Poisoned Arrows: An Investigative Journey to the Forbidden Territories of West Papua by George Monbiot

Author:George Monbiot [George Monbiot]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781903998274
Google: N7iFQgAACAAJ
Publisher: Green
Published: 2003-11-15T23:24:10.975950+00:00

There were no signs of people for another two hours downriver. The forest that had given way to mudbanks on the riverside now closed back over, and it was still but for infrequent birds and huge swallowtail butterflies, blue or green. Yellow flowers trailed in the water. Then from around a turn in the river we heard a cry. It was a man’s voice, and as the oarsmen slowed up a black canoe came round the bend towards us, a single man standing in the stern, pushing vigorously against the current. He was tall and deep brown—not black—and wore a pair of tattered shorts. He slowed up and slipped alongside, grabbing the edge of our own craft. He spoke rapidly with the oarsmen, and some of the words he used were Indonesian. In the bottom of his boat was a dead bushpig, a baby with ginger stripes down its black fur, and with it were the arrows that had killed it, the first iron-tipped ones I had seen. Clearly the Asmat weren’t as isolated as I had thought. His hunting companion was still in the forest, he said; they were staying at a bivak down one of the creeks, having left Momoko village to roam about for several days. We would reach it in two or three hours. We pushed on down. The guides sang an odd song in their own language, containing place names; something like, “Keneyan we have passed; we have said goodbye to Keneyan. Momoko we are coming; be ready for us, Momoko.” The Weasel’s reedy voice rendered it well: a tree-tops sound, very high and creaking.

As we progressed we saw that there were more sago trees on the banks, and then one or two bananas. Then, as we approached a twist in the river, there was the sound of drums, deep and regular, pounding through the jungle like a knocking of tree trunks. As we pushed round into view we saw giant canoes hauled up beneath waterside longhouses. Children playing beside the water ran off into the village when they saw us coming. The drumbeats grew louder as we approached. I saw that the canoes had been painted white and orange—lime and clay—and carved on the prows with the heads of crocodiles or hornbills. We pulled along the mud shore beneath the houses. I saw legs among the poles of the houses, naked women running for cover and then, as we pushed for a gap in the canoes, I saw the glimmer of tin roofs beyond the traditional huts. The lands were less wild than I had fancied.

By the time we had clambered onto the mud we were surrounded by a big crowd of villagers. The men were all clothed, in shorts and cheap shirts, and the women were pulling faded dresses over their nakedness as they approached us. We were helped up on to a log walkway and marched along in the middle of a chattering procession. Beside one of the tin huts were thirty or forty children, standing to attention.

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