A traveler's tale: a cuppers' adventure: after visiting the region of Papua New Guinea, for one of its first cupping competition, our cupper realized that within this mountainous and rugged island, lies more than a basis and root for coffee. There are other abundant, plentiful treasures to discover.

After an invitation by Shailen Singh of Coffee Pacifica, Inc. to be one of the 10 international cupping judges for Papua New Guinea's (PNG) maiden coffee competition, my imagination is fired up. I packed my bags, board Quantas, and headed eagerly off into the unknown. After endless hours of travel, I land in the dusty and sweltering capital city, Port Moresby. At the hotel I dropped my gear, crawled gratefully under the sheets and let the frog chorus serenade me into a deep sleep.

A silent dawn inches its way across the valley, as Air New Guinea lifts from the coast and aims straight into the heart of the Highlands. Riveted at the window, I watch the dense habitation of the coast give way to verdant forest canopy, long stretches of open range, tumbling streams, and villages of round thatched huts, dotting the remote landscape. Climbing above a sprawling blue mountain range, we settle slowly down the runway into Goroka, the coffee center of the Eastern Highlands.

The Journey Begins

John Yogiyo, president of the PNG Coffee Growers Federation, shepherds me to the Bird of Paradise Hotel, cool and clean, my room lovely and on the desk was the first of many billums (a wool or string bag) I am to receive, waiting for me. It becomes the one I carry everywhere and use to transport everything, my hiking boots, book, water and copious cupping notes. Everyone wears a billum in this area: men, women and children. They even cradle babies, food, and important papers. It is the local briefcase, backpack, and grocery satchel. The women weave old tribal patterns into their designs, very similar to our own Navajo rug weaving back in the States. On the sidewalk, just outside the hotel, lining the street for blocks, are vendors that sit and display wood sculpture, beadwork, and basketry of startling skill. Here, the women weave billums, and the men wear them as hats. In our group of judges, all of the men--upon arrival and with some intuitive fashion flair--followed this trend, and wear this head adornment constantly.

Meanwhile, the judges trickle in from many ports of call, Patricio from Italy, Jill and Instaurator from Australia, from the U.S. are Joseph from Colorado, and Paul, with coffee guru extraordinaire, Ken Davids, from California. We then round things out with Branden from New Zealand, Menno from the Netherlands, who was all enduring the body numbing journey arrived disheveled, but unbowed. Joining the head judges were Willem Boot and Andi Trindle Walker. After everyone that is expected arrives, we settle into cupping the 100s of samples that come--unabated--from every coffee growing region in PNG. We cup from dawn to dusk, eliminating round after round and attempting to narrow the field from the top 50 coffees to a final 10. Still, the sacks keep coming, and excitement explodes, as word about this very first "Pride of Papua New Guinea's Competition," telegraphs through the bush, over mountains peaks, across rapid rivers, between tribes, with many still fiercely hostile toward one another.

The History, Warriors, and Coffee

During a break from the grueling cupping schedule, and to get an intimate look at the farms and rub shoulders with the locals, we visit a number of co-ops. These aren't your ordinary coffee farmers. We travel weather-scarred roads, passing pockets of people perched at the pebbled edge, selling plantains, potatoes, chickens, and billums. Crawling slowly through a coffee tree border, we enter the village of the Mando Tribe and find old women sitting cross-legged on the ground, swaddled in the long roots of sweet potatoes, swirling all in small buckets of muddy water. Grunting little piglets tethered close by, rut in the dirt. Shy, but very curious, villagers circled around as we descended, unsure of what to expect. In Butto, the Asaro Mudmen warriors come from the interior of their thatched huts, moving stealthily towards our group, spears extended, crudgels raised, heads covered by enormous clay masks decorated with raised tattoos, pigs teeth and tusks. A little shock of anxiety ripples up the back of my neck. Hesitant, I lift my hands in greeting, wondering if I should bolt for the bush. A tribal storyteller, however, allays my edginess. He speaks of the tale that we are seeing played before us by the warriors, which is of how the Mudmen came to be. He says that in the not so long ago time, another warring tribe attacked. The Asaro, anxious to escape, raced for the river, flailing in a thick chalky mud. As the mud dried the villagers took on a ghostly vestige, which made the attacking tribe run back in fright. The Asaro then incorporated gruesome heavy clay masks, along with the usual assortment of weapons, into their fighting formula. It made them quite formidable. These days, as a sideline to coffee farming and to raise much needed Kina, they encourage outside tours to visit and see the reenactment. They craft small Mudmen sculpture and finely decorated large masks, to sell down in the market in Goroka, along with their excellent coffee.

At the Avani village, the next afternoon, Kevin Poke and his wife LeAnn show us a well-tended acreage, coffee trees cleanly planted and mulched with organic pulp. The ripe cherry are all hand picked, then washed with clean water, fermented and dried above the ground, producing a cup of enormous complexity with a smooth caramel aroma and a rich taste. The entire collective welcomes us with a feast, flesh picked from their own plots, each family giving the best of their efforts and all prepared with pride. As we are layered in billums and flowers. I trek up into the hills to witness, first hand, the ingenuity of Tilapia ponds that have been dug by a handful of young people, and to see their new apiary of honey-bees hard at work.

And The Winner Is ...

Back again to full days of cupping. Our various countries of origin and our own personal taste preferences spread the points. I worry about the effect on those tribes relegated to the bottom of the heap. I am well aware of the backbreaking labor that it takes to grow, tend, and pick each tree. We sip and spit, sniff, and chew, debate and discuss, go back and taste again, and again, and again. The windows are lined outside with intense, fierce faces that peer in, watching and incorporating our every move. Once we narrow the final field to 10 origins, word spreads that we are ready for the final round. That afternoon, as we ride up the road to the University to present the winners, thousands of people line the way. We are ushered to the seats of honor for the day where every seat in the auditorium is taken, and every inch of space filled. The head judge, Willem Boot, is ceremoniously escorted into the assembly by McKenzies' tribe, bedecked in full-feathered glory. Boot climbs the stairs and faces the hushed and expectant audience, and begins to name the winners, counting forward from the tenth. At the moment the number one is announced--the Rikarika Cooperative--a loud cheer erupts, backs are slapped, and an ear-splitting grin breaks like the sun, across the creased face of one very happy farmer. Wearing a ubiquitous baseball cap perched at a rakish angle, eyes full of glee and intense pride, he mounts the stage, chest expanded. There are whoops of happiness and deafening long, sustained clapping. The cachet for this co-operative will last a long, long time. "Winner of the First Pride of Papua New Guinea Coffee Cupping Competition."

On the last day, we visit the Owena Collective, which is so far up the mountain that the only way in is by missionary plane. The plane, flown by two young, missionary bush pilots, can shuttle approximately 25 people. Mike, our pilot in chief, is as charming as they come. He mentions the tribes high up on the mountains and how they are hard pressed to get their coffee down to market, and although he tries to fly as many bags out as he can, the cost of fuel is eating most of the tribes' profit.

Owena spent a year and a half of grueling labor, digging an airstrip at rocky top of this lonely mountain. It is the only way in or out, other than an arduous three-day trek through the mountain ranges, lugging coffee on their backs over the rivers, and past armed bandits and evil predators, which are known as rascals. At the end of their journey, most likely an unscrupulous coffee broker will offer them pennies, for their blood, sweat and tears, and they have no choice but to take it or leave it.

Lining the mountain ridges and circling the patch of airstrip high up in that rarified air, brilliant sun backlights the tribe waiting to welcome us, in full tribal dress, bones through noses, feathered head dresses teetering and swaying, with sculptures of birds, missionary planes, other odd and assorted carvings. Red, black and yellow war paint blazoned across brows, tusks and teeth and flowers jangling around necks. The valley echoes with drums, as well as singing and dancing. We are surrounded and flowered with leis and billums, and are then marched down the ridge and into the village in the sweet mountain air perfumed by gardenias. The path along the way is lined, as many deep, incredulous faces peer at us, smiles everywhere. A fitting end to the most incredible journey!

About the Author: Orrel Judith Lanter is one of the founders of Uncommon Grounds Coffee in Berkeley, CA, now a wholly owned subsidiary of Coffee Pacifica Inc., the export arm of the PNG Coffee Federation. Coffee Pacifica represents over 100,000 coffee farmers in Papua New Guinea who now have the ability to live sustainable lives. Her current project is creating awareness of the superb coffees coming from the PNG Women's Coffee Co-ops. She can be reached at Uncommon Grounds Coffee, Tel: [phone]ext 209 or through Coffee Pacifica, (1)[phone].