do". And we did. So, there we were, fourteen "birds in paradise", approaching this challenge with style and attitude, and — on the face of it — with glorious disregard for the basic tenets of traditional trekking. At the same time, the Track was no place for superficiality or affectation. There, we were nobody's mother, daughter or partner. Suddenly, unexpectedly, it was just us. Collectively and individually. Us. Me. The real deal. Just to keep walking, meant some concerns had to fall away. Pride, competitiveness, image, reputation, reward. There were greater and subtler things at work. We had to pay attention, capture the detail of the forest around us, and the ground in front of us. In all that space and magnificence — from the bold bright orange fungi on the logs on the path ahead, to the breathtaking vistas of mountains piercing the clouds above — it was easy to feel small. And easy to feel enlarged, enhanced, enlivened. The Track is truly a place of heroes. And we were there, with the rusty reminders of the too young warriors of sixty years ago, and the fuzzy- wuzzy angels who had served them well, just as our porters today were helping us complete our own peaceful pilgrimage. From the graves on Brigade Hill, marked only by seventy-two rough-hewn stakes, to Bomana War Cemetery, with its three thousand neat white headstones, we were in glorious company. It had been a confronting walk. We had prepared well for the physical challenge, and we had the mental strength, support and resources to make it happen. What my trekking bracelet reminds me is that it was the emotional impact which took us by surprise. It reminds me that I sat on the grass at Efogi, under a full moon, looking out at the massive ragged mountains that had become co-conspirators in a personal battle of will. Sat and sipped my carefully dispensed one and a half centimetres of contraband red wine from a dirty plastic cup. While the women around me read Angel Cards in the moon- and torchlight. And from beyond the tall spindly mandarin trees, the villagers sang hymns in their thatched meeting- house. So, dust off your hiking boots. Dig out those pink board-shorts. Refill the Chanel No.5. And head for the hills. Let yourself be surprised. Further Reading and Viewing Baker, C. (1994) Walking the Kokoda Trail: Do It Yourself Trekking, Loftus, New South Wales: Australian Military History Publications. Brune, P. (1991) Those Ragged Bloody Heroes: From the Kokoda Trail to Gona Beach 1942, North Sydney, New South Wales: Allen & Unwin. Centre for Leadership Development, George Mason University (2003) "5 Stages of Group Development", http://www.gmu.edu/student/csl/5stages.html. Executive Excellence (2003) "Trekking the Kokoda Trail". http://www.executiveexcellence.com.au/adventure.html. GORP (2003) "Walking Well: Food. Nutrition on the Trail" and "Walking Well: Wisdom and Wrap Up". http://gorp.away.com/gorp/activity/hiking/medical/nutrition.htm. Jansz, N., Davies, M., Drew, E. and McDougall, L. (eds.) (1999) Women Travel (4th Edition), Shorts Gardens, London: Rough Guides Ltd. Journeywoman (2003). http://www.journeywoman.com. Kokoda: The Bloody Track (1992) Written and directed by Patrick Lindsay.Canberra: Headquarters Training Command for the Australian Army. [Videorecording — CEL Home Video C7072: VHS]. Lindsay, P. (2003) The Spirit of Kokoda Now and Then, South Yarra, Victoria: Hardie Grant Books. Lonely Planet World Guide (2003) "Papua New Guinea". http://www.lonelyplanet.com/destinations/australasia/papua_new_guinea/read. htm. Longitudinal Cross-section Map of Kokoda Trail (2003). http://www.kokodatrek.com.au/kokodamap.html. Paint Café (2003) "The Theory of Colour: Colour Psychology". http://paintcafe.sympatico.ca/en/couleur/langage/psychologie/noir.asp. The European Food Information Council (2003) "Food and Mood", http;//www.eufic.org/gb/food/pag/food30/food304.htm. The Women's Travel Club, Inc (2003) http://www.womenstravelclub.com.