Trekking Baliem Valley 1985

We flew into Jayapura on our way to Papua New Guinea, but we had visa problems and took the advice of local missionary staff and visited the Baliem Valley.

Jayapura, Irian Jaya Indonesia. June 14, 1985.

Well, we are off pagi pagi (early morning) tomorrow to Wamena. We are quite excited. We have had some time and did some reading about the Dani people.

They are not right out of the Stone Age; they are in the Stone Age. The people are “primitive” in most senses. We are anxious to see how they have been affected by the twentieth century. What I have read was true 20 years ago. The Baliem valley was discovered in 1938 by westerners. The first missionaries arrived in the earl 1950’s. At that time, ritual warfare was quite common. If a man stole another wife or someone was killed for any reason, it was reason for wars between tribes and their allies. The wars would continue until both sides had received the same losses, more or less. Battle was fought mainly with bow and arrows and to a lesser extent spears. Reading some of the accounts of wars, I found it hard to believe that this actually happened. But it did.

The traditional people wear no clothes but smear themselves in mud to keep warm in the often-cool climate. They never wash. The main diet is potatoes, supplemented by some vegetables and pork (only for the men). No pots are used; cooking is done by baking foodstuffs in the fire.

It is a man’s world. Men acquire status based on the number of pigs and wives they own. Women are an economic asset. They are purchased with pigs and cowry shells. The women bear the children; mind the potatoes fields and pigs. The more wives one has, the more potatoes and pigs one has. Women are not treated very well and receive poor diets (no meat) and consequently they can only bear children every 3-4 years. During the 3 years of breast-feeding, the man cannot sleep with his wife (how’s that for birth control!).

We heard some interesting stories today at lunch with the women at the missionary administrative centre in Jayapura. 2 Years ago, a woman missionary barely escaped with her life, she overheard her own death plot and arranged to fly out.

Single women puzzle the Dani people. The believe they are wives in reserve for the missionary whose wife often bear children at a faster rate than the Dani’s 3-4 year pace. Once one group understood that the single women were truly unmarried, the dowry offers flowed in. One fat woman was the main attraction. The Dani suitors continued to offer more and more pigs for her hand. I can imagine her sitting out in a potato field digging the evening’s dinner for her Dani husband.

Missionaries. A different yet very ordinary lot of people the pastors we have met are a very gregarious, American lot. Many have been living here for twenty years, yet seem they have just stepped off the plane from America. The administrators and missionaries in Jayapura seemed to be a very ordinary lot; they were actually homebodies! They are sweet, gabbing women you might find in any office. One of them said that she doesn’t like to travel; “after 2 weeks, I prefer to be home”. Yet, here she is in Irian Jaya. A pastor’s wife asked us how we managed traveling and how did we find hotels wherever we went. Ordinary people living in an extra-ordinary place.

June 16, Wamena, Irian Jaya

Well, here we are in the Beliem Valley. We came from the sky and landed on the ground. I can imagine the wonder and amazement the people of this valley had when the first planes landed. There was still wonder and amazement when we arrived yesterday. A large crowd of people was assembled to watch our arrival. There are many supply planes each day and a great (free) source of entertainment can be found at the airport. A cargo cult in the making?

The flight from Jayapura took us over jungle and slow rivers, the hills and finally through an air corridor (the ground seemed so close) and into the Baliem valley. It’s a huge valley and villages with neatly arranged gardens were below us. Wonder and amazement was upon us as we walked through the airport. I thought I was ready for it, but many of the men were walking around without any clothes, save their holim (penis sheaths). They are usually a foot long and stand straight up in the air. I gagged, to contain the laughter, and then quickly composed myself. Every so often, as I walk down the path, that same grin comes over me. They do look unusual.

Even more wonderful, has been Yulius. It was as if he was waiting for us to arrive. He met us as we left the arrival area and spoke English to us. He is the schoolteacher in Oksibil, an area close to the PNG border and he is on holiday. After reporting to the police (with Yulius) we set over to the MAF (Missionary aviation) hoping to stay in their hostel. We were met with a rather courteous but curt response “we are not a hotel”, understandably, they have had problems with local hotel people because they had taken in tourists. From there it was off to the Nayak Hotel, a shanty house of galvanized siding. A nice enough lace (basic), but the going rate of 26,000 rupiah a night startled us. As it turned out, Yulius invited us to stay at his home and we haven’t looked back. The family has made us feel quite comfortable. They are hospitable but their nature does not allow them to go overboard which is a perfect situation. We now have a comprehensive rudimentary Dani or Baliem vocabulary and feel a little more at ease. There is something about heaps of naked men running about that takes a little getting used to.

However, one has to take it all in stride. Yulius’ English is not as good as originally thought. His sentences are well rehearsed and now sound like a broken record. We will do this and do this. We well this and do that. Then we will take a nap (rest whether it be toilet, a tea). He is sticking like glue. It’s difficult to go to the toilet without him. Hospitality is a give and take affair and certainly we must give but how are we going to lose him for a while? How can I write my journal without Yulius hanging over my shoulder?

Having said all that, Beliem Valley is an incredible place. The town of Wamena is the main trading post, where the 20^th Century and the valley meet. Some people wear clothes, other, simply gourds. No one seems self-conscious except us. We look different!

The villages are as described in the books. Sure, there houses with tin roofs, but the villages are magnificent. The villages are U-shaped and made largely of wood with grass roofs. The surrounding hillsides bear the scars of deforestation.

The climate is temperate. The evenings are cool and the afternoons can be warm. The evenings are thick with mosquitoes. The staple food is the sweet potato and they are quite good. Temperate vegetables grow in abundance.

Seen walking along the road.....men walking (save the gourds) carrying plastic bags from the market. A naked father walking his son who wears clothes. An Indonesian on a motorcycle.

Amongst all the naked bodies and the mud-covered women at the market, the storekeepers are Chinese. Where there is a buck to me made, a Chinese person will be there in Asia. Three are three groups of outsiders living here. The missionaries and supporting entourage with bank accounts are here for a cause. The small Chinese population works in earnest. The largest group of outsiders is the Indonesians; the police, the administrators and so forth Indonesianizing the Highlands. It has to be a strange life for most of them, probably on two-year assignments all longing to return to Java.

June 16, 1985. Wamena, Irian Jaya

Yesterday we went for a short walk south of here. The main trail runs over the airstrip. Unusual to see black naked bodies walking and running on a paved runway, with mountains in the background. They often run in the afternoons to keep warm and many are seen with their arms wrapped around their necks for warmth. As I stopped to take a photograph, two men ran towards me. He offered a Baliem bow and arrow set for sale. I inspected them and asked how much in Baliem. He held out his hand with the thumb and first finger our. Three (thousand) I surmised, as it is the number of fingers held in that count! A deal was struck on the runway (actually 3,000 rupiah).

In the evening, we met the Catholic deacon who has been living here for 27 years. He was here in 1957. Two thirds of the valley is Catholic now. The young people appreciate their freedom of movement but the older generation still longs to fight. When he first arrived, they were still fighting. An infant brings as much honour to a brave as another man. Although the police enjoy a fairly good relationship with the Dani, there is often friction between coastal people who work as administrators. They consider the Dani to be naked savages who need to be civilized like themselves. In 1977, the whole thing came crashing down and the Dani attacked police posts with spears and pounded stakes into the airfields to prevent reinforcements from landing. It has been peaceful for the last eight years, but occasionally war breaks out in remote areas.

The government and missions are pumping huge amounts of money into the highlands, mostly for transportation and communication infrastructures. The airstrip at Wamena is paved and is 1.75 km long (can handle Hercules transport) and the surveying work has begun on a road from Jayapura. Air transport adds 600 rupiah (50 cents per kilo) to the cost of goods from the already expensive Jayapura. The planes leave here by and large empty, except for a few vegetables that cannot be grown in the hills surrounding Jayapura.

Traditionally, a death is a time for great mourning (it still is). Often the grieving brothers of a man would search for a witch and kill her. Female relatives of the dead had their fingers partly amputated. When shaking the hands of many of the women, it’s often difficult to find their hand as there is not much left. The Dani have a real gentle handshake; they are fearless.

The food has been good. It has been sometime since we last sat down to a bowl of potatoes and chili sauce (since Namche Bazaar) but it makes for good breakfast. The sauce of cooked tomatoes and chilies is almost Mexican in taste. The other meals have included rice (imported by air) and some fine, fresh vegetables (cabbage, carrots, lettuce, corn, etc) and always accompanied by potatoes. The hipere (spuds) are primarily sweet and fibrous but good. No one eats junk food as a snack, when you can grab a potato.

There are not many tourists here. When I asked Yulius if many tourists come her, he said yes. When I asked him how many, he responded “five”. I think something was lost in his understanding of the question, but there are not many. I do know there are two British people somewhere in the valley because their passports are at the police station. The Deacon told us there are fewer tourists than before the trouble in 1977-1978. The hotels charge exorbitant rates because there are simply not enough guests, whether they are tourists or businessmen to go around.

Jiwika (Central Baliem Valley). June 18,1985.

It’s an incredibly beautiful place. Mountains surround the flatland. People work their hoes in the potato fields while fires smolder, baking their sweet potatoes. As we walked along a pine tree lined path into Jiwika, or apprehension increased. We had no idea where we were going to sleep or eat. We sauntered into an official looking office and offered greetings “Selamat Siang”, “Apa Kabar?” and “Baik, Baik” and now we are staying in the district administrator’s house. Mr. Suharto is quite a character. He speaks quite good English and has lived her (Irian Jaya) for 23 years. He served as a Special Forces red beret pilot and now seems to administer the projects in this area of four or five villages. The hospitality that we have received in Baliem has been nothing less than terrific. We haven’t had to look for a place to stay; it has merely presented itself.

Walking in Baliem has meant a great deal of handshaking. Men stop and greet each other along the trail; a handshake and an exchange of local gossip. Westerners are not spared. A gentle handshake (they have skin of leather), a big smile and a look right into your eyes. The Dani are fearless. Today we set out from Wamena with a warm send-off from the teacher’s family and relatively heavy packs (mine weighs 9 kilos, Sheila’s 4.5)

After a leisurely walk, we pulled into Akima, to see the one and only “tourist attraction” of Baliem, the mummy. After some negotiation, we offered two thousand rupiah (he wanted 5,000) to see the mummy. Dani tradition dictates that people are cremated in a chair (it is the only chair many of them sit on). For some reason, the fellow has been preserved and venerated (ancestor spirits are worshiped and cause for the ritualized warfare of earlier times). It was a strange sight; a black mummified corpse, sitting on a chair in the middle of a deserted village (the residents were either in the fields or at the market) and a man “clothed” in his holim (penis sheath).

Walking along the trail means a great deal of “Nayak” and “lauk” which are Dani greetings for men and women respectively. And it isn’t everyday that you walk, followed by a curious man wearing his penis sheath. The dress, or lack of it, has lost its shock value (it sure must be cold) and we now appreciate the Dani as people. I’m more shocked by a man emerging from the field wearing clothes than without.

It has been an incredible evening. We had two very special visitors come by the house. The first was Kurulu, chief of the Jiwika Confederation of villages, the head honcho. He is 76 years old, clothed and very gentle, yet he became chief based on the number of people he killed. Apparently a raiding party killed his first wife and two sons out in a field. So he started a war, captured the murderers and ate them. He has 30 wives, a very wealthy man indeed. The district head told us that the first time Kurulu came into the same room we were sitting in, the chief sat on the table. They have come a long way in the four years he has been here.

During the intermission, before the next guest, we spoke of the Dani people. Suharto has developed compassion and understanding for the people, yet he calls them stone-age people. And they are. Although they cultivate a variety of crops, introduced by the missionaries, they continue to eat the traditional diet of potatoes and potato leaves. The chickens, fish, cows, goats, sheep and varied vegetables are sold in the market. Their diet continues to be poor. 25% of the boys begin school, less than 1 % of the girls do so. 30% of the people have hoes or shovels, the remainder use sharpened sticks.

The men live in one hut, the women and children live in another, the chief lives in the rear. I asked Suharto where the man and woman slept together. He responded “in the forest”, they do it like pigs”, then proceeded to illustrate his point while on all fours on the floor. He explained that he had first-hand information, while walking through the bush near the village.

Our second visitor arrived in full costume. He was a young fellow wearing a magnificent cowrie shell “neck-tie” and a ceremonial holim that reached above his shoulders, with a feather “duster” on the end. He wore a single feather in his hair. His black body appeared muscular and slender. In short, he looked magnificent. The reason for his visit was to arrange for a traditional feast. You-know-who pays for the whole shot. Imagine, I the white man, sitting across from this magnificently ornamented “stone-age savage”, negotiating a program and price with the use of a government official as an interpreter. We agreed on a small wam (pig) (Rs 30,000), potatoes and veggies (Rs 5,000) and dancing (Rs 5,000) and all the photos I wish. A feast for the two of us and a group of stone-age people. It will probably be the most interesting $45Cdn dinner we have ever had.

Jiwika. June 19,1986.

I am writing as fast as I can; so much is happening. The Baliem Valley is a man’s world. Women are economic tools whose value can be equated with pigs. The purchase of a wife is an economic transaction. The more wives one has, the more potatoes one can grow. The potatoes are pig feed hence more pigs and wealth. the women bear the children, cook the food, tend the gardens and carry the loads. The man’s traditional role is that of protector. Without tribal wars, they have little to do except walk about proudly, exchange gossip and shake hands.

According to our host, Suharto, the 1977 troubles were the result of the two tribes going to war over a stolen wife. It took place near the new bridge we crossed over yesterday. The police became involved when they attempted to stop the war.

This morning we walked up a steep and treacherous trail with Damyonos (a helper) and Suharto’s son, Juda. We went to the salt pond where we watched a family preparing banana stalks for soaking in the salt water. They are mashed and soaked, then dried out. The stalks are either eaten as is or wrapped around rocks and cooked in the fire. We were strongly encouraged to take photographs. Our host is in effect promoting the area to us with the hope we can spread the word and bring tourism dollars into Jiwika. Tourism appears to be a viable method of introducing money into the economy.

Jiwika, later the same day

Well, we roasted the pig today. It was quite an afternoon. We arrived at the village and were greeted by two men wearing their ceremonial dress. Their faces looked fierce, half covered in a black paint. We immediately found ourselves in the chief’s hut. It was quite dark at first, only the small doorway provides any light. The ceiling was all of a metre from the straw covered ground. In the centre, was a fireplace and around us various artifacts including baskets, pig jaws and arrows above us. The second floor above us is where the men sleep at night. After the customary smoke and a quick inspection of the fire-place area, they pulled out the small pig we were to eat. It squealed and squealed as two men held it and another aimed and fired an arrow at it. The pig gushed with blood, took off like a shot. They managed to retrieve it from outside the village walls and finished him off with yet another arrow.

The huge fire was then lit. It was a wooden structure with piles and piles of rocks on it. The hair was singed off the pig and then prepared for further cooking. They used small wooden knives to slice open the pig. Women were bringing the potatoes and greens from the fields in their net bags. Eventually, the fire began to subside and the process of preparing the oven began. The pit was first lined with grass, and then hot rocks from the fire were placed in it to create a stone lining. Potatoes of all shapes and sizes created another lining. Layer upon layer of potatoes, rock, potatoes, grass, and potato plant leaves, pig innards were meticulously laid out. Eventually, the pig was laid out on top and covered. Using grass hay and twine, it was shaped into a tight haystack which allowed very little of the steam to escape; an elaborate oven. This entire process took much of two hours to build and when it was compete, we were led around the back of the village to the “adat” (black magic house). We are apparently the first westerners to the location. It is here that ritualistic ceremonies take place after death, during sickness and war. Inside it was dark and the walls lined with artifacts. The ceiling was shiny black from years of smoke accumulation.

We then proceeded to another area to practice the “ime” ceremony that is designed to cleanse the group of misfortune and usher n prosperity. Three small holes had been fashioned out of mud and tow posts had been staked below them. The ritual man was an older fellow who wore a white plastic bag on his head as a hair net. They have accommodated the west in their traditional dress; zippers have become headbands. The men assisted the ritual man as he split two branches. The branches were tied to the two stakes to create a doorway effect. Then pig’s blood, charcoal and then water were poured into the mud hoes. The net effect was to have water cascade from one hole to the next, then through the doorway into an offering of leaves and potatoes. The adat man dipped a bundle of leaves into the blood-water mixture and brushed in on all of our feet, in an act of purification. The group of us, women, men and children alike, raised our feet in can-can dancing style while a burning stick was passed below for further purification.

The adat man proceeded to bring a small bunch of green leaves to the chest of each person and mutter words of magic. The recipient then spit on the leaves. By the time the leaves touched my chest, it was a wet goobery mess! The next stage of the ime ceremony, pig’s blood was spread on the elbows of everyone, bringing new life to everyone. Finally, we all stepped through the doorway to greater prosperity.

A little black magic ( “ime”) ceremony. The witch doctor used a plastic bag for a hair net. Zippers were popular as head bands.

The ceremony not only serves as a ritual but it allows sufficient time for the food to cook. When we returned to the fire-pit area, it was chow time. Women peeled away the layers of grass and brought the pig over to a group of men in a circle. the adat man tied twine around two of the men’s necks and two pregnant women’s necks. The pig was cut up and meat was offered to the four special people. We as guest (paying) were offered the legs. We then all ate the meal like “savages”. The accompaniments of potato leaves (quite tasty) and sweet potatoes were all laid out on the ground. In true Dani fashion, the men ate the meat and offered small amounts to the boys and women. It had been quite an afternoon.

Piramid. June 22,1985.

Two days ago, we set out from Jiwika. We had celebrated the end of Ramadan with the Suhartos. He had put on a luncheon for the local administrative people. It was quite a contrast from the Dani lunch of the previous day. We took along one of his helpers as a guide (Damyanos). He is a very kind, well-spoken Dani who showed us the local botanical gardens and a rather unexciting cave. We arrived in Usilimo (Wosi) pretty wet, after a steady drizzle. We son found ourselves sitting on the straw covered floor of the local chief’s honnay (hut), our home for the night. Although the huts are spacious, you cannot stand up and they are DARK inside. We soon had a fire going in the centre of the hut that provided warmth and a great deal of smoke. There is no chimney, just smoke irritated eyes. We spoke to the chief and some other people in my Indonesian. Our photographs of Canada brought on oohs and ahhs but they were most impressed with jeans and watches. Levis are number one. We slept reasonably well as the straw on the floor provides a comfortable mattress. There were fleas and it was COLD, even with our blankets and sheet. I really don’t know how the Dani sleep with little or no clothes.

Yesterday we walked for five hours, shaking people’s hands, asking the way, admiring the scenery, slipping through mud and passing through potato fields. We did not get eaten. Stream and river crossings are at times challenging. Many times a small log of perhaps 3-4 inches in diameter serves as a bridge across creeks. My balance with slippery, muddy boots is not comparable to that of the Dani and there were times that I almost slipped in the water. We also crossed the Walo River on a spectacular traditional vine bridge. It was beautifully solid and partly covered. The crossing of the Baliem River was breath taking. We arrived at the river and looked upstream and downstream, but there was no bridge. We would make the crossing by raft. The rafts are crude devices made of five logs lashed together. A man with a long pole provided direction, a rattan string lashed to the logs provided balance to the passenger who usually stands, and the rapid provide the power. From the shore, it looked like a precarious ride, splashing through the waves. But once on the structure, it was amazingly sturdy; we didn’t dare take our eyes off the raft as we raced down the river at an amazing speed and finally reached the other shore safely. It was a further half hour walk through villages, forests and potato fields before we reached the much-appreciated shelter of the CMA (Christian 7 Missionary Alliance) mission. It was only twenty years ago that a white man couldn’t walk around the area safely. Now, we feel great warmth from every person we meet along the trail or wave to in the fields.

We are isolated from the rest of the world. We are in area accessible only by plane or a long ten-day walk from the coast. Piramid sits under a pyramid shaped mountain and has a grass runway that can accommodate Cessnas and Twin Otters. Yet we have been offered not only warm hospitality but also of a standard found in the USA.

Yesterday, we were treated to a warm reception, fresh coffee and a hot bath (first bath in nine months). We were invited to dinner and enjoyed tuna fish sandwiches (freshly baked brown bread), fruit salad and a strawberry pie topped with real whipped cream. We hardly expected to be living in such luxury! It has been perhaps the most comfortable living in nine months of traveling, here high in the mountains amidst one of the most primitive cultures on Earth.

John and Mary Hazelet are school teachers who have been living in Sentani (Jayapura) for eighteen years and often stay up here doffing their holidays. Marge Rupp is a nurse who runs a series of clinics in the area. There are normally two other families who live here, one who run the bible school and another who advises the district churches. They were all surprised to see us pull into Piramid and are gratefully sharing their homes with us.

Yesterday evening we sat around the fireplace listening to some of the stories they have accumulated over the last twenty of so years (Marge since 1959). This was pretty wild country. With a combination of medical facilities, education facilities and preaching, they have won the hearts of the Dani people. They now run a fairly comprehensive bible school which provides the local pastors for the thirty of so churches in the district. The Dani have often become the zealous missionaries. This morning we met Pulepus, a very unimposing person, who has brought the gospel to many an unreceptive village. The village we stayed at two nights ago had received Sunda (an American missionary we met in Jayapura) with arrows. But Pulepus volunteered and went to live in that village and over a couple of years, convinced the people to become Christians. The existence of education and medical facilities has been a strong impetus for conversion. In particular, some of the Dani medics have intertwined western medicine with Christianity in such a way that it is difficult to differentiate the medicine from prayer. Even today, some medicine is only prescribed if the person meets certain conditions. For example, drugs are given for worms if the family upgrades their sanitation facilities. In short, the missionaries have brought some of the benefits of the modern world to the Dani (education, medicine and to some extent financial benefits) cleverly packaged to include their religious philosophy; if you want my goods and services, you must believe in my God.

The mission houses are like something straight out of America; wooded houses surrounded by wooded fences and well cut lawn. But it wasn’t always like this. Marge told us that her first home in Piramid was made of galvanized metal siding. Dani people would often steal the nuts and bolts that kept the house together and they would wear them in their noses or ears! She didn’t have a great deal of privacy. One day while she was taking a bath, she spotted a line of eyes peering through a crack in the wall. I’m sure the Dani wanted to see if she was white under her clothes too. The peeping Tom problem was easily solved with the use of a water squirt gun.

Kuta Beach, Bali. June 27,1985.

Baliem left an indelible impression on me. We traveled through time from Wamena to Kuta in half a day. Both places seem at opposite ends of different poles.

Baliem is fresh. The people are sincere. Although we spoke only a few words of Dani, we were able to communicate with only a handshake. The energy was strong, the communication direct and it was difficult to let go.

The missionaries were also real people, very ordinary, but sincere. Their thoughts, words and actions came straight from their hearts. God’s presence was easily felt.

Baliem was an incredible place. Women missing much of their hands, wives accumulated like pigs, ritualized warfare of old, completely different languages within the same valley and now very peaceful conditions. They have an innocence of children, a society that still has a chance to retain love and sincerity, something that most developed cultures have cast away.

Our last few days in Baliem were as enjoyable as the first few days. At Piramid, it was more of the same; fantastic hospitality and Sunday roast beef lunch. On Sunday morning, we attended a local church service. The women sat on the floor on one side; most of them were dressed in only grass skirts. The men were predominantly in clothes, though there were many wearing their gourds. The service included the usual sermons but it also featured Dani-style hymn singing with a leader singing a story and the congregation providing a simple chorus.

Our walk back to Wamena was fairly direct. On our overnight stop, we were led to a teacher’s house and fed the standard potato. That night, we slept in a very basic church on the straw covered earth floor. I felt like I was sleeping in a manger without the livestock.

In Wamena, we went artifact buying. At one point a Dani man measured me up with a recently purchased penis sheath. He and I got a real kick out of it. Our parting with the schoolteacher’s family was warm and we arrived in Bali later that day, high as the kites flying in the Balinese sky. We will never forget the Baliem valley.