Eternal flame

The Baining tribesmen dancing around the raging bonfire are almost naked, wearing little besides their huge white face masks. One by one they leap into the fire, staying there as long as possible, gyrating amid the flames. The fire dance has been arranged as a welcome after our days spent slashing through some of Papua New Guinea's thickest jungle, crossing the Baining Mountains of East New Britain Province to reach the remote village of Mondrabat. Our journey followed in the footsteps of 1,600 Australian soldiers who struggled through this jungle in early 1942. Retreating from Rabaul ahead of 15,000 Japanese invaders, they were attempting to reach evacuation points on the south coast of the Gazelle Peninsula. Barely 300 of the 'Diggers' (soldiers) made it back to Australia. WITH OUR BAINING guide, Weekli, four porters and trek leader Peter Gosling, 35, a lanky Australian adventurer, we begin our slog through the green crush of foliage, summiting one ridge after another. Below us, it's mulch and boot-sucking mush; above us, sunlight filters through the stained-glass canopy. Following the same track that the Diggers took, we have the luxury of tents, rations and bug repellent. They had little but the clothes they walked in as they traversed 120km of crocodile-infested terrain. 'We had a quinine tablet for breakfast, a fag (cigarette) for lunch and quinine for tea,' wrote one survivor. We trek without speaking, hearing the thrum of hornbill wings high in the trees. Weekli slashes a way forward with a machete. Ridges drop to cool rivers that we cross fully clothed; five minutes in a sunny spot and we're dry. We camp overnight at Braham, a settlement of six huts, three families and their cassava and taro gardens. The mungies (children) are fascinated by our provisions: freeze-dried food and battery-powered headlamps. As we sit around the fire, a Baining man begins beating a bamboo pole on a board. Others join in, chanting haunting harmonies. 'What kind of songs are they?' Gosling asks. 'This village is Christianised, so these are church songs,' says Weekli. 'Nothing like the church I went to,' quips our trek leader. The next morning, Gosling, who has been plotting our progress by GPS, announces that, even here, a dozen satellites are in range. Via his satellite phone he reports our position to his partner in Brisbane. With a quick 'mamramas' (thank you) to the villagers, we plunge back into the jungle, through sun, mud and rain. We cross logs felled across rivers; wobbly, narrow moss- and vine-covered trunks; the last thing you want is for the man in front of you to stop. Ahead, Weekli pauses to slash a vine. 'Keep going!' I yell, hoping to avoid a tumble into the river. I drink litres of water to avoid dehydration while the Bainings, padding along barefoot, don't even break into a sweat. The Diggers' wartime trek was agony. As one officer wrote of his men: 'The mosquitos and insects drove them mad at night, for we had no nets. Boots began to give out ... Those who could, marched on foot, tattered skeletons of men who often staggered and fell as they forced themselves westward.' Many died of malaria and dysentery while the survivors fought off hostile natives of the Molkolkol tribe. Camped for the night beside a river, I fall asleep to the sound of insects and the drumming of rain. The next morning, the porters spot puk-puk (crocodile) tracks nearby but seem unconcerned. We press on. Late on day three Gosling calls, 'Three creeks to Mondrabat.' Rain has made the trail treacherous and the steep descents play havoc with the knees but I would never swap these soaring, unlogged forests, the avenues of bamboo or even the leeches between my toes, for a month of lattes back at my chic local cafe. We reach the Mondrabat 'men's house', where they are preparing huge white masks for the fire dance. They are made of bark cloth then moulded into giant heads with enormous eyes. Tonight, we are in for a spectacular treat. Later, the village is in darkness but for the flickering of fireflies. Then the bonfire flares. Six ghostly-looking women file into the clearing, wreathed in long white fronds and wearing bug-eyed masks. They chant, shuffling slowly around the fire to the beat of hollow poles. The bonfire is stoked. Suddenly, a glistening, near-naked jester leaps into the clearing, followed by six masked young men. They are barefoot and wearing little except the masks plus palm fronds wrapped around their shins for protection against the flames. The drummers quicken their pace and the dancers circle. One plunges into the bonfire and remains there until, perhaps 30 seconds later, he can stand it no longer. Another asbestos-soled warrior leaps in, followed by another and another. Hours later, and long after I've fallen asleep, the dancers, singers and drummers succumb to exhaustion. In the early hours I wake up for a moment - in a darkened village on a high plateau deep in another human era. The next time I am awake it is daylight and Gosling is talking on a satellite phone while a tribesman holds up the aerial. Stone Age meets Phone Age. Getting there: Air Niugini (www.airniugini.com) flies from Singapore, Brisbane, Cairns or Sydney to Port Moresby, then to Rabaul, East New Britain Province. True North Journeys' (www.truenorthjourneys.com.au) 11-day Escape from Rabaul expedition (A$4,350/HK$32,600) includes a tour of the town's historic second-world-war sites, a four-day jungle trek and two-day excursion to the Duke of York Islands. The price also covers accommodation, meals, guide, porters and pre-trip training.