We soon came to Wamerek, the first truly traditional-looking village, where a man instantly invited us in for a ceremony. But something didn’t add up — his invitation had been too quick and polished — and Wamerek, we knew, was the most accessible traditional village. It seemed like a made-for-visitors show, one we suspected would cost us more than necessary.
We moved on, and, as we approached the river, the path became narrower and steeper. I would call it treacherous and slippery, but that would be embarrassing, since we passed so many Dani who bounded along in bare feet as we struggled. A hanging suspension bridge made of metal cables and wood slats awaited us at the bottom, and we crossed tentatively as the bridge swayed. I struck my most confident pose for Cristian to take a picture, but admit that though my face said, “piece of cake,” my body language said, “Get me off this thing.” We arrived in Wesagalep in plenty of time to watch clouds descend, erasing the village’s magnificent view, leaving us feeling perfectly isolated from the world.
At the gathering the next morning, without ado, a small group of men and one woman stood in a circle before us and began to sob. Villagers began to bring pigs over and, each time, a member of the group would run back and forth with a spear, repeating a word that I did not understand. It would have been a good time for a guide; we had little idea what was going on.
Soon visitors appeared, wending their way down a steep hill, bearing more pigs. One was dead, slung over a man’s shoulder; another was hogtied and hanging from stick. And there were several squealing suckling pigs; when they arrived they were handed over to village children who seemed to delight in soothing the pigs while also clamping their mouths closed.
Attention shifted to an enclosure on an adjacent terrace below. The biggest hog of all had been let loose (it was not clear if on purpose), and a grizzled older man, maybe in his 50s, stalked him with a massive, traditional bow and arrow as everyone watched. He shot him in the midsection, almost point blank and the pig died in seconds: It was a poison barb. Then it was the suckling pigs’ turns. Two men held them aloft and a third took aim. One pig writhed out of the holder’s hands after being shot and peeled off toward a cliff, as if it were a suicide run. That led to a scramble, but eventually it was captured.
As the men began to burn the hair off the pigs — a necessary step before skinning and butchering — we decided to go. Cristian’s vegetarianism played a role in the decision, as did my need to catch a plane. So we said goodbye and thanked everyone and headed up the steep hill the pigs had been brought down — the path that wound up and down mountains and across rivers to Wuserem, our next destination, supposedly about three and a half hours away.
When we reached the village above, already panting, we stopped for a makeshift lunch of peanuts, figs and biscuits, and were joined by a group of villagers who had come up from the ceremony practically right behind us. Local custom made it unthinkable not to share our food, so we did, except for our valuable box of Beng Beng bars, which I ruthlessly hid in my bag.
The group was heading in the same direction as we were — straight up. Cristian asked where they were going. It turned out one was headed to the highest point in the region to try to get a cellphone signal. The others carried bows and arrows; I wondered if they were going hunting.
The next stretch was brutally difficult, resembling not so much a path as a stone-and-root staircase heading straight up through the woods. Our companions’ breakneck pace didn’t help, but we needed to keep up: They had promised us a clean stream above to refill our water supply.
There was no cell signal at the top, alas (I had been looking forward to it as well), but we did get a lesson in different kinds of wooden arrows: barbed for killing wild pigs; four-pronged for birds; a simpler arrow for cuscus, a rather cute rodent; and another kind he did not explain. I wondered if it was for humans — the Dani until not too long ago would frequently go to war between villages. That is more rare now, though they still stage mock wars in the August festival.
We didn’t make it to Wuserem, but instead stayed that night in a village called Togoluk, and split up the next day. Cristian’s flight was one day later than mine, and he would go exploring. I hiked on a path high across the valley before descending past more villages to another shaky bridge and entering Kurima, where there was transport back to Wamena. I was surprised to find a military base there — a good reminder that what I had just seen was not an idyllic, isolated region, but a place with a complicated past and, probably, a complicated future.
Fakta unik lainnya, Pak Yali mempunyai dua orang anak laki-laki yang menuntu ilmu di Akademi Kepolisian atau Akpol. Satu putranya sudah jadi perwira di Kalimantan, sedangkan satunya lagi masih kuliah di Akpol Semarang.