mummies of Aseki

There’s an atmosphere of violence in the air in Lae, Papua New Guinea (PNG). The heat feels oppressive and it’s humid. I’m here in the chaotic capital of Morobe Province in the PNG Highlands and it has one of the highest rates of violent crime of anywhere in the world, backed by an unemployment rate as high as 80 percent. Corrugated iron and tree branches are the preferred construction materials. The roads are bumpy and unsealed, riddled with potholes where bandits cut roads and rob vehicles at machete- point most days.

I’m staying in Titus’s compound which is secured by an 8-foot metal fence topped with razor wire and guarded by vicious hellhounds. Titus is a wealthy local businessman who can make things happen and who was recommended as someone who could arrange my sortie in the Highlands. He’s about 5 feet 4 inches tall, average for a Papuan man, and has a broad white smile which is rare in this part of the world where most people have rotted their teeth away by chewing betel nut. Betel nut is a mild stimulant; a seed which is ground and chewed with lime and degrades teeth and gums. The seed turns red when activated by the lime and stains your mouth and the ground where you spit, which is often.

It’s getting dark as Titus greets me and ushers me inside. I’m grateful to be behind razor wire as the ride from the airport at dusk was tense. “Are you coming with me tomorrow Titus?” I ask after passing him PGK 5,500 in cash.

“Not me. I am scared of that place. But my sons will take you – they will look after you.” He gives me a wry smile before shuffling off bare-chested to bed. Every time I saw Titus he was shirtless. I shut the windows to keep the mosquitoes out and wrap myself in a wet towel to deal with the heat. Lights out.

I wake to dogs barking. It’s now morning and Titus’s four sons have arrived in a beat up old Land-cruiser which is to be my chariot. These gentlemen will be my guides and companions for the three-day drive ahead of us – deep into the PNG Highlands. Also in our company is a handgun and a large cache of betel nut for consumption on the journey and as payment to secure our passage where necessary. Our destination: an isolated village in which the dead are eviscerated and mummified. We are travelling to see the mummies of Aseki. Phil owns the Landcruiser and is driver and chief guide. He wears a tartan beret and a Fiji Rugby t-shirt. Phil offers me my first taste of betel nut as we start the dusty, bumpy journey out of Lae. The Papuans are very amused to see a foreigner with a dripping red mouth and it endears me to them immediately.

The Highlands are among the most inaccessible places on earth and the “road” is diabolical. It is a meandering mud bog punctuated by terrifyingly narrow, landslide-prone mountain passes and river crossings where the water laps at the windows. Happily, there are abundant roadside stalls selling betel nut, tobacco and even Coca-Cola, though not refrigerated.

I am nervous at the prospect of getting held up by bandits. Each time we turn a corner my stomach lurches as I imagine being confronted by burning tyres in the middle of the road and an eager welcome. I’m a pretty soft target – there are no other expats in this part of the country, and I look like I couldn’t fight my way out of an internet café.

“Not good” says Phil. We’re halfway through day two and we have just blown our second tyre. We get the jack out and get working to change it when the jack fails. Excellent. As nervous hours pass, I reach into my backpack and pull out the small black notepad gifted to me by my grandfather before I left. I flip through the pages of notes scribbled in black ink, bullet points reading always carry extra cash but don’t tell your guide, carry betel nut and cigarettes at all times to win the locals. Avoid the roads at night time. Burner phone. I close the notepad and wonder whether I should get off the side of the road to avoid being seen – the spectacle of a foreigner here is drawing a lot of attention. Luckily, someone with a jack stops and lends it to us. Our new friend is rewarded with betel nut as is the crowd who have gathered.

At last, in the evening, we make it to the large regional town of Bulolo, population 20,000. Bulolo has a grass airstrip and is the transit point for the workers of several nearby gold mines which, together with forestry, are the backbone of the economy. We are sharing a beer at the only bar in town when a man introduces himself as the Sergeant of Police, Bulolo Constabulary. “My men were looking for you today” he has deep wrinkles in his face, like he’s seen his best years, “it’s not safe on the roads here”. A helpful passer-by had informed local police that a foreigner was stranded nearby.

It’s the following afternoon, day three of driving, and we are finally approaching the village in Aseki. The region is a mosaic of green hills wrapped in clouds and dotted with the occasional campfire and thatched roof. Phil tells me the road itself is neutral land, nominally owned by the PNG government, whereas all other land is “traditional” and is in the custody of the local tribes. Phil is not from this area and if deemed unwelcome could be subject to violence. He seems somewhat agitated as he lights a cigarette and plays Gospel music through the car’s speakers. I know we are in the right place because I recognise a cliffside overlooking the village from my internet research. Somewhere on top of that cliff are the mummies which I have come here to see. The villagers put the mummies out there so their spirits can watch over and protect them.

The road follows a ridge-line to the base of the cliff. As we pull up a small crowd assembles. An older man comes forward and starts speaking to Phil frantically in the local language, Tok Pisin. It’s an English creole which serves as lingua franca in this remarkably diverse country and I catch every tenth word – not enough to keep up with the convo. One of my companions translates, “He wants you to pay him, or we need to get the f*** out of here”, he explains. We agree on a fee of PGK 550 ($300) plus betel nut plus cigarettes. I am permitted to see the mummies and Phil will accompany me as a translator.

It’s sweaty work in the heat and humidity but I’m glad to be stretching my legs after three days of driving. Phil translates an explanation of the mummification process. The dead person is cut open at the joints and gut and drained of fluid. Then the body is hung in a hut and smoked for several months before being painted in clay. Voila. Most disturbingly, the fluid from the body may be consumed or used for cooking. “Do they still do this?” I ask Phil. They don’t. The practice ceased when the region was converted to Christianity some time after first contact in the 1930s.Christianity did not replace all existing traditions and beliefs. In many cases it co-exists with these beliefs today. I am reminded of the supernatural significance of the mummies to the local people when I am told to wait in silence as the local guide goes ahead to ask mummies’ spirits for their consent for me to view them. Permission is granted. But not without a sacrifice. The old man places a large jar made out of clay in front of the mummies. He then puts the $300 cash I gave him inside the jar, I take a step closer and see piles of notes of what appears to be thousands of dollars poking out. Phil tells me it’s a gift to the mummies in their afterlife, in exchange for protection. I ask Phil how much cash is there, and he relays back that there’s about $20,000. I wonder how remote village people came into that much money, and then consider that it was robbed from tourists like me.

The mummies are grotesque and fascinating. They are perched on bamboo chairs, clasping spears and arrows in their hands just as they did in life as great warriors. In the centre sits a former chief. He is so well preserved that a wooden septum piercing is visible under his nostrils, held in place by cartilage and hardened tissue. I marvel that the skin which covered him in life and perceived the temperature of the mountain air still clings to his corpse now – looking more like bark on a tree. I imagine him standing up and dusting himself off. The villagers believe these mummies do walk the jungle at night to protect them from neighbouring tribes with whom they are in frequent conflict. I open my backpack to pull out my camera, take some snaps and then I thank my hosts and Phil and we make our way back to the Landcruiser.