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Homo by year the homo men and women will drift to Yaniruma Xnnxx other settlements until only homo clan members are left in the treehouses. Homo more confusingly, in the Indonesian government separated the land into two provinces: Homo the laleo arrive, Ginol will obliterate this fifth world.
Kembaren wraps an arm around him. His family was not powerful enough to protect him at the treehouse, and so this January his uncle escaped with Wawa, bringing him here, where the family is stronger. But while he stays at Yafufla, he should be Xnxd. Bailom and Xnxx papua, each gripping palua bow and arrows, have joined the porters. Bailom shows me his arrows, each a yard-long shaft bound with vine to an arrowhead designed for a specific prey. Pig arrowheads, he says, are broad-bladed; those for birds, long and narrow. Fish arrowheads are pronged, while the Xndx for humans are each a hand's span of cassowary bone with six or more barbs carved on each side—to ensure terrible damage when cut away from the victim's flesh.
Dark bloodstains coat these arrowheads. I ask Kembaren if he is comfortable with the idea of two cannibals accompanying us. Kembaren leads me down to the Ndeiram Kabur River, where we board a long, slender Xncx. I settle in the papau, the sides pressing against my body. Two Korowai paddlers stand at the stern, two more at the bow, and we Xnxx papua off, steering Xnxx by the riverbank, where the water flow is slowest. Each time the boatmen maneuver the pirogue around a sandbar, the strong current in the middle of the river threatens to tip us over. Paddling upriver is tough, even for the muscular boatmen, and they frequently break into Korowai song timed to the slap of the paddles against the water, a yodeling chant that echoes along the riverbank.
High green curtains of trees woven with tangled streamers of vine shield the jungle. A siren scream of cicadas pierces the air. The day passes in a blur, and night descends quickly. And that's when we are accosted by the screaming men on the riverbank. Kembaren refuses to come to their side of the river. Now the two Korowai armed with bows and arrows are paddling a pirogue toward us. I ask Kembaren if he has a gun. He shakes his head no. As their pirogue bumps against ours, one of the men growls that laleo are forbidden to enter their sacred river, and that my presence angers the spirits.
Korowai are animists, believing that powerful beings live in specific trees and parts of rivers. The tribesman demands that we give the clan a pig to absolve the sacrilege. It's a Stone Age shakedown. I count out the money and pass it to the man, who glances at the Indonesian currency and grants us permission to pass. What use is money to these people? I ask Kembaren as our boatmen paddle to safety upriver. They understand the dangers of incest, and so girls must marry into unrelated clans. Bailom and the porters are waiting for us and wearing worried faces. Bailom says that the tribesmen knew we were coming because they had intercepted the porters as they passed near their treehouses.
Would they really have killed us if we hadn't paid up? I ask Bailom, through Kembaren. Then, they'd ambush you, some firing arrows from the riverbank and others attacking at close range in their pirogues. Our shelter for the night is four poles set in a square about four yards apart and topped by a tarp with open sides. Soon after midnight a downpour drenches us. The wind sends my teeth chattering, and I sit disconsolately hugging my knees. Seeing me shivering, Boas pulls my body against his for warmth. As I drift off, deeply fatigued, I have the strangest thought: We leave at first light, still soaked.
Our porters arrived before us and have already built a rudimentary hut.
His homo Xhxx the boy from his treehouse to live in a settlement. It lies just km north of Australia. But even he has never been this far upriver, because, he says, some Korowai threaten to kill outsiders who homo their territory.
At midafternoon, Kembaren and I hike 30 minutes through dense jungle and ford a deep stream. He points ahead to a treehouse that looks deserted. It perches on a decapitated banyan Xnxc, its Xnx a dense latticework of boughs and strips of wood. It's about ten yards off the ground. Korowai are formed into what anthropologists call patriclans, which inhabit ancestral lands and trace ownership and genealogy through the male line. A young cassowary prances past, perhaps a family pet. A large pig, papha from its hiding place in the grass, dashes into the jungle. Kembaren points to the treehouse. The interior of the treehouse is wreathed in a haze of smoke rent by beams of sunlight.
Young men are bunched on the floor near the entrance. Smoke from hearth fires has coated the bark walls and sago-leaf ceiling, giving the hut a sooty odor. A pair of stone axes, several bows and arrows and net bags are tucked into the leafy rafters. The floor creaks as I settle cross-legged onto it. Four women and two children sit at the rear of the treehouse, the women fashioning bags from vines and studiously ignoring me. Each hearth is made from strips of clay-coated rattan suspended over a hole in the floor so that it can be quickly hacked loose, to fall to the ground, if a fire starts to burn out of control.
A middle-aged man with a hard-muscled body and a bulldog face straddles the gender dividing line. Speaking through Boas, Kembaren makes small talk about crops, the weather and past feasts. The man grips his bow and arrows and avoids my gaze. But now and then I catch him stealing glances in my direction. The fierce man leads the clan in fights.
Lepeadon looks up to the task. A youngster tries to yank my pants palua, and he almost succeeds amid a gale of laughter. I join in the laughing but keep a tight grip on my modesty. Korowai seemed to have a hard time understanding clothing.
Lepeadon follows us to the ground and grabs both my hands. He begins bouncing Xndx and down and chanting, "nemayokh" "friend". I Xnxx papua up with him in what seems a ritual farewell, and he swiftly increases the Xnxs until it is frenzied, before he suddenly stops, leaving Xnxxx breathless. In four decades of journeying among remote tribes, this is the first time I've encountered a clan that has evidently never seen anyone as light-skinned as me. Enthralled, I find pa;ua eyes tearing up as we Xnxz to our hut. Papuua next Xnxx papua four Korowai women arrive at our hut carrying a papja green frog, several locusts and a spider they say they just caught in the jungle.
Two years in a Papya town has taught lapua that we pappua wrinkle our noses at Korowai delicacies. The young women have circular scars the size of large coins running the length of their arms, around the stomach and across their breasts. He explains how they are made, saying circular pieces of bark embers are placed on the skin. It seems an Xnxx papua way to add beauty to the female form, but no more bizarre than tattoos, stiletto-heel shoes, Botox injections or the papuw Chinese Xxx of slowly crushing infant girls' foot bones to make their feet Xncx small as possible. Kembaren and I spend the morning talking to Lepeadon and the young men about Korowai religion. Seeing spirits in nature, they find belief in a single god puzzling.
But they too recognize a powerful spirit, named Ginol, who created the present world after having destroyed the previous four. For as long as the tribal memory reaches back, elders sitting around fires have told the younger ones that white-skinned ghost-demons will one day invade Korowai land. Once the laleo arrive, Ginol will obliterate this fifth world. The land will split apart, there will be fire and thunder, and mountains will drop from the sky. This world will shatter, and a new one will take its place. The prophecy is, in a way, bound to be fulfilled as more young Korowai move between their treehouses and downriver settlements, which saddens me as I return to our hut for the night.
They divide the day into seven distinct periods—dawn, sunrise, midmorning, noon, midafternoon, dusk and night. They use their bodies to count numbers. Lepeadon shows me how, ticking off the fingers of his left hand, then touching his wrist, forearm, elbow, upper arm, shoulder, neck, ear and the crown of the head, and moving down the other arm. The tally comes to Two men hack down a sago palm, each with a hand ax made from a fist-size chunk of hard, dark stone sharpened at one end and lashed with vine to a slim wooden handle. The men then pummel the sago pith to a pulp, which the women sluice with water to produce a dough they mold into bite-size pieces and grill.
A snake that falls from the toppling palm is swiftly killed. Lepeadon then loops a length of rattan about a stick and rapidly pulls it to and fro next to some shavings on the ground, producing tiny sparks that start a fire. Blowing hard to fuel the growing flame, he places the snake under a pile of burning wood. When the meat is charred, I'm offered a piece of it. It tastes like chicken. On our return to the treehouse, we pass banyan trees, with their dramatic, aboveground root flares. The men slam their heels against these appendages, producing a thumping sound that travels across the jungle. My three days with the clan pass swiftly. When I feel they trust me, I ask when they last killed a khakhua.
Lepeadon says it was near the time of the last sago palm feast, when several hundred Korowai gathered to dance, eat vast quantities of sago palm maggots, trade goods, chant fertility songs and let the marriage-age youngsters eye one another. According to our porters, that dates the killing to just over a year ago.
Lepeadon tells Boas he wants me to stay longer, but I have to return to Yaniruma to meet the Twin Otter. As we board the pirogue, the fierce man squats by the riverside but refuses to look at me. When the boatmen push away, he leaps up, scowls, thrusts a cassowary-bone arrow across his bow, yanks on the rattan string and aims at me. After a few moments, he smiles and lowers the bow—a fierce man's way of saying goodbye. In midafternoon, the boatmen steer the pirogue to the edge of a swamp forest and tie it to a tree trunk. Boas leaps out and leads the way, setting a brisk pace. Dominating it is a treehouse that soars about 75 feet into the sky.
Its springy floor rests on several natural columns, tall trees cut off at the point where branches once flared out. Boas is waiting for us. Next to him stands his father, Khanduop, a middle-aged man clad in rattan strips about his waist and a leaf covering part of his penis. He grabs my hand and thanks me for bringing his son home. He has killed a large pig for the occasion, and Bailom, with what seems to me to be superhuman strength, carries it on his back up a notched pole into the treehouse. Inside, every nook and cranny is crammed with bones from previous feasts—spiky fish skeletons, blockbuster pig jaws, the skulls of flying foxes and rats. The bones dangle even from hooks strung along the ceiling, near bundles of many-colored parrot and cassowary feathers.
I meet Yakor, a tall, kindly eyed tribesman from a treehouse upriver, who squats by the fire with Khanduop, Bailom and Kilikili. When the talk turns to khakhua meals they have enjoyed, Khanduop's eyes light up. The land The island of New Guinea is still largely covered in virgin rainforest, second only in size to the Amazon. It represents an area of extremely rich biodiversity. It is home to many unique species, including rare orchids, birds of paradise and tree kangaroos. The people West Papua is home to over diverse tribes, all speaking their own unique languages with unique cultures.
The majority of the indigenous population still live traditional subsistence lifestyles. Tribes living high in the mountainous interior practice small scale agriculture, cultivating yams and sweet potatoes and keeping pigs. In the coastal lowlands a hunter gatherer lifestyle is led, with sago and fish making up large parts of the diet. Over the last fifty years Indonesia has carried out a social engineering project on a massive scale by relocating hundreds of thousands of people from across Indonesia to live in camps cut into the forests of West Papua.
This program of transmigration has long been heavily criticised and has brought problems for both the indigenous population and transmigrants alike. As a result the population of West Papua in was around 3. A few large towns have appeared as the major population centres across West Papua, attracting both indigenous and migrant residents alike. The largest of these is Jayapura, the capital of West Papua on the north coast. Other large towns include Wamena in the central highlands, Manokwari on the birds head peninsula and Timika in the south serving the giant Grasberg mine.
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