The weight of history sat heavy in my camera bag as we descended towards Tufi. Somewhere in my luggage was an old envelope marked 'Early RAAF' - my grandfather's wartime photographs from 1943 that had sparked this entire journey. Fred Thies had documented these same villages with his Kodak Box Brownie while stationed here during World War II. Now, 75 years later, I was returning with 50kg of modern equipment to see what had changed, what endured.

The Portable Studio Challenge

Our portable studio seemed like a simple concept until we faced the reality of PNG's terrain. Each village visit meant transporting two 25kg waterproof bags through jungle paths, across rivers, and up mountain tracks. The solution came from local ingenuity - porters who balanced our studio bags on thick bamboo poles, marching uphill for hours while we struggled with just our camera gear in the suffocating humidity.

The studio itself became more than a photographic tool. It transformed into a meeting place, a point of curiosity that broke down barriers. Children who initially hid behind their parents gradually emerged, fascinated by this white box that had appeared in their village. Elders who remembered other visitors - perhaps even my grandfather - understood immediately what we were trying to achieve.

Navigating Village Protocols

Every village required careful negotiation. Our guide explained the fee structure with precision that would make any producer nervous: $50 for portraits with faces, $25 without, then a cascading scale for everything else. But these transactions were never purely financial. They were acknowledgments of value, of time given, of stories shared.

The most memorable negotiation involved young Lesley Jr, who shadowed our crew everywhere. When I spotted a giant millipede and gestured for him to hold it as a prop, his hesitation puzzled me. Only later did our guide explain that these arthropods excrete a toxic liquid that burns skin on contact. Lesley Jr's bravery in handling it anyway - purely from his desire to be part of our project - earned him the opening portrait in the book.

Transport Adventures

Moving between villages meant trusting our entire project to dugout canoes that sat mere inches above the waterline. Five cameras, three video cameras, tripods, and studio equipment balanced precariously as we paddled between villages. Our initial flight from Port Moresby had already tested our nerves - watching our gear disappear into the cargo hold with bags of rice, wondering if we'd see it again.

Each transport method told its own story. The troop carrier runs to nearby villages, the hiking trails where butterflies larger than birds crossed our path, the offshore fishing trips where locals taught us their techniques with hand reels and chicken feather lures. Movement itself became part of the narrative.

Cultural Exchanges

What struck me most was how the portable studio democratised our interactions. The white backdrop stripped away assumptions, allowing each subject's personality to emerge purely through their presence. We photographed women with traditional tattooed faces alongside youths in worn Western clothing, witch doctors with tribal dancers, sailors who now stitched plastic bags into sails for traditional canoes.

The studio sessions revealed the beautiful contradictions of modern PNG life: smartphones tucked into traditional dress, ancient customs performed for contemporary reasons, villages maintaining timeless architecture while adapting to changing realities. Just as my grandfather had discovered, these communities had everything they needed and knew nothing of what they were supposedly missing.

Reflections from the Field

Sitting in that canoe on our final afternoon, feet dangling near the reef, I understood what had drawn my grandfather to document these same villages during his war service. There's a groundedness here that cuts through whatever external purpose brought you. He came for adventure and found humanity. I came seeking the past and found a living present.

The technical challenges - the heat, the humidity, the logistics - fade against what remains: the generosity of people sharing their stories, the privilege of witnessing cultures that adapt without abandoning their core, the realisation that some human connections transcend the 75 years between my grandfather's Box Brownie and our digital equipment.

Village of Paradise became more than a photographic project. It evolved into a conversation across generations - both within these PNG communities and within my own family history. The white studio backdrop that seemed so foreign at first became the common ground where all these stories could meet, where the intersection of ancient culture and modern world could be explored one portrait at a time.