He's a Lani warrior, tall and strong, almost naked except for the war paint streaking his cheeks, the woven bands that clench his biceps, and
of course, the large gourd
covering his penis. Pig tusks pierce his nose and a
long knife dangles from his waist, his bow and quiver of arrows are
close at hand. On his head he wears a crazy feathered crown that
proclaims him king of anything he chooses.
I walk on over and say hello.
"Whahhh..." you say here, while taking someone's hand. The word and
touch both have a long lingering quality as if you're considering
whether this is someone you really want to greet.
He's flattered by the attention and soon his warrior's scowl is
replaced by a boyish grin. Like most things here in the heart of
West Papua, he is both more and less than he seems.
Puncak Jaya, or as it's sometimes called, Carstenz Pyramid, is
the reason I'm in Indonesia to begin with. Ever since I
caught a glimpse of the north face of Mt Everest in Tibet I've
harbored this vague notion of trying to climb the seven summits -- the
highest point on each of the continents.
|
|
|
|
The tranquil valleys of central Irian Jaya belie the many
difficulties in traveling here.
|
|
|
At just over 5,000m (16,000ft) Puncak Jaya is the summit of Oceania,
Australia, New Zealand, et al, and one the easiest of the seven.
The primary obstacle isn't the climbing, but rather the bureaucracy
around getting a permit, the arduous approach to the mountain, and the political instability of the region.
People have been taken hostage here, and just plain killed. The
mountain is quite close to the
Freeport mine
and as such is the epicenter of both the Papuan resistance movement and the Indonesian military
buildup. With what I've learned since I've been here, my original
plan of trying to bribe my way into a permit and then flying in alone
now seems comically stupid.
But my newfound guide, Titus, is both Papuan and connected to the
local military and although it's all still extremely dodgy for the
first time it starts to sound like it just might be possible.
War Council
It would be funny if my life didn't hang in the balance. I'm crammed
into a tiny room with 15 members of OPM, the militant group for
West Papuan independence. The "general" has just given a 30
minute speech that's been translated for me as:
We don't want autonomy, we want freedom. Last time we went like women,
this time we will die with weapons in our hands.
What can you do for us?
Now, through my translator who can't seem to get right simple phrases
like, "No, don't kill the pig," I'm expected to give a speech in
return.
I mumble a few words about there being little information on the
Papuan cause in the western press and the difference between the
American people and American foreign policy.
As I sit back and watch them go through the "friend, hostage, or
example" decision making process. I can tell from the translation
that Titus has ignored what I said and yet again told the story of me getting in trouble
with the Jayapura police for taking pictures at a demonstration.
As Titus's translation ends the general looks into my eyes and
pronounces "Terima kasi (thank you)." I seem to be accepted.
This scene has been played out in many of the villages we've visited.
I've met four "generals" and heard talk of several more. But this
time, there seems to be an edge on things. Titus is either in awe or
scared, I can't tell which, and it's making me nervous.
The journalist in me is incredibly frustrated at not being able to get
decent translations. Here are clearly a people in anguish, but all
my questions about their plight get answered in obfuscated history
lessons.
At this meeting is a survivor of the 1977 massacres and through Titus
he tries to tell me stories of thousands killed. I feel a sham as a
he looks to me with tears in his eyes as if I'm a savior come to take
all his pain away, but even so I can't follow the story.
Regardless of their ability to achieve it, I do believe the Papuans
deserve their freedom. The legal basis for Indonesia's acquisition of the
territory is dubious at best and over the last three decades they
have ruled oppressively. Sadly, as long as Western financial interests are tide up in the Freeport mine I think the Papuans are unlikely to
get the chance for freedom offered the Timorese.
To legally climb the mountain requires three permits, a Surat Jalan
issued by the Jayapura police for entry into the region; a travel pass
from the Indonesian military who control the region; and a climbing
permit that can only be issued from Jakarta, requires four
passport photos with red backgrounds, your climbing resume, an
application fee, and a six week wait.
I give Titus 200,000Rp (US$25) and a few hours later he returns
with a form stamped by the local military commander
and entirely in Indonesian except for my name and the name of the
mountain. For all I know it could say, "This man shall not go
anywhere near this place," but I'm only in the market for plausible
deniability and this seems to fit the bill.
Our plan is to charter a flight to Ilaga, the nearest village to the
mountain, and then to trek for a week to reach the peak. The climb
itself should take only a day, unless the lack of preparation,
equipment, clothing, or competent partners should cause any problems.
In the interest of time we will exit via Tembagapura and Timika, the
service towns for the Freeport mine.
It's a place where strangers are not welcome, by either side, but at
that point I'll just be trying to get back to Jayapura anyway.
I leave Titus trying to arrange the charter to Ilaga, while I fly
back to Jayapura the easy way. I need a few days in the capital to
stock up on the cash to fund this little adventure. Commercial
expeditions the mountain cost US$3,500 to US$4,500, I lay hold of
US$2,000 and hope it's enough.
Livestock on Parade
Part of the culture here is that the rich eat better than the poor,
so I'm expected to be at the top of the food chain. Each night a
succession of animals is marched before me, rabbits, chickens, ducks,
and I'm expected to choose one for dinner.
The closet vegetarian in me rebels and I resolve to deal no more death
as we march into another small village.
"The people want to kill a pig for you," Titus announces proudly,
"only 200,000Rp."
"No more killing," I told him, "Don't kill the pig."
But that night I hear it's death squeal and there is two days of pork for
breakfast, lunch and dinner. Well, a sacrifice shouldn't be wasted,
should it?
When I return to Wamena, Titus still hasn't been able to organize a
plane and I begin to worry. Our itinerary calls for two weeks to
climb the mountain and return, and my visa expires in two weeks
plus four days. Not a lot of room for error in a plan that is
inherently fraught with uncertainty.
I'm just about ready to give up and head back to Jayapura when Titus
comes up with another of his truly inspired ideas:
We don't need a plane, we'll just walk.
It seems the two weeks he'd been budgeting had assumed that Tuk,
(mama as he refers to her), would be coming with us. Without "mama"
he thinks there is enough time to simply walk to Ilaga. I'm skeptical
at first, but the idea of walking almost the entire way across
Irian Jaya has a certain aesthetic appeal to it, and by nightfall,
with the earliest possibility of a plane three days away, I'm convinced.
| |
|
|
Do I really need all these people?
|
Titus insists on bringing his "staff," two assistants plus six
porters, making for a total of nine people to accompany me. This
seems like a ridiculous escalation
from my original plan of just going alone, but he seems to be the only one in town willing to attempt it, so I guess I have to do it his way.
For our first day we charter a "taxi" to the proverbial "end of the
road." The road is wet and goes from bad to worse. If nothing else,
the large team proves useful for pulling the truck out of the mud.
Our second day: we are up at dawn, and on the trail shortly after.
Despite the abundance of porters I insist on carrying my own pack.
The trail rolls through gentle farmlands and I'm quietly smug as I'm
easily able to keep ahead of the porters despite my recent training
regimen of lying on the beach.
|
|
Rickety bridge in the flatlands.
|
|
It turns out the porters have been saving themselves and I've been
acting like a fool. The trail turns off into the jungle and the
trekking gets hellish.
I totter along with my pack up the narrow, densely wooded valley.
Back and forth across the river, sometimes on rough hewn
suspension bridges, but more commonly on wet mossy logs. Up and down
the steep side valleys, my legs throbbing, my body in shock now over the
unaccustomed strain.
With more principle than sense I stubbornly refuse to give up my
load and by lunch I've sunk into a catatonia, my world reduced to
the notion of placing one foot in front of the other, again and
again.
Despite their bare feet the porters are far ahead. But surprisingly,
even in my wretched state, I am making better time than Titus,
my "guide." He is having trouble with his boots and at lunch staggers
in nearly an hour after me.
I lost my watch in Jayapura, and in my timeless stupor I mistake a
post-lunch break for the end of the day. I'm roused from my nap to
the cries of "jalan (go)," and as late afternoon fades into dusk we
break out of the jungle and the terrain softens into swamp.
We plod down trees where they've been felled to make a sort of trail
and wade through the muck where there are none. In the last light of
the day we crest a final ridge and below me is spread out a pastoral
valley with a beautiful lake nestled against the hillside.
We manage the descent in the dark and settle into a school for the night.
Titus claims we've come 50km (30 mi.) and I fall asleep to dark
thoughts of two weeks on this pace.
School Days
"Do little Lani boys have nightmares about waking up in school with
clothes on?"
This is the giggling thought that I can't get out of my
mind as I watch the children play.
Actually, most of the children have some clothes, and the issues
seem much more complicated than just money. With the resurgent independence movement traditional dress has become retro-hip, and many
of the boys go starkers by choice?
In fact, with two days to study it, the entire dynamic on the
playground seems odd to me. It takes me a while to discover the missing
ingredient, but eventually I conclude it's meanness. These children
just aren't mean to each other.
An exercise left for the reader, "why?"
I spent hours watching them play volleyball on a homespun net. Always
three hits on a side, never keeping score, and each ball hit only with
the intention of someone else being able to return it.
Watching them, my jaded heart melted just a bit, and I spend a long
while musing over the idea of trying to send them a high quality
net and ball, before I came to grips with the ridiculousness of the
idea. There are so many things they could use more.
In the morning, the lake is gone but the pain in my legs is still
there.
It seems this is where the great Baliem River goes underground for a
spell and periodically the passage stops up. When the water isn't
flowing, it forms the majestic lake I'd seen in yesterday evening's
twilight. But when it releases, as must have happened during the
night, the lake drains into what I see in this morning's cold light, a
muddy torrent running through an ugly brown basin.
There is no interesting story about my legs, they just hurt.
Today has been billed as one long climb and then gently rolling
for the rest of the day. I make it five minutes into the climb before
surrendering my pack to one of the porters, yesterday's pride dissolved in a
pool of lactic acid.
It's early, before the brutal midday heat, and on the flats my legs
feel better, so I'm even beginning to enjoy myself when we stride into
another small village and Titus announces we're done for the day.
Each night I've been reviewing the money and days, cogitating for
hours over the consequences of running short on either, so I'm sorely
irritated at the idea of stopping so early.
Titus explains that he thinks we're moving too slowly and that
we won't make it to Ilaga in time. He has a friend in this village who
works for MAF (Mission Aviation Fellowship, one of the missionary flight
services that had refused us in Wamena), and assures me that this
friend can arrange a flight for us -- in two days.
While Titus and his staff may relish the idea of getting paid to
lounge, I'm really unhappy about the idea of spending two days in this
village. I can feel the valuable days slipping by, each lost hour
ringing like a warning bell in the back of my mind. If it works, his
new plan will put us one day behind schedule and we haven't even
reached the "difficult" part of the journey. It seems I have little
say though, Titus releases the porters and we settle in for the wait.
Permit Roulette
Driving down the road we're stopped every hour or so at a Papuan
checkpoint. These are grass huts flying the
Papuan flag and manned
by volunteer "soldiers" armed with wooden sticks and bows.
They've latched onto all the easiest facets of soldierdom and exiting
the vehicle with a snappy salute is de rigueur for passing through smoothly.
They are ostensibly here to
defend the flag and guard against arriving Indonesian immigrants or
police. The Papuans take their role very seriously, and I don't mean
to poke fun, but whatever other flaws they might have, the Indonesian
military are well armed and well disciplined. It's not a fight I'd
care to witness.
In the larger towns we need to stop and have our permits checked.
My still just barely valid surat jalan for the police, our bogus
military pass for the army, and my good natured charm and wit for the
Papuans.
All a bit of a stretch.
After two days of waiting, I peer nervously up into the dark clouds
and listen intently. I breathe a huge sigh of relief when I finally
hear the plane's first faint droning and get positively giddy as
the sound grows from a buzz to a roar.
The pilot circles once to check out the sloping grass strip, and
then delicately touches down. After taxiing up to the gathering
crowd, he gets out, takes one look at me and says,
MAF doesn't fly tourists.
And my dream of climbing Puncak Jaya is over.
