The Lost Tribe: A Harrowing Passage into New Guinea's Heart of Darkness
272
The Lost Tribe: A Harrowing Passage into New Guinea's Heart of Darkness
272eBook
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Overview
Two years before this story begins, the Liawep were living deep in the jungle of Papua, New Guinea, long forgotten by the outside world. Numbering seventy-nine men, women, and children, the tribe worshipped a mountain, dressed in leaves, and hid when planes flew overhead, believing them to be evil sanguma birds. Their discovery by a missionary hit the headlines in 1993. Galvanized by the reports of people living in Stone Age conditions, Edward Marriott set out to find the Liawep. Banned from visiting the tribe by the New Guinea government, he assembled his own ragtag patrol and ventured illegally into the wilderness in search of his quarry. Nothing could have prepared him for what he found or for the dramatic events that followed. A thrilling, superbly written adventure, The Lost Tribe is a memorable account of what happens when good intentions go awry, when rational man meets primal beliefs, and when a small, primitive people are ensnared by the predations of civilization.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781250108968 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Holt, Henry & Company, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 12/29/2015 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 272 |
| Sales rank: | 975,763 |
| File size: | 729 KB |
About the Author
Edward Marriott, a journalist and broadcaster, is the author of Savage Shore: Life and Death with Nicaragua's Last Shark Hunters. The Lost Tribe, his first book of travel writing, was a finalist for the Thomas Cook Travel Book Award and a New York Times Best Travel Book of 1997.
Edward Marriott is the author of Savage Shore and The Lost Tribe, a New York Times Best Travel Book. A recipient of the Thomas Cook and Banff Awards, he lives in London, where he contributes regularly to the BBC, the Times, and Esquire magazine.
Read an Excerpt
The Lost Tribe
A Harrowing Passage Into New Guinea's Heart of Darkness
By Edward Marriott
Henry Holt and Company
Copyright © 1996 Edward MarriottAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-250-10896-8
CHAPTER 1
Ignatius Litiki, the committee chairman, wore square steel-rimmed spectacles, a Hawaiian print shirt and a permanent sneer. His skin was very black. "Well, gentlemen," he sniffed, "come in."
There were three of us: myself and two well-briefed anthropologists, armed with box files, who had been photographing ancient carvings down the coast. They were here to explain their findings, and adjusted their ties confidently — they had booked this appointment weeks ago. I, on the other hand, had arrived unannounced and underdressed.
The three of us had spent the last hour together in the town's only hotel, a collection of mold-skirted wooden buildings near the beach. My nerves had made me hungry, and I'd gone there to eat. They were alone in the restaurant when I arrived, at a small table with a red plastic ketchup-tomato and white easywipe tablecloth, reading their menus in silence.
They were booked to see the research committee half an hour before me. Both wore jackets and ties; their faces were shiny with sweat. The white man was an American: "Dr. Robert Scott, pleased to make your acquaintance." He was fortyish, bald, with a soft sandy moustache, bee-stung pink lips and splayed teeth, over which he drew his top lip when he spoke.
He introduced the Papua New Guinean beside him as "Wilfred, my colleague." Wilfred looked at the tomato. He wore a brown wool tie over an orange plaid shirt. When he ordered, he loosened the tie and wiped his brow on a paper napkin.
I told them that I, too, was due to meet the committee. I suggested we go together, hoping that some of their purposeful formality might rub off on me.
Scott looked at me. "Surely. You an anthropologist, too?"
"No, a writer. I want to visit the Liawep. The lost tribe."
Scott raised an eyebrow. "The so-called lost tribe. It's all a load of bullshit, cooked up by some patrol officer to get more funds for his district." He stroked his moustache. "And even if they are lost, how do you know you'll get there? It's the hardest walking you'll ever find. When I was younger I walked a lot and even when you're in peak fitness it's like you're going to die. The mountains go straight up and straight down. This is the wet season, remember, so the rivers will be flooded and half the tracks washed away. If you twist your ankle or break your leg, no one's going to help you. It's tough, buddy, and excuse me for saying so but you don't look too tough to me."
We sat in silence. After a while the waiter pushed backward through the saloon-bar half-doors from the kitchen with three plates balanced down one arm. I picked desultorily at the fish, extracting the bones, peeling away the skin, pushing the flesh around with my fork.
The sight of food stirred Scott to speech again. "So why exactly are you seeing the research committee?" He funneled salt over his steak until it was as thick as icing sugar.
"For permission to visit the tribe."
"Well, good luck, my boy. You'll need it."
I fancied that, as well as condescension, he might have useful advice to offer, so I attempted flattery. "You're the expert. You tell me how it's done."
"There's not much you can do. They've likely made up their minds already. Isn't that so, Wilfred?" Wilfred was chewing.
"And if they haven't?"
"Tell them how good your book will be for the province. How it will help tourism. That's all they care about."
I asked whether I should mention money. I imagined the committee as provincial simpletons whose decisions might be immeasurably eased by a well-placed bribe.
Scott sniffed. "They'd expect big bucks — Landcruisers or choppers. Tell them money's not the point. You're doing it because you love the country. Lay it on thick. They love all that shit."
The time of the meeting was fast approaching. I paid my bill and stood up to leave. "Get our check, would you, Wilfred?" Scott ordered. Wilfred coughed into his hand and loped after the waiter.
I now had a list of points that I hoped would sway the committee. I had no idea which would work, and often they contradicted each other. Halfway down the list I'd written "Not making any money from it — good thing" and, two lines below that, "I might sell a lot of copies — good thing for tourism." I felt duplicitous.
We walked in silence. When we reached the offices, Scott said, "We're going 'round the front. It looks better." We climbed to the first floor. Below us, on a gravel sweep, ten yellow Landcruisers were parked, noses in line.
* * *
The government offices were ugly buildings, in peeling plyboard, in the middle of Vanimo, a nondescript sandblown town with torn mosquito mesh in the bungalow windows and a single rotting fishing boat moored to a skeletal quay. I'd flown across the country from Port Moresby to reach this lonely peninsula on the far northwest coast. Here there were bureaucrats who were deciding the fate of the Liawep, deep in jungle to the south.
We were shown into a large room with a long table. I shuffled in last. It was hot and dusty despite the air conditioners. Litiki, the chairman, sat at the head, near the green blackboard. His shirt was tight around his belly and when he spoke I smelled stale tobacco smoke. The ten committee members — farmers in too-tight jackets, bureaucrats in shorts and T-shirts, a mechanic in a jumpsuit — ranged themselves in descending order of importance. There was a slight scuffle for seats; the mechanic gave way.
Scott and Wilfred sat near Litiki, placing their files purposefully in front of them. I sat opposite and opened my notebook on the table. It looked rather small.
"Dr. Robert Scott," Litiki read slowly from a typed sheet, his accent heavy and lisped, "and Dr. Wilfred Pania. We'd like to hear from you first."
Scott smoothed his pink freckled pate and stood up. Wilfred looked down at his hands. "Thank you, sir," Scott murmured, casting a terrifying smile around the room.
He walked to the blackboard and ran his finger along the gutter. He turned round, pinching a piece of chalk between manicured fingers, and spread his arms wide. "Thank you all for asking us here," he began, looking at each face in turn. "And thank you," he added, moistening his lips, "for making our research possible."
He turned to the blackboard. "My name's Dr. Robert Scott," he said, writing it in large capital letters across the top. He worked for the Field Museum of Natural History in Chicago, and for the last six months he and his Papua New Guinean colleague, Dr. Wilfred Pania — he paused, scratching the name below his — had lived just down the coast. "I can report that we have had a very meaningful relationship with the people and we have, I believe, made some important discoveries." Litiki turned his chair to see the blackboard. The rest took notes.
Scott was proud to refute the popular view that, until white men came, coastal people had been kept in their villages by a state of constant war. On the contrary, he announced excitedly, they had always roamed free. "We knew that," muttered the mechanic, inspecting the oil underneath his fingernails. "It's only white men who thought different."
Scott ignored him. He babbled on for fifteen minutes, about how the two universities had enjoyed "a story of collaboration and cooperation." While he spoke, Wilfred sat back in his chair, picking at his ear and watching the fan spinning on the ceiling.
After fielding a few questions, Scott sat down. Litiki turned to me. The light caught on the edge of his glasses. Everybody stared at me.
I stood up so fast my chair toppled on to the floor behind me. Someone laughed. Blushing furiously, I righted it and sat down again. My words came tumbling out. I was a writer, I said, planning a book on Papua New Guinea. I'd come to ask permission to visit the "lost tribe," the Liawep. I tried to play down the importance of permission. Naturally, I was also writing about their province, and hoped the book would foster "a wider knowledge and love of this beautiful place." I looked around the table. All looked solemnly at me.
My argument began to unravel. "I've written to Peter Yasaro," I burbled, "the patrol officer who discovered the Liawep. He was happy for me to go on the second patrol, but said I had to come here first." Litiki looked severe.
"I hope my book will increase interest in this province," I added, repeating myself. "I'd like to help in some way with the cost of Mr. Yasaro's next patrol but I couldn't pay very much." I looked frantically at Scott, realizing my mistake too late. He raised his eyebrows. I tunneled on. No one spoke.
Naturally, I added, I wrote as requested, but when no one replied, judged it best to drop by in person. I was planning to move on to Oksapmin soon to meet Peter Yasaro. Would it be possible to gain permission by Monday?
Litiki looked grim. "I'm afraid, Mr. Edward," he said, looking around the table, "that your trip has been wasted. No foreigners are allowed to visit the Liawep. It is possible you will be dangerous to them. Or they to you."
I reminded him there was a missionary there. "You let him go in." My voice was rising.
"When you've been here a little longer," he said, "you will see you cannot stop missionaries. Even we cannot stop them."
It seemed hopelessly final. Might they reverse their decision? Was it worth my writing again?
"Yes, you may write again. Try in July."
Six months away.
CHAPTER 2I stalked out of the room on to the balcony, angry and humbled. Behind me, someone pushed the door shut.
I had made a poor start. Conscious of the distrust the government reserved for foreign journalists, I'd come well briefed. In the weeks since my arrival I'd met anthropologists and missionaries and had hoped to impress Litiki and his committee with my diligence and understanding of the country's history. I had failed.
At least, I reflected gloomily, it was a beautiful day. The government offices were the highest buildings in Vanimo and from here, in the middle of the peninsula, which swelled bulbous from the jungle, there was sea on all sides. It was early and the sun was high. On the beach, twenty yards away, nut-brown children splashed about in the inner tubes of tractor tires. I climbed down the steps and headed over.
The sand was fine and very white, sloping into a cobalt sea. Tiny porcelain crabs, gathering themselves, scuttled away sideways. From here, on the coast, it was hard to imagine the interior, the endless jungled mountains and impassable rivers. Only the flight from Port Moresby, across endless green, high over the mountains' spines, had given any impression of the country's vast unknown. But when I looked up, inland, the mountains were all around, rising darkly from the sea.
It had been a struggle, and I was still so far from my goal. Already I had encountered wildly differing views — the Liawep were the blackest cannibals, the most downtrodden innocents, and every shade in between.
I had begun my journey two weeks earlier, in Port Moresby, at the tail-end of the dry season, the city baking hot, roadside flowers bent over with dust. In the anthropology department of the university, the senior lecturer had goaded me, unable to believe I had flown across the world in search of a lost tribe. He saw me as a pitiable amateur; when I used the word "lost" his lips pursed in disgust. No one was lost anymore, he believed; even the remotest tribes would, by now, have heard of the outside world, not that they necessarily welcomed it. "Make sure you take a lot of people with you. I have a nasty suspicion these guys like a bit of flesh for dinner. I once interviewed an old man who had a bone tool with him. 'Oh yes,' he said. 'We killed him and ate him and this is his leg.'" The lecturer had an alarming laugh, keyboards of betel-pitted teeth.
Yet it seemed that the real flesh-eaters were the missionaries, of which Papua New Guinea boasted more per head than anywhere else — one for every 2,000 people. When I moved on from Port Moresby I had met them in the highlands, planning their advance. What I saw convinced me that the race for the Liawep soul had begun in earnest.
Deep within their razor-wired compound, dismissed by the locals as "Little Americans," one such mission worked day and night at its grand plan: to translate the Bible into each of the country's 800 languages. So far, they had managed only five, but persevered, dogged, buoyed by Jesus' words in Matthew 24:14: "And this gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in all corners of the world for a witness unto all nations; and then shall the end come."
I found the Summer Institute of Linguistics a bizarre, displaced suburbia, arranged along Vietnam Street and Philippines Street, isolated above a lonely valley, with tennis courts, junior and high schools. Newspaper cuttings about the discovery of the Liawep were blown up and pinned to bulletin boards. They were planning to dispatch volunteers within the next two months.
When I had flown onward, heading north to Vanimo and my appointment with the committee, I had picked out the compound as the plane circled upward, this brave new world of neat bungalows standing in striped lawns, huddled on the mountainside, barricaded from the jungle. Then it was just the endless green, broken by snaking rivers and half-vanished clouds.
And now I was here by the edge of the sea in the sun, watching children, sand ridged inside my shoes, the tide advancing. I felt stymied, fogged, and undecided. In the heat the colors began to blur and I slipped, unthinking, into a delicious fantasy. All would come right if only I could track down Peter Yasaro, the patrol officer who had discovered the Liawep, and to whom I had written before leaving England. He was an adventurer, he would understand. He would overlook my failure to secure permission, perhaps even wave me on with some of his men. But reaching him would not be simple. Oksapmin, his home, was so remote that supply planes dropped in only once a week. In high winds or low cloud, there was no plane at all.
Yet if I reached him, I had a blind confidence I could sway him. Earlier, a missionary obsessed with the Liawep had given me a copy of the report Yasaro had filed on completing his patrol, and which I now leafed through again. If I was to record the story, the missionary had said, pressing it on me, I must know the facts. First, it was a Lutheran, not a Baptist, who was now living with the Liawep. Ever since the Rev. James Chalmers had cruised the south coast at the end of the nineteenth century, gleefully setting to work among a people not yet exposed to commerce, the lure of the innocent and untouched had brought missionaries in their thousands. Now, sanctioned by the freedom of religion granted by Australia in 1921, there were hundreds of churches, with new ones born every day, all of them spurred on by the thought of uncontacted tribesmen who could be swiftly brought to their knees. The Lutheran would be just the start — soon, if history was any guide, Mormons, Assembly of God, Christian Revival Crusade, and Summer Institute of Linguistics would all be greedily squabbling over the Liawep. Their techniques were similar to that of the fiery, bearded Chalmers, a man likened by Robert Louis Stevenson to a volcano ("as restless and as subject to eruptions") — rule by fear; reading matter restricted to the Bible; baptism alone averting damnation. The twentieth century may have seen man walk on the moon and split the atom but, in Papua New Guinea, evangelists still lived in the 1880s.
The tide was advancing and spray flecked the pages of the report. I stood and walked up the beach, into the shade of a tree, brushing sand from the soaked paper. The report was eight stapled pages, the type faded and blurred by the end. I read it again, searching for clues to my next move. It was resolutely official, filled with facts. The tribe had settled at Liawep in the late 1970s. Yasaro had their future mapped out: "They are nomads and, I believe, if forced to move will do so."
Yet, through the cramped prose and official posturings, Yasaro came alive. His moans at the harshness of the journey only made him seem more human and approachable: "Six full days to Liawep and another six days to return was very hard and tiring. We climbed very high mountains, crossed big rivers, followed long ridges, were hit by natural disasters such as walking in heavy rain and swimming across flooded rivers." All I had to do now was find him.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Lost Tribe by Edward Marriott. Copyright © 1996 Edward Marriott. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company.
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