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We touched down on the airstrip protected from trespassing children and pigs by a traditional wooden fence. Outside, on the Tarmac, the fresh air was electrifying.

“We’re in the highlands!” Cried Akunai in amazement, gazing up the mountains on either side. “Back in the Highlands of PNG!”

The airport was swarming with Melanesians, who outnumbered the slight figures of the Indonesian airport staff and hotel owners. Most of the Melanesians were naked except for penis gourds, which jutted proudly from their groins.

Some gourds were thin and pointed and reached to the chest; some were short and twisted, or curled against the hip like a pigs’ tail; some, mostly the younger men’s, were big and fat and tubular like a length of drainpipe, strapped to the stomach with wide bands of colourful cloth. They were all held in position by threads from a spider’s web twisted around the scrotum.

I anticipated some embarrassment from Akunai, but he was unabashed. The human body is only indecent when it is exposed to the wrong people in the wrong place. Here, penis gourds were as natural as kilts in Scotland or Bikinis on Waikiki. Akunai was thrilled.

“I haven’t seen penis gourds for years. Some people in West Sepik Province - around Oksapmin and Telefomin - still wear them, I think. But in Goroka Valley we haven’t seem them in more than 30 years”

As soon as we were inside the airport terminal we were besieged people, just as we had been in Jayapura. Most of the men with penis gourds held back, a little shy of the throng or perhaps anxious for the safety of their gourds in the melee. But there were also Melanesians in European dress, who, along with their Asian competitors, badgered us with recommendations; places to stay, treks, taxis, restaurants, tours. Akunai was taken aback by the uncharacteristic onslaught.

“Highlanders should never be so forward” he muttered, as we were pushed through the doors onto the street. “Indonesia has taught them to be greedy.”

But it was clear we would not get away without recruiting the services of someone, so, without much reflection, we opted for a small, eager Melanesian who had been hopping up and down at our side since we entered the building.

“Good choice my friends, good choice. I’m very good guide, excellent guide” he said. “Name Niko. You come with me. Nearest hotel very nice. Thank you very mux.”

He wore a shabby pair of green slacks made from synthetic fibre and flared from the knee down, a green t-shirt and a pair of cast-off track shoes from a former client. He steered us away from the airport and down the road towards the Nayak Hotel.

“You Africa man?” he asked Akunai.

Akunai shook his head. “No, I’m from Papua New Guinea.” There was a moment’s stunned silence. Niko had stopped, frozen, in the middle of the road.

“Fafa-Noo-Guinea?” he repeated, thunderstruck. “Fafa-Noo-Guinea?”

“Yes” said Akunai, a little uncertainly.

Suddenly, Niko flung his arms around Akunai’s waist.

“My friend, my brother,” he cried. There were tears in his eyes. “From Fafa-Noo-Guinea.” He stood back to take another look and then looked at me as if to double check. He simply could not believe it.

Because Akunai seemed too disconcert to speak, I told him we had just come from Vanimo and that Akunai lived in the Highlands of Papua New Guinea, in a valley just like the Baliem. Niko was holding Akunai’s hand as if he would never let him go.

Gently, he inclined his head and rested it against Akunai’s chest like a child. Then he looked again in triumph at Akunai’s face. “You face like us. You first time brother from Fafa-Noo-Guinea."

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