Articles > Paradise Found

It often happens that, on return from an expedition, I become obsessed with the idea of somewhere I was close to but failed to reach. In 1973 I travelled throughout Indonesia’s Outer Islands and wrote a book about the indigenous tribes (A Pattern of Peoples). It was no more complimentary about that country’s treatment of its minorities than my previous book about Brazil (A Question of Survival) had been, and I thought it wise, if I were going to return, to do so before publication.

Sulawesi is an orchid shaped island next to Borneo. While there, I had heard from some prospectors at a large nickel mine near the centre of the island about groups of relatively uncontacted peoples who had been seen in the eastern and least known arm of the island. As far as I could find out, there was no record of anyone crossing that peninsular and so I decided to do so. I took with me a friend who fancied the idea of a long walk and we collected on the coast three young men from the To Wana people of the interior to show us the way.

Mostly we followed rivers and rocky streams, climbing up and over the Batui mountains at about 1000 metres. The rainforest was open and virtually free of undergrowth, insects and mosquitoes, although leeches were plentiful. Larger wildlife was common, especially in and around the streams, which were full of small fish. Along the banks we caught sight of both the supposedly almost extinct species of dwarf buffalo, the highland and lowland anoa. When we stayed with the To Wana we feasted on anoa meat which they assured us was part of their staple diet. They also hunted wild pigs as well as the babirusa or pig deer, so named because of their long legs and elongated tusks that curl over the head, at first glance like horns. We also watched a fine antlered stag grazing on succulent bushes, our approach masked by the sound of a waterfall.

The To Wana were interesting, but already their lives were precarious since they were being subjected to constant pressure to move to the coast and ‘wear proper clothes’. As a result disease was rife, especially tuberculosis, and nights in their huts were ghastly with the sound of desperately coughing children. Until recently, they and the surrounding tribes, with whom they were at constant war, had been headhunters. Dried pig skulls hung in rows from the rafters but we saw no signs of human heads.

It was not until we were over the final watershed and heading for the north coast that we stumbled on a group who appeared to have retained their pristine integrity. We were crossing a deep river, leaping from rock to rock, when I looked up and spotted a figure silhouetted against the evening sky on the cliff above us. Dressed only in a bark loincloth he held a long spear and a strange wooden shield with a lump in the middle. He must have been watching us for some time.

Our To Wana were for going on down the river, but I could see a faint track up the cliff and insisted we climbed it. On top we found a miniature thatched communal house occupied by two families of Kohumamao people. They welcomed us in, lighting tapers laced with damar gum that exuded a wonderful smell and were attached to the walls, giving their house the feel of a baronial hall. We were fed on boiled pumpkin, wild rice, little mud fish and river prawns cooked in hollow bamboo tubes. A tiny multicoloured parrot flew from shoulder to shoulder to peer at us inquisitively, while a small tame monkey searched for fleas in our hair.

I felt we had arrived in paradise and was reluctant to leave, especially as my feet hurt from a broken toe and the long walk to the coast was daunting. However, our resourceful hosts rapidly built a bamboo raft, onto which we and our possessions were loaded. As we drifted away from that magical place, I promised myself that I would return one day, and perhaps I will.

Articles

• More from Robin Hanbury-Tenison