Irian Jaya, a land of contrast, mystery and adventure

        "An undiscovered world of pristine tropical rainforests surrounding majestic 16,000-foot mountains …" When I heard this, I wondered how in the modern world such an unspoiled place could possibly exist.

. . .

        As we were standing alone in the middle of the village, the boy who had previously guided us asked us to accept a visit to his home. We followed him in the dark through a tiny entrance door. It proved to be a difficult task for my dad to fold his 1.88m (6ft 4in.) frame enough to enter. In the low light we couldn’t see the details of the place, but it seemed bare of items. The single room was made of straw held together with a few boards. It was too small for us to stand up. After greeting the mother who did not speak any Indonesian, we crawled around the center and sat down around what seemed to be the cooking pit. The mother had just placed some rocks over the fire and had covered them with dirt. She then spread a layer of foliage over the hot dirt. On top of this first layer, she placed another type of leaves and then covered them again with leaves similar to the ones used for the first layer. We were wondering if this was to heat the place for the night. It might actually do that, too, but our young friend explained to us that she was cooking dinner. My dad was horrified about the idea of eating such food. As it would be an affront to refuse, he had no choice but to experience the native cuisine. As the woman lifted the top layer, she uncovered our meal -- steamed jungle leaves. I don’t know what varieties we were eating, but I enjoyed the meal. Slightly bitter, it tasted a bit like something between spinach and papaya leaves. After expressing our gratitude to our hosts, we returned to the teacher’s house where we spent the night on his bed which was an old blanket lying on the floor.
        Two days later, I sent my dad back to France with tales to regale his friends and family for years.
        Now that I was alone, I was free to leave the tourist boundaries and enter the real world of the traditional Dani and Yali people -- the ones who had had minimal or no contacts with modern civilization. I set off wondering if I would ever have contact with it again.

. . .

        When I left Wamena, I wanted to go beyond the last village influenced by modernization. I had no map. My only source of information was a short briefing from a few West Papuan friends who had been in that direction but "not that far".

. . .

        I asked Pak Set if he knew places where cannibalism remained. He acknowledged that farther in the jungle, where the military cannot go, people still live as they have through the ages. To the question, "Why don’t you go live farther in the jungle?" Pak answered, "we’re mountain people, we can’t live in the jungle". Then, he told me that white people tasted better than those of neighboring clans. Surprised, I asked him how he knew. He told me about how before the Indonesian army, the Dutch army had come to the mountains when he was young. Papuans and Dutch died in the fighting. The Dutch victims were eaten following a long ritual dancing ceremony to appease the spirits of the dead. After recounting his story, he grabbed me and with a smile said: "You are big and white. You have a lot of meat and you look delicious!" I laughed, gave him a cigarette and answered, "As long as we are together, I will make sure you are never hungry". Bapak Set was a really charming old man, and I enjoyed the days we spent together. Our paths split as he took a trail going north while I continued east, following my friend’s vague directions -- "you go over this pass, and you cross straight through the next 3 valleys. Then from the top of the ridge, you’ll see the next village".

. . .

After five days of jungle crossing, and more than two days without anything else to eat than the few unknown plants I tried to chew on, I discovered a narrow suspended bridge. It was made of three sets of woven vines held together by rattan strings. One rope was for the feet and two others were set at elbow level. I crossed it and hurried down the small trail which soon led me to a little settlement. I didn’t know its name. I was about three weeks East from Wamena. If it wasn’t for the smoke escaping from the roof of a few huts, I would have believed it was abandoned.

I walked with a strong feeling of being observed by thousands of eyes. As I stopped in front of the central hut, I was suddenly welcomed by people aiming their arrows and spears at me. All silent and careful, they jumped all around me, slowly getting closer. Although they were just a few dozen men, It felt like I was surrounded by hundreds of people who looked at me as an interesting, and maybe dangerous, prey. The danger was real, but showing my fear was not an option . . .

Jean-Philippe Soule

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