Everyone gets at least one lucky break in life, or so the saying goes. For me, one of the luckiest was a childhood spent in Papua New Guinea (PNG). In 1966, my father left Melbourne for what was then the Territory of Papua and New Guinea, prompted by curiosity and the opportunity to work on kuru, a fatal neurogenerative disease affecting the Fore people of the Eastern Highlands. My mother joined him two years later, in 1968, and in PNG they remained until 1990.

My sisters and I were raised and primary schooled in Wewak, on the north coast, and at Goroka, a town nestled amid the magnificent mountains that bisect the New Guinean island. And what a childhood it was, full of marvel and magic. Sometimes I would accompany Dad on one of his medical patrols deep into the bush. During the day Dad would work, taking blood samples and following up on previous surveys, leaving me to play with the children in whichever Sepik village we were staying. In doing so he knew two things: I would be safe, and I would have fun. Now, as an adult, one of the things I most remember about those trips is the warmth and respect with which Dad and our Sepik hosts regarded one another. Though I couldn’t articulate this sense at the time, I knew that Dad trusted them implicitly and that they trusted him.