Bark-string Bags & Penis Gourds
Exhausted after nine hours of walking with our backpacks, we descend to the Kali Mugi, a tributary of the Baliem river, and enter the village of Syokosimo. Kanak knows of a place we might stay for the night. Soaked in sweat, boots tarred in mud, Nadya and I look forward to a dip mandi and "teh manis," a bucket wash and a cup of sweet black tea. Shadowed by kids yelling "Gula! Gula!" (Candies! Candies!), we arrive at the door of a "honai," a traditional hut with a grass roof. Smoke billows from the doorway.
"Wa, wa! Wa, wa!" A skinny woman in a red headscarf and grimy pleated skirt seizes our hands and shakes them. A man - her husband perhaps - lays out some axes, resembling adzes, on the ground for our inspection. An older man, wearing nothing but a coronet of black feathers and a penis gourd, drifts over. We are the centre of attention.
It is Day 4 of our trek through Dani country in the central highlands of West Papua. Our guide is a diminutive Yali tribesman with a flat nose, coily whiskers, and scars on his cheeks. He wears a "Puma" T-shirt, baggy shorts, a necklace bearing a cassowary claw, and a trilby hat that looks like it has passed through a lawnmower. His English is basic, but it is his fourth language after Yali, Dani, and Indonesian. We are paying INR 400,000 ($40) a day for his services, plus INR 200,000 a day to John, another Yali who is carrying our food.
The Dani are alpine gardeners, who thrive predominantly on sweet potatoes. Our hike has taken us through a precipitous landscape of tumbling rivers, tall waterfalls, and "yabu" (the Dani word for gardens), crawling with vine-like potato plants. Although we provisioned our hike in Wamena, the main town in the Baliem valley (rice, instant noodles, canned fish, coffee, biscuits, and the like), we supplement most of our meals with starchy, yellow- or white-fleshed tubers. Women carry these to market on their backs in string bags called "nokem," made from shredded tree bark, the weight being born by a thin strap that goes around the forehead. For those from outlying villages, the journey to Wamena may take two or three days. We have passed many Dani women en route, walking barefoot and crunching sugarcane for energy. We met one on her way back from town carrying a twenty-kilogram sack of rice.
There must be some other place to stay in Syokosimo, we say to Kanak. We don't wish to offend, but the skinny woman's honai is so smoky, my eyes are smarting and Nadya feels asthmatic. And no sign of anywhere to wash. A man with rotten teeth comes over, points to his mouth, and winces. "Maaf," I respond, helplessly. "Tidak ada obat." Sorry, don't have any medicine. He isn't the first to approach. Nadya did a fine job the first evening of our trek, applying antibiotic cream and a bandage to an infected cut on the top of a villager's foot. There are some poorly stocked clinics in some villages in the highlands, but, for serious illnesses and injuries, the Dani must walk to Wamena and the hospital.
Our prospective host is offended, but we make an effort to excuse ourselves peaceably by buying some of her vegetables and giving her some cash for opening her doors to us. The old man in traditional dress wanders off. He was hoping we might take a photograph of him for cash. Elderly men hang around the hotels of Wamena, too, similarly clothed. His sheath is called a "horim" or "koteka" and is made by drying out a calabash (or pitcher plant). The sheath conceals only the penis and rises up the belly. It is secured by a string that goes around the hips or by one that is secured to the belly-button. A second string winds around the testicles (and looks excruciatingly painful). Only old men seem to favour dressing this way. Youngsters look like our guide.
Light fades and cool winds blow down the Mugi valley. Nadya and I, still in our sweaty clothes, shiver. I wonder if the old man was cold, whether he slips on a jacket in the evenings (Syokosimo is about 2,000 metres ASL). I asked our guide about this the other day when we encountered a man in a village so attired.
"No," said Kanak with a hoot. "He is not cold because his penis is hot!"
"Wa, wa! Wa, wa!" A skinny woman in a red headscarf and grimy pleated skirt seizes our hands and shakes them. A man - her husband perhaps - lays out some axes, resembling adzes, on the ground for our inspection. An older man, wearing nothing but a coronet of black feathers and a penis gourd, drifts over. We are the centre of attention.
It is Day 4 of our trek through Dani country in the central highlands of West Papua. Our guide is a diminutive Yali tribesman with a flat nose, coily whiskers, and scars on his cheeks. He wears a "Puma" T-shirt, baggy shorts, a necklace bearing a cassowary claw, and a trilby hat that looks like it has passed through a lawnmower. His English is basic, but it is his fourth language after Yali, Dani, and Indonesian. We are paying INR 400,000 ($40) a day for his services, plus INR 200,000 a day to John, another Yali who is carrying our food.
The Dani are alpine gardeners, who thrive predominantly on sweet potatoes. Our hike has taken us through a precipitous landscape of tumbling rivers, tall waterfalls, and "yabu" (the Dani word for gardens), crawling with vine-like potato plants. Although we provisioned our hike in Wamena, the main town in the Baliem valley (rice, instant noodles, canned fish, coffee, biscuits, and the like), we supplement most of our meals with starchy, yellow- or white-fleshed tubers. Women carry these to market on their backs in string bags called "nokem," made from shredded tree bark, the weight being born by a thin strap that goes around the forehead. For those from outlying villages, the journey to Wamena may take two or three days. We have passed many Dani women en route, walking barefoot and crunching sugarcane for energy. We met one on her way back from town carrying a twenty-kilogram sack of rice.
There must be some other place to stay in Syokosimo, we say to Kanak. We don't wish to offend, but the skinny woman's honai is so smoky, my eyes are smarting and Nadya feels asthmatic. And no sign of anywhere to wash. A man with rotten teeth comes over, points to his mouth, and winces. "Maaf," I respond, helplessly. "Tidak ada obat." Sorry, don't have any medicine. He isn't the first to approach. Nadya did a fine job the first evening of our trek, applying antibiotic cream and a bandage to an infected cut on the top of a villager's foot. There are some poorly stocked clinics in some villages in the highlands, but, for serious illnesses and injuries, the Dani must walk to Wamena and the hospital.
Our prospective host is offended, but we make an effort to excuse ourselves peaceably by buying some of her vegetables and giving her some cash for opening her doors to us. The old man in traditional dress wanders off. He was hoping we might take a photograph of him for cash. Elderly men hang around the hotels of Wamena, too, similarly clothed. His sheath is called a "horim" or "koteka" and is made by drying out a calabash (or pitcher plant). The sheath conceals only the penis and rises up the belly. It is secured by a string that goes around the hips or by one that is secured to the belly-button. A second string winds around the testicles (and looks excruciatingly painful). Only old men seem to favour dressing this way. Youngsters look like our guide.
Light fades and cool winds blow down the Mugi valley. Nadya and I, still in our sweaty clothes, shiver. I wonder if the old man was cold, whether he slips on a jacket in the evenings (Syokosimo is about 2,000 metres ASL). I asked our guide about this the other day when we encountered a man in a village so attired.
"No," said Kanak with a hoot. "He is not cold because his penis is hot!"
Very nice to hear from you! I hope you keep sharing your adventures with the world! Enjoy!
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