Papua - A brief insight into yesteryear

During my stay on Natuna Besar I'd been unable to shake the idea of continuing in my attempts to experience parts of Asia that have fended off the deprivations of modern society. Someone had planted the idea of Papua in my mind before I left Borneo, and it just grew and grew. Without doubt I'd been really enjoying my travelling, so much I've done nothing with my book since arriving in Borneo. But it was the last thing on my mind, I've really been getting a lot out of this journey and intended maintaining that flow.

Having an airline cancel all flights between two destinations is inconvenient to say the least. I got stranded on Natuna, as far as returning to Borneo was concerned. I couldn’t make it back within the time remaining on my visa. Luckily with the help of local friends I managed to procure a ticket to Batam, with only a two-day delay. It was a bit disappointing only getting a one-month extension to my visa, they assured me it could be extended further, but only in one month increments. Of course this would mean travelling to a main immigration office every month, not the best course of action when desiring to travel off the beaten track. I’d held off from booking tickets precisely because of the fickle nature of Indonesian officials, a wise precaution. The office in Pontianak had offered to grant me a full four-month extension on application, at no extra cost either. There’s no point crying over spilled milk though, I decided to make the most of the month granted and reassess the situation at a later date. (Photo: Typical happy smile of the local kids - Wamena, Baliem Valley, Papua)

 Areas of the Papua mainland are still off limits to westerners, and all travel requires a Suret Jalan, a special travel permit. The easiest area of the highlands to access is the Baliem Valley, home of the Dani and Yali tribes. Wamena is the provincial capital and only access point for commercial flights, There are no roads connecting the area with the outside world, so flying is the only option. It would appear that with elections due people were on the move, and flights were booked days in advance. So, wasting a few days between obtaining said permit and the first available flight, I wandered around the Sentani area instead of hanging around Jayapura. It’s a bustling but dirty flyblown place, with a mixed population of indigenous Papuans and Indonesian immigrants. When I first stepped off the plane on arrival it felt more like a Caribbean island than a part of Indonesia. Though expecting to find dark skinned locals, I’d not banked on them so closely resembling their distant African cousins. Unlike Australasian they are not so far removed from their African ancestry, in appearance at least. (Photo: Family compound, with stocked fishing pond - Nr Wamena, Baliem Valley, Papua)

To my untrained eye, there would appear to be tribal differences. The Dani tend to be shorter of stature, stockier and darker skinned, with fairly heavy facial features. As a gross generalisation I would describe the Yali as fairer skinned, maybe slightly taller and a little more lithe. Bearing in mind I didn’t venture into the distant heartland of any individual tribe, I can’t fully substantiate these observations. Discussion with a couple of Papuans would seem to suggest I’ve managed to highlight the differing features of the two tribes. In the urban environment of Sentani there is no distinct separation between tribes, Papuans mix amongst themselves, though I saw little evidence of integration with the Indonesia settlers. These are Asians in every sense of the word, and a people apart from the locals. They also tend to be the proprietors of shops and businesses, few Papuans seem inclined towards the world of modern commerce. Simple folk, from distant villages as often as not, bring fresh produce into town to sell, out in the sticks money isn't easy to come by. They line the pavement, fresh produce lying on a blanket, trying to shield themselves from the scorching sun. A steady flow of villagers enter town from every direction, every day. there are three markets in Wamena and they provide just about anything the villagers have need for. But they're not really consumers, they produce food, enough to feed their families with a bit of excess to top up the coffers at home. The women are hard workers, doing the bulk of the domestic tasks. In contrast the men are hunters, they bring in the meat from the forest, though I'm not sure how much that actually happens anymore. They seem quite happy sitting around and smoking, the routines of an industrialised nation are far from their minds. (Photo: Pot-bellied but far from malnourished - Sentani, Papua)

I’ll give the Papuans in Sentani their due, they were ultra-friendly. My wanderings were punctuated by enthusiastic greetings, warm smiles and lots of handshakes. I mustn’t discredit the Indonesians though, they were also gratified by my presence, and very vocal in attracting my attention. But my sympathies are with the indigenous people, an island nation desperate for independence, who live amiably amongst the very people likely to deprive them of that freedom. Not that the settlers have this in mind personally, they are the mere pawns in the political shenanigans of centralised government. Transmigration is designed to increase Indonesia’s claims in their fight against granting freedom to individual islands. They’ve succeeded in the case of Borneo, and raped that particular island of its vital resources. The ardour of Papuans for home rule is strong, feelings run high and rebel groups frequently fight against the might of the Indonesian military. Hence the blanket ban on western journalists from Papua, and the total exclusion of foreigners from certain areas. (Photo: Crocodile infested waters, if the kids are to be believed - Out wandering, Baliem Valley, Papua)

With the election drawing near emotions were almost at fever pitch, political rallies are more like tribal gatherings. Wandering along a rural road I stumbled across one such gathering, not that I guessed it to be a political rally from the ensuing hubbub. There was a stage and rows of seats, politicians addressing a meagre audience. Most the people were whooping it up in the adjoining field, grass skirts swirling, feet shuffling to the chanting cries of passionate tribes people. I stopped briefly to watch, to self-conscious to whip out my camera under the watchful eye of many onlookers. If I’d wanted to watch surreptitiously I was out of luck, almost as soon as I was spotted participants ushered me into the throng of people. Hands reached out for warm hand shakes, nods of approval accompanied the greetings. The gathering was to show support for an independent Papua, my declaration of Papua for the Papuans was enthusiastically received. The chanting and rhythmic dancing was mesmeric, it made me feel like whipping off my clothes and joining in. (Photo: Typical family compound - Outskirts of Wamena, Baliem Valley)

I politely declined an invitation to sit and listen to the heated political diatribe, much preferring to wander and take in the passionate festival vibe. A great sense of unity reigned, boxes of water cartons were dispersed to anyone and everyone. A huge firepit had been dug, lined with heated rocks and loaded with corncobs. Papuans like a pig feast on special occasions. While the women spread out the freshly cooked corn, the men cut numerous pigs into chunks big enough for the most avaricious appetite. There was enough food to feed a small army, which is exactly what filled the area. A truck full of armed police closely watched the proceedings, I wondered what it would take to start a full scale riot, their presence was certainly not inconspicuous. But everyone was in good spirits, there was not the slightest sign of aggression, hostility or outrage. So celebratory was the atmosphere you’d have thought they’d already won independence. (Photo: Extended family settlement - North of Wamena, Baliem Valley)

Nowadays there is little evidence of traditionally undressed tribesmen, festivals and tribal gatherings are some of the few events that see them don their tribal finery, or maybe I should say discard their western vestiges of modesty. So it came as a surprise to see an old man, wearing only a koteka (penis sheave), calmly wander across the open airfield on my arrival at Wamena. He made a beeline for me, shook hands but then faded into the background as guides badgered me to employ their services. Every time I glanced beyond them he was there, slyly indicating them and shaking his head. I got the drift, not that I needed telling, and showed I understood. His secretive smile and obvious amusement was alluring. I almost expected him to be loitering after I claimed my luggage, but he’d gone. It was strange, I found it hard to avert my eyes from his genetalia, a compulsion I wasn’t completely comfortable with; there again I don’t like to think of myself as a homophobe either. The kotekas are very thin, not built for a well-hung guy, and their testicles are massaged into body, leaving a shrivelled scrotum to which they bind cord to help hold the koteka in place. (Photo: Very organised field system, high diversity of crops - Isolated village, Baliem Valley, Papua)

It seemed a hard task to shrug off the attention of my antagonist, the ever effusive guide who’d stuck to me like glue. I finally managed, by returning to the airport café food. Well strike me down if another koteka clad guy didn’t stroll by. This one also approached me, but his interests were definitely of the financial kind. Bearing a string of bracelets he proceeded to display his wares, simple affairs woven from natural fibres. I wasn’t interested, I don’t buy trinkets, but for reasons unknown I took pity on him and bought one, at a vastly reduced price. I thought a photo would be good. Who knows when another chance would come, few are meant to wear the koteka in our modern day. Of course, life isn’t that simple, once taken the demand for money came. After a lot of negotiation I gave him back the bracelet, and counted my losses. Has it come to the point where tradition is only followed for financial gain? In this instance it would seem the case, older guys are often seen wandering around town, and they’re all too willing to pose for a photo, but it will cost you. (Photo: Showing their pride and joy, at a political rally - Wamena, Baliem Valley)

The urban environment of Wamena could have been more pleasant. Mounds of rubbish, piled high at streets corners, spilled across the road. Scores of bedraggled, barefoot Papuans wandered apparently aimlessly along dry dusty streets. The sidewalks were lined with country folk hawking their wares, it somehow missed the usual buzz of such street markets. People seemed reserved, eyes looked upon me with suspicion rather than curiosity. Few called for my attention, I felt an interloper rather than a welcome visitor. I’d heard the Dani tribespeople were not overtly friendly, after my experience in Sentani I assumed this was hearsay. Maybe it was the sight of a stupid tourist wandering through town with a heavy pack, under the scorching sun. I expect to be hustled to some extent arriving in a city, but the residents of Wamena were more inclined to avert their eyes in passing. It didn’t encourage me to approach people for help locating hotels. By pure chance I found one, but they refused to let me view their ridiculously priced rooms without booking in, so I continued my apparently fruitless task. Finally, after the merest gesture of acknowledgement, I asked a passer-by. After randomly checking street after street, I had actually managed to stumble upon the main area for the few hotels in town. (Photo: Traditional dance, performed for the milling crowds - Wamena, Baliem Valley)

Accommodation is expensive, discounts weren’t forthcoming, but I managed to find an acceptable option at the cheaper end of the market. It wasn’t the best of introductions to a new place, nor did it entice me to explore the immediate vicinity, I felt rather isolated. But hunger beckoned, so I ventured out and tried the first promising looking warung. A quick and poor quality meal of bakso, basically noodle soup, set me back nearly £3, which is extortionate. It had me wishing I hadn’t already booked my return flight. Retreating to my hotel room I napped for a couple of hours, waking at dusk to another raging hunger. Once again I went on the prowl for sustenance, this time a little more cautious about my choice. I had a feeling the young Indonesian guys in the earlier establishment had taken advantage of an obvious newcomer. And I was right! For huge portions of fried chicken, rice, soup, and vegetables the cost was only 60% of the meagre offerings I’d had before. The patron was a sweet old lady, who was delighted to accept one of only two foreigners in town. (Photo: Members of the public, attending the rally - Wamena, Baliem Valley)

Arriving tired had done me no favours, my own lack of energy and enthusiasm had failed to overcome the natural reservations of a people who are still fairly simple country folk at heart. When I adopted my normal outgoing, approachable demeanour, people responded more readily. It worked well within the city, but the outskirts could be quite different. It’s small for a city, very small, with clearly defined limits. It’s designed on a grid system, and outside the established grid the area reverts to natural countryside very quickly. Deciding to head out of the city each day provided enough experiences of modern society to keep me happy. I realised I would gain nothing more than the briefest of glimpses into Papuan life, it’s better than nothing though. More time is needed and a fair amount of capital outlay, it’s anything but cheap to travel here. Modes of transport are restricted between areas, due to an absence of road systems. River transport can cost a fortune, because fuel costs an arm and a leg, due to the limited transport options. Wamena relies solely on fuel being flown in, other than fresh good grown locally everything has to be flown in. No wonder it tends to be expensive, and most of Papua is in the same boat. (Photo: Traditional makeup of Dani tribesman - Wamena, Baliem Valley)

It’s a strange mix, I wouldn’t describe anything outside the provincial capital as modern. Most accommodation is still built in traditional style, using traditional materials. Five minutes from town will see you walking past beehive huts set inside palisaded compounds. Follow a winding trail through well-cultivated fields, tended by women sat on their haunches casually caring for their crops. You’ll pass man-made ponds stocked with fish, cross water channels bridged simply by wobbly logs. Here and there guys lounge on the banks, hand lines trailing the surface of placid waters. Passing one compound young kids rush out to gaze in wonder at the apparition visiting their quiet seclusion. Another and the women run and hide, though the majority of people want to greet you. Surprise is quickly overcome by pleasure, they generally like to make the acquaintance of the rare foreigner they see. Considering most come to gawk at the natives recently coming out the stone age they show considerable tolerance. (Photo: Not many women were traditionally bare breasted, and I felt a pervert taking photos of them - Wamena, Baliem Valley)

 In the city I’d say it’s an even balance of shoed and barefooted locals, the country folk, who often walk many miles into town, are invariably without footwear. Old women carry heavy loads, in baskets slung around their foreheads, walking for hours along hot tarmac roads. Visually you’d be led to believe they are poverty stricken, by modern standards you’d probably be right. But they don’t want for too much, rurally they seem disinterested in material possessions. Agricultural methods remain unchanged, for generations. They’re impressive farmers, further out of town surprisingly large areas are cultivated. Communities utilise the same area, enrich the raised beds with the detritus dredged from the interconnecting irrigation ditches. Whilst some tribes have generally been quite nomadic, the Dani and Yali have mixed cultivation with hunting and gathering. And to some extent they still do, with the men having sorts into the forest with their traditional weapons. Financial inducements are made by the government to encourage them to settle into urban areas, and many do. But there is an undercurrent of distrust for their Indonesian overlords. They may still brandish antiquated weaponry, take pleasure in discarding western clothes for fibre skirts and kotekas, but they are not bind to the manipulations of the government. They want to keep their way of life, and the natural environment that has always provided for them. They realise the wealth of resources to be found in Papua, and they don't want their land ruined by outsiders getting rich exploiting what isn't theirs. (Photo: I think he's bragging, most the kotekas are much smaller - Wamena, Baliem Valley)

Of the traditional state of undress, there are very few signs, unless you happen to visit at an occasion of special importance to the Papuans. When it matters they are proud of their tradition, young and old discard the vestiges of western modesty to don their kotekas, daub themselves with decorative designs and insert a tusk through the hole so many have through the central cartilage of their noses. I struck lucky because of the election. Proud of their traditional culture, keen for their independence the tribes people were out in force. The fact the carried their full array of weapons came as a shock, even more because the Indonesian military sat and watched the proceedings without interfering. Mind you, I think it would have sparked a full scale war had they tried to. There were guys wandering about with axes balanced on their shoulders, weighty clubs and even lumps of wood spiked with nails. It wasn't just the guys either, a fair few women looked quite comfortable hefting a three metre spear. They may do the bulk of the work but I wouldn't call the women weak in any way, they are proud and strong counterparts to their menfolk. While they definitely work hard, from what I saw they know how to play hard too. (Photo: Don't think I'd like to argue with these two, loud and proud they were too - Wamena, Baliem Valley)

 At the rallies I got a lot of warm welcomes, people were keen for me to know the strength of their feelings. The Papuans want rid of Indonesian rule, before they rape this country in the same way they have Borneo. They’ve nothing against the Indonesian people, but Papuans certainly want shot of their government’s rule. I tried to question the wisdom of having a number of political parties claiming to represent the people's interests for a free Papua, surely it would weaken the strength of any single party standing against the Indonesian parties. No, I was assured, all the parties work together in achieving independence. I must admit it still seemed sure to split the vote, and therefore diluted the strength found in complete unity. How nice it may have been to delve deeper into the highland area, but time was at a premium, and I wanted to discover the underwater glory of Raja Ampat, claimed by many to be the number one dive spot at present.