Headhunters of the South Pacific

After breakfast, I was handed a bag of undelivered mail, most without postage stamps. With traveling by bicycle, the village elder thought that I should have no problem finding the recipients. Sounded reasonable enough, so with the good tidings of the village, I continued the journey up the mountain. Christian missionaries had found their way into the region since the 1950s and unlike the National Geographic articles, the people were now clothed and believed wholeheartedly in heaven on earth. Finding someone in each village who could pick out the letters of the people nearby was helpful, although not all lived near the village but far down mountain paths unsuitable for heavily loaded bicycles. In the mountains, there are basically two types of trails: those that go up and come back down, or those that go down and must come back up. No matter how much effort it took, with each letter delivered, came a free meal. Money wasn't worth much in the small Ifugao villages as there was nothing to buy and these "free" meals were keeping me alive. There was no electricity either for that matter, the Philippine government saw to that.

Considering this region is the most rugged region of the country, biking was slow, as was delivering the mail. In every village, I tried to hand the mailbag over to different elders, but nobody would accept it. In their eyes, I was the mailman and also someone who could read the letters. Most of the elderly people could not read, and the young people who could, had left the tribal region for the city in search of education and employment.    Headhunting traditions in the region had been mostly abandoned, but legends and tales of the good old days were plentiful. I had gotten here fifteen years too late, but just to be safe, I immediately asked for a glass of water whenever I came to a new village.  If an outsider passing through a village had drunk their water or eaten their food, traditionally they were safe until that water or food passed through them.   So I was happy to drink and eat as much as possible.

By the time I got to Lagawe, the capital of Ifagao, the load of mail had shrunk considerably and I was able to hand over the rest to the chief of police. He didn't believe I was the mailman, but a member of the CIA, and introduced me as a secret CIA agent wherever we went, which was free meal after free meal. Placed in the care of a local rebel who held most of the town's M-16s and fire-power, I was given an Ifugao double-edged fighting blade for protection, which was strapped to the seat post of my bike for the rest of the ten-year journey.  While being in Ifugao care for a little over a month, I never spent a single dime. Of course, I was not living in luxury either.

The following summer I decided to track down the headhunters of Papua New Guinea, the world's third-largest island nation, and the most rural with only 13% of its people living in urban centers. There are 851 known languages in the country, of which 11 have no known speakers. PNG is known to have numerous groups of uncontacted peoples, as well as many undiscovered species of plants and animals in the interior. Surely here I would find more than just anti-government rebels.

Port Moresby was a world of lawlessness and like stepping back a century or two in time.  Both banks in town had been robbed during the five days it took to get on an outbound plane.  The only place to eat, a fried chicken joint, got robbed by a man menacingly waving a big club while I was eating my very first meal.  It took three days to exchange dollars for local currency, as the banks had no money.  Other than a few filthy streets, there were no roads going anywhere as Port Moresby was completely isolated from the rest of the island. Boarding a plane for the Central Highlands turned out to be like no flight I had ever experienced before, nor ever since.     The national airlines had never transported a bicycle before and believed me when I told them it went into the main cabin. On the ground in Mt. Hagen, the capital of the Central Highlands, I was quickly surrounded by a crowd of people, some wearing no more than large leaves for clothes. They weren't interested in me, just my bike, something they had never seen before. I couldn't move until John stepped out of the

crowd and introduced himself in near-perfect English. He was offering a place to stay and an escape from the highly curious crowd. 

John had a small basic room in the center of town with a bathroom, a wood stove, a table, and a bunk bed. I got the upper bed. He was the caretaker of a building owned by missionaries who hadn't been in the country for several years. Together, we made vegetable soup every night and traded stories until we fell asleep. My stories were about cities, cars, bicycles, and education. His were about birds, rivers, and scary legends. He knew I was there chasing headhunters and he was afraid for me, begging me not to leave. John is the lone warrior above greased up for a PNG "Sing-Sing."

Mt. Hagen was fun in its own way. There was nothing to do, however, other than stare back at the people staring at me. There were two restaurants in town. One was unacceptable even by the lowest of standards but the other had a daily lunch special that was eatable. The entire town closed before dark, as the people of Papua New Guinea were afraid of the night and were in their huts well before nightfall. Unlike the Philippines, I didn't need to chase headhunters, here they came to me. Word of my bike had spread and everyone wanted to touch it. Resting it against a tree and stepping away, I was able to take portraits of the crowd. They knew I was John's guest, so I was completely safe.

After a week the urge to see the countryside forced me to say farewell to my host. Finding food, maintaining health, and self-defense would all be tested during the next two months following the unmarked footpaths into the high jungle-covered mountains. A terrible stone road led out of town for a couple of miles before it was eventually eaten up by the jungle. Papua New Guinea is home to the world's third-highest mountain range and its raging rivers were natural barriers that separated neighboring tribes. Traveling through these unmapped tribal regions proved to be risky. The oddity of traveling by bike helped with gaining trust in an isolated nation full of untrusting people. Days would go by with only a few huts along the trail. Perhaps I had taken a wrong turn, maybe not, but I could only go left, or go right, not both.   The small amount of food I brought from Mt. Hagen ran out after just two days. I should have stocked up on more, but there was nothing to buy other than more of the

raw vegetables that were now gone.  From then on, I had to rely on convincing the people along the trail that I wasn't dangerous, just hungry. They had never seen a bicycle before but were familiar with shaking hands. That and a giant smile helped relieve immediate tension whenever I approached someone. I watched as they poked through small fire pits searching for chunks of black charcoal, which was actually roasted roots. They ate roots. Whenever I saw bananas and pointed at them, often I was given some. I tried to buy the rest but that didn't work and I was never handed more than just a few. Most families had a few chickens and maybe even a pig, but they weren't about to sacrifice them for me. I felt lucky just getting a junk of root. Digesting them was slow work and not very satisfying, but they were keeping me alive, barely.

Generally speaking, the tribal people of Paua New Guinea aren't very trusting people. Strangely, they did not believe in natural death, and the dead were either victims of accidents or poisoned by their neighbors or family. As a result, they isolated themselves from most of the world around them and stuck to eating roasted roots. If they grew food, they were sure their enemies would steal it, so why bother? Within several weeks though, I was struggling with poor nutrition and infections that were spreading on my hands. I tried to ignore the problem, but couldn't. If I turned back it would take weeks to get back to Mt. Hagen, so I had little choice but to keep going and hope things would improve.

I did come across a town that had a dozen or two buildings and a tiny vegetable market every day. One of the buildings was a schoolhouse where I was permitted to stay. Either there was no teacher or the children were on vacation as the schoolhouse showed no signs of life. As night approached, rocks crashed against the tin roof and people could be heard running away.  Once darkness eventually scared them home, I was finally able to get some sleep. After four days of eating vegetables non-stop and rubbing sliced garlic on my wounds,  I thanked them as they pointed to the trail that I should take when leaving.

The worst thing about these trails, other than begging for roots, was the frequency of the fallen trees blocking the narrow trails. Getting the bike under or over them required the strength I needed to climb the unforgiving mountains. Crossing rapid rivers on slippery single-log bridges was also nerve-racking. On most of them, I chose to unstrap the bags from the bike and individually carry them across as the bike would never survive the fall. For that matter, neither would I.

Harrowing bridges, raging rivers, and a serious lack of wholesome food were not my only problems. Unexpectedly, my personal defense was put to the test several times along these remote mountain trails as well. Nearly every night was spent behind the cover of bushes with a pile of loose rocks close by. Whether that was from instinct or paranoia, I'm not sure. Sleep didn't always come easy so being awakened by a flurry of rocks being tossed my way was a terrible way to start the day. Taking quick cover behind the closest tree, I could see branches moving not far away, giving me a good idea as to where the enemy was hiding. Having played baseball most of my life, I felt that I had the advantage and for nearly a half hour we exchanged rocks until I heard one of my throws make contact. With one now injured, they ran away and I quickly packed up and pedaled as fast as I could on these narrow dirt footpaths. This was not the time or place to stop and beg for a hot chunk of root.

On another occasion, I approached five colorfully dressed warriors in arse leaves sitting on a log near several bamboo huts. Hoping for a photo, I stopped and was immediately attacked by a club with a rock attached to it. Quickly ducking the club brushed across my shoulder as he fell forward and within close range. Elbowing him in the side of his head, he and the club dropped by my feet. With the trail on a downhill slope, I sped off with a hail of stones ricocheting all around me. But in general, most people were friendly and were more interested in the bike than me. I even tried to teach a few men how to ride it, but all they could do was fall off. 

By the time I pedaled back into Mt. Hagen, I was a wreck. My hands needed medical treatment and I needed something more nourishing than roots and bananas.  Being the capital of the Central Highlands I was hoping Mt. Hagen had either a doctor or a decent pharmacy, but it had neither. It was obvious that the infections weren't going to heal on their own so I had to move on. The port city of Lae was the closest town with medical facilities which would be a three-day ride by bike. The good news it was a paved road to Lae and mostly downhill.

Barely able to hold onto the handlebars, near the end of the day, I came to a Christian mission, with the missionaries out of the country as well.  The woman caretaker had a bottle of rubbing alcohol and soap, something I thought I would never miss. Inviting me for supper was wonderful, but secretly I was planning on delaying departure until it got too dark to travel anyway. Making friends in Papua New Guinea wasn't easy and I desperately need someone to help me with taking off my shoes, my hands were stinging too much. 

She also fed me well. At night we talked about a postcard she had from Switzerland, the typical snow-covered mountain type. She had heard of New York, but nowhere else in the US, so we talked about New York every night as well.

Thankfully, Lae was a peaceful town with a clinic, hostels, and a few small restaurants. The sight of men wearing only leaves was rare in Lae, but that was fine with me as I was done chasing headhunters and planned on going back to the Philippines to soak my wounds at a few more of their wonderful beaches. I only needed to wait a few days until a plane would fly me back to Port Moresby in the morning and another plane to Manila in the afternoon.