First Contact: The Selling of the Last Savage

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Outside Magazine February 2005

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The Selling of the Last Savage (cont.)


	NO SALE: the kepala desa trying to give tobacco to tribesmen. (Stephen Dupont)

BACK AT CAMP THAT NIGHT, it's nearing sunset and the sky is alive—drenched in shifting hues of fiery orange, crimson, and violet. We've been in the jungle for four days now, and I'm wiped out. I decide to take a nap in my tent before dinner. Minutes after dozing off, I hear shouts and someone yelling, "They're coming, they're coming! They've stalked us to the river!" I shove on my hiking boots and scoot backwards out of my tent. Then I see eight burly natives charging straight at me—bows and arrows at the ready.

Adrenaline kicks in and, without thinking, I break into a full sprint, then lunge headlong over a near-vertical embankment that drops nearly 20 feet into a gurgling river. I land on a narrow, vine-snarled ledge a few inches above the water. Only later will I find out that arrows were flying over my head.

For the moment I'm safe. I claw halfway up the slope, and thorns slice my arms. Squatting in a thicket of ferns, I glance up ward and catch sight of two natives peering over the edge a few feet above. They're probably wondering who would be foolish enough to jump into this river. I hold my breath and keep silent.

The tribesmen lose interest. I inch a bit farther upslope and watch the men hustle through camp and toward our porters,

The men stand should to shoulder, glaring at us from beneath their cassoward headdresses. A porter's dog yaps, startling them. As they dart into the jungle, Yakobus chases after them, hollering, "Tsabat! Tsabat!"

who are barking orders and scrambling for their machetes and bows. Crouching in the bushes, bruised and scared, I envision death by wooden arrow. Then I see a porter looking for me. So I hop over the riverbank and reveal myself to the natives, who, to my astonishment, are standing in front of Dupont for an impromptu photo shoot. At that moment, in a way I can't really explain, it all starts to seem absurd.

"Oh, please," I hear myself saying. "Give it a rest... lose the bows and arrows and phony outfits. This is a hoax, right?"

No reaction. Maybe it isn't a hoax.

About ten feet to my right, the kepala desa grabs his bow. Two of the other porters are clutching machetes, and the rest of the men are cowering near the back of their pondok.

The natives stand shoulder to shoulder, glaring at us from beneath their cassowary headdresses, then abruptly look away, as if embarrassed. One of the porters has brought along his dog, which begins to yap loudly, startling the tribesmen, who dart into the jungle. The kepala desa and Yakobus chase after them, hollering "Tsabat! Tsabat!"

Five minutes later, the natives return, looking calmer, and march in line into our campsite. Dupont gets within a few feet of the chief and continues snapping photos. Another five minutes pass. Then one of the natives shouts an order that prompts them to scurry into the jungle. One last time, Yakobus cajoles them back. By now it's dark. The tribesmen watch us from the edge of the forest, but when one of the porters ignites our kerosene lantern, the flash of white light scares them off for good.

Rumbarar suggests we pack all our gear in case we need to make a quick getaway in the night. We agree that it's too late to navigate the boats downriver in the dark. But everyone is afraid—Rumbarar, the porters, even the kepala desa, who Woolford claims has killed foes in tribal skirmishes. We speculate about how best to protect ourselves, and our words sound like dialogue from a cornball zombie flick:

Ferdiny: "Should we sleep here in the pondok or in the tents?"

Dupont: "Maybe they only kill at night?"

Ferdiny: "Maybe they only kill people wearing headlamps?"

Dupont: "I'm quite serious, Robert. They shot three arrows."

Ferdiny: "If they come in the night, we can use our camera flashes in their eyes."

Woolford: "Yeah, we'll flash 'em and back onto the boat."

It's beginning to rain. Ferdiny drags his tent from the edge of the jungle closer to the river. Dupont and I decide to sleep under the pondok with the porters. I spend the night fully dressed, boots on, heart racing, transfixed by the jungle. The rain is torrential and unrelenting. Lightning explodes above us. For a split second, the flashes illuminate everything in a blaze of white. The next bolt, I'm convinced, will reveal our attackers bounding toward us in the downpour.

At dawn, everyone is awake and scrambling to pack up and get out. By 7:30 our prahu is roaring downriver toward the open sea, toward Nabire and safety.

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