The flight from Cairns to Port Moresby threw us off guard. The 37-seat Dash 8 turboprop smelled like the third world, a blend of accumulated body odour with a whisper of chemical toilet.

But we were surprised when they handed us our headphones for the in-flight movie: a huge wireless, noise-cancelling Sennheiser beast. The sound quality was excellent and it muffled most of the propeller drone.

But then again, the movie was some Australian Heath Ledger melodrama with lots of nudity, swearing and drug use. In a plane full of kids.

The arrival

Immigration was a breeze. One man applies your on-arrival visa to your passport, while another lady collects the 100 kina (convert this) per person. We were glad we had exchanged money in Cairns before arriving: there are no ATMs or credit card readers at the checkpoint.

Rob, our host whom we met on Couchsurfing (there are no backpacker hostels in PNG), was waiting for us at the lobby. A week earlier, he had sent us an email with a few do’s and don’ts for Port Moresby. Some of them made an impression:

“Always have your key in the ready position to open your door and start your car. Do not arrive at your vehicle and start fidgeting around looking for your keys in the bottom of your handbag for example and or your trouser pockets.”

He didn’t help the situation much in person, either.

“I go everywhere I need to go in my car. You don’t walk here unless you really have to,” he told us.

So you can understand if our first on-foot foray into the city’s streets was tinged with a bit of trepidation.

The first contact

Papua New Guineans don’t see many tourists. White people in Port Moresby are usually expats on business. And those, too, keep to their gated apartment complexes, shop at high-end markets and socialize at the strikingly posh yacht club.

So any pale-skinned pedestrians can expect stares. Lots of them.

One can be excused for thinking their looks are loaded with judgment. You think: either they disapprove of how I’m dressed or they’re scheming some way of taking my money.

But then you realize they don’t smile. Not if there’s no reason for it. They don’t talk loud, they don’t whistle, they don’t play music in public.

And you realize that when you smile at them, give them a thumbs up and say “moning” or “apinun” (morning and afternoon in the local Pidgin English), it’s like you paid them the highest possible compliment. It will probably be the highlight of their day.

The downtown

Port Moresby’s business centre is called Town, and it’s cozily crammed into a small peninsula. There you’ll find banks, grocery stores, eateries, and internet cafés couched among a few new modern buildings.

The sidewalks are dotted with red stains. This is from the betelnut, or buai, which locals chew like tobacco, then spit out. The red pigment is from a lime powder they add to the nut to give it flavour.

Despite the slightly chaotic streets, there’s no sign of desperate poverty. Some people seem to hang around on corners chewing betelnut all day, and there are the occasional kids who come begging. But everyone seems to be clothed, fed, and sheltered.

Apart from the betelnut stains, the streets are clean. All the signs are in English but everyone speaks in Pidgin or their local language, if they belong to the same linguistic clan.

We were able to change money, buy a SIM card, get fantastic service from the Tourism Promotion Authority, and do some groceries with no hassle.

Well, we got a horrible exchange rate on our Australian dollars at the bank, but that’s a different story.