So I turned to look at the Papuan tribesman sitting next to me on a log in the remote mountain village, and noticed something unusual. I could see my thatched hut quite clearly through his nose, via the gigantic hole in the cartilage separating his nostrils. This is to accomodate the curved boar tusks that can be inserted through there--turned up meaning off to war (that would be a good early-warning sign to clear out, should you suddenly find yourself confronted by a Papuan warrior).
We didn't have much to talk about, seeing how neither of us could speak the other's language. And given that he was naked save for the curved penis gourd sticking up in front of his chest, fashion talk was out of the question anyway.
So I did the next best thing: reached into my shirt pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and offered him one. As all Papuans appear to be compulsive chain smokers, he accepted gratefully, lit up and puffed away contentedly. Ah, male bonding at its best.
(And no, I don't smoke, but offering grizzled tribal warriors bubble gum didn't seem entirely appropriate.)
That night, Pascal and I slept in a hut in the mountain village. And this is where I made a remarkable scientific discovery.
It had always been my understanding that diamonds were the hardest materials on earth. Not so. Deep in the heart of Papua, remaining undiscovered for generations of scientists and schoolchildren learning about the elements, there is an even more dense, hard and unforgiving element: the floor of a traditional Papuan hut.
Nevertheless, with sunset at an early 6:30, bedtime came quickly thereafter, and Pascal and I adjusted our sleeping bags as best we could under the mosquito netting inside the pitch black, windowless round hut. Considering the fact that these were Indonesian sleeping bags that only came up to a level loosely above our stomachs, it was promising to be an uncomfortable and chilly night.
Still, we managed to fall asleep.
Until.
Have you ever heard rats screeching? It's a very soft, high-pitched noise. A little bit like a muted version of running your fingernails over a chalkboard. Combine that with the unmistakeable noise of numerous sets of little clawed paws skittering around and...
Well, let's just say that it's more than a mildly disconcerting noise. Woke both of us up. I just grumbled a bit about adding insult to injury, but Pascal shot bolt upright in his mini-sleeping bag. In his mind, this was war.
So as I vainly tried to fall asleep again I could hear Pascal frantically stuffing his essentials back into the safety of his backpack (mine was wisely unopened), interrupted occasionally by the sudden panicked swoosh of his flashlight beam around the hut to check where the enemy rodent may be hiding, biding his time to take a nip at Pascal's tender, exposed bare feet.
And in the early morning, we dragged our stiff, element-worn bodies out of the hut and launched ourselves down craggly mountain paths towards the next stone age hamlet.
Nobody actually died on this trip, which is good. But when our guide brought us to our first river crossing, he mentioned--by way of expressing the proper method to use the bridge--how a Japanese man broke through the rotted boards in a similar bridge and was bludgeoned to death by the raging rapids below.
Apparently, you don't just cross a bridge by walking normally, one foot in front of the other, until you get to the other side. God forbid! No, instead you must be careful to step only in the middle of the planks, where there is a cable running underneath, because if you step on the outside of the rotting wooden planks, well, it just might give way and send you straight down.
Funny, though, how he didn't mention the proper method to cross bridges that were only slippery logs tethered together by stringy jungle vine. Just do it, I guess.
Anyway, I actually quite liked the bridges. Reminded me of the Indiana Jones movies, and there's nothing quite like a little swaying precariously in the wind over mountain rapids to wake you up in the morning. Take that, Folgers.
The heat, on the other hand, was less enjoyable. Pounding sun mixed with tropical jungle humidity and a large bag on your back makes for some very intense trekking. It got to the point where I could see two or three drops of sweat dripping off my chin with every step, and every exhale caused the sweat running down from my head via my upper lip to shoot out in front of me.
I had long since stopped trying to wipe my face off. With what? Even my shirt was soaked through.
My one moment of terror was, interestingly enough, captured on video. We had been following a trail closely bordering the river rapids--very steep, wet trail conditions, a combination of treacherous moss-covered rocks and slippery muddy terrain.
At one point in a particularly steep area, the trail had disappeared in a mudslide down into the rapids, so the locals had contrapted this little set of branches to link one part of the narrow trail to the other above the precipice. Our guide crossed, our three porters crossed, Pascal crossed, and then Pascal turned around to film me crossing.
Well of course this was too tempting for Fate, and as I stepped across the branches started slipping and sliding down. I honestly don't remember much after that, but Pascal says I launched myself against the side of the cliff, flattening myself against the dirt to avoid plummeting down to my doom. I do remember profuse cursing shortly thereafter.
Speaking of porters, one of them was missing half a finger. Apparently his two older brothers died young, so when he was born his parents chopped off his finger to stop the curse on their family. He's still alive, so that's got to count for something, eh?
At one of the villages we stayed at, Pascal befriended an ageing Papuan warrior and learned to shoot arrows from his bow. Primitive the tribes may have been, but these barbed arrows are sharp as can be, and as some unfortunate Australian missionaries discovered not too far back, can be quite lethal as well.
Anyway, one thing led to another and Pascal, his wallet a little lighter, soon found himself to be the proud new owner of a Papuan bow and a full quiver of arrows. At close to six feet long, this little collection has been quite a trip to lug around since then, but a most incredible souvenir.
Our trek eventually circled back to Wamena, in the heart of the Baliem valley. Completely cut off in all directions by hundreds of miles of totally impassable jungle, our little taste of the Dani tribes was both fascinating and culturally enriching.
Modern civilization is rapidly making its foray into even this remote part of the earth, and within a generation even much of what we have seen will have completely disappeared. What we had the opportunity to witness are the last remnants of a stone-age civilization that accidentally made it into the 21st Century.
A series of various aircraft later, we bid farewell to our fascinating Papuan experience, and land on one of Indonesia's other fabled islands, the lush and idyllic land of Bali...
