by Junko Tabei
Merrily, we marched through the fields to the village about one kilometre away, fully surrounded by the curious villagers. They were a step away in front of us, at our sides, and on our tail. I found it as amusing to observe Tabei in this type of situation as it was to watch the local people.
To no one in particular, Tabei spoke in Japanese to the women who walked with us: “Obasan, genki?” (What’s up, Auntie?) Then, “Tou-chan wa?” (How about your hubby?) And, “Ei mino kiteru jyan?” (You wear a nice straw skirt, don’t you?) Tabei laughed at her own funny behaviour, which induced a giggle from the obasan. And so, the Irian Jaya–Japanese Women’s Friendly Relations was established without effort. When the women mingle with cheer, the men approach, unable to resist their male curiosity despite an uncaring pretence. They wanted to know what was going on. To my knowledge, this is a common phenomenon all over the world.
– Setsuko Kitamura
Members of the local Dani tribe, residing in Ilaga, were to be our porters, twenty-four in total, plus an extra eight just to carry their supply of potatoes. We were an international mix of climbers, a group of two Japanese women, two American men, one Mexican man and Tantio, the Indonesian guide by default (his predecessor failed to show up, so Tantio, with his polished appearance, took over the role somewhat ill-prepared).
Still becoming acquainted to the culture, it was our porters’ names that next caught our attention. “Luther, Michael, Napoleon!” called the administrative officer who supervised the team’s conduct. One after the other, the near-naked tribesmen stepped forward from the human hedge that formed the circle where we gathered.
It was the Dutch who discovered – though only through the perspective of Westerners – the Indigenous tribes that live in the New Guinea Highlands. Christian missionaries were said to have arrived there before the early explorers, and their ardent presence greatly influenced not only birth names but the existence of churches in nearly every village. Understanding this history, we were still surprised when our porters knelt in prayer to ask for the safety of our climb. We finally joined in their ritual and chanted amen on our knees with the palms of our hands pressed together.
Ilaga sits in a basin amidst low-elevation mountains that were fully green with trees and bushes up to their summits. It has an airport, a church and several markets. Although there was a well-maintained road for vehicles, just less than an hour’s walk through thick grassland delivered us to a mountain trail. The first day of our trek was only three hours, as the next campsite was too far and there were no decent areas in which to pitch a tent once we were in the jungle. At camp, we learned how to prepare New Guinea’s staple food, the potato. The tribesmen dug about a half metre into the ground and lined the dirt with banana leaves. Then a layer of potatoes, cabbage and some other leafy vegetables were covered by more banana leaves. They placed hot stones on top, and waited for forty to fifty minutes for the mixture to steam. Ta-da, and alas, dinner. Not to complain, but the meal was too bland for us without the addition of salt and spice.
The second day of trekking was more difficult. It rained every afternoon, sometimes continuing into the evening (but rarely all night), and the jungle was dark, insulated with thick and dense trees. Roots extended on the ground like an octopus’s legs and were too slimy to walk on. The trail itself was extremely rough, full of muddy-boggy spots that were best to avoid. At first, we tried to protect our footwear from the soaking wet mud; but we eventually gave up – we were too tired to search for drier places to step. Thus, quickly, my brand-new hiking boots were a giant clump of mud, and my socks sodden as well. The jungle was vastly different from the pristine state of a glacier.
We hiked through the stretch of jungle in two days. The trees became scarce and the sky visible as we transitioned from steep jungle climb to mild grassland ridge. For me, a ridge had so often meant knife-point – sharp and narrow – but in this case, it was a vast area rising above the New Guinea jungle. I was surprised by the fresh breeze that welcomed us, an unexpected pleasure at the equator. My altimeter read 3900 metres.
My image of an extensive dry grassland quickly vanished. It was nothing more than a large marsh, with no dry place to sit, so we continued for six to seven hours each day until we reached a suitable place to camp.
By the end of the seventh day, the trail transitioned again, this time to an uneven path of sand and gravel. We scrambled over the steep rocky hills that stood like layers of screens between us and the emerald green lake far below. Rain became sleet and eventually turned to snow. The porters were dressed only in knitted grass raingear worn on top of their heads. They were barefoot and shaking with cold. Still, they maintained their amazing skill of grabbing tree roots with their toes while carrying heavy loads and continued without a fuss. They seemed to fly over the wet rocks rather than walk, much like mountain hobbits.
At New Zealand Pass, two trails branched from where we stood: to the right was Carstensz Pyramid and to the left, Jaya Peak. The highest summit in Indonesia was considered to have been Jaya Peak, formerly called Sukarno Peak. Historically, Jaya Peak was covered by a glacier, which melted over time and reduced its elevation to less than the neighbouring rocky spire, Carstensz Pyramid. I was interested in the fact that with a change of era came a change in mountain elevations.
From New Zealand Pass, which overlooked a valley of lakes scattered about like gems, another hour of walking had us at Base Camp at Yellow Pass.
Before reaching Base Camp but after the jungle section, we walked along a ridgeline marked by rock, sand and alpine vegetation. The ridge was shrouded in fog and we breathed the authentic cool air of high alpine. Then, out of nowhere, from the other side of the scree ridge, three local guys dressed in rain ponchos appeared with a radio cassette player in hand, pop music blaring out loud. What the heck is this? They explained that they had come up from Timika, a southern sea-shore city that required only a three-day ascent to Base Camp, with the convenience of partial car access. Our route from Ilaga needed a minimum of a one-week approach to Base Camp. The reason we chose the longer route was due to the mega mining operation in between Timika and Base Camp. The open-pit mine was mainly American-run and covered an area of 26 square kilometres. The Indonesian government did not permit mountaineers, except for local ones, to pass through it. Anyway, it took me a moment to pull myself together after having encountered the sudden onslaught of music on an isolated trail in the high alpine surrounded by glaciers and near the equator in New Guinea.
The first morning at Base Camp arrived early to a cacophony of loud snoring from the men’s tents. I was up at 6 a.m. We had all gone to sleep early the night before, which showed how tired we felt, except for my buddy, Tabei. She looked like business as usual. The young American doctor, Bob, and the professional Mexican climber, Oscar, left to test the route without even eating breakfast. They returned at 7 p.m., totally spent but fully satisfied. Despite their physical exhaustion, they were happy to report success in reaching the summit. “It’s a darn tough route!” Long and sketchy, they said. They told us that the slab section was manageable, but we would want a pair of Koflach boots and an ice axe when we reached the south side of the ridge as it was a mix of rock, snow and ice.
Then came the punch. “Junko, your reach is too short. Setsuko, even your height wouldn’t make it. Us? We have no wish to climb a route like that again. Sorry, we can’t help you.”
“Tantio!” Tabei and I said, exasperated, sensing our trip was about to quickly disintegrate.
Our guide turned away and simply said, “Well, my ankles are in bad shape. I might as well go down.”
To make a long story short, two days later, the team descended from Base Camp, leaving Tabei and me behind. As soon as Tantio said that he would do whatever it took to break past the mining operation to make their retreat quicker, the three other homesick men followed him without complaint.
“Come back with your friends who can climb with Junko, and with the necessary equipment, OK?” I asked Tantio,
as Tabei and I organized ourselves to stay up there.
The friends I was referring to were members of University of Indonesia Mountaineering Club. The main reason I asked for them to join us was because they were just returning home from an Aconcagua expedition in Argentina. They would be arriving at Biak Airport anytime. If we could contact them, the top-notch climbers would likely come to help us with proper equipment. This was Tantio’s suggestion in the first place, so perhaps it was not too late to implement it.
Just the two of us, Tabei and I did our own test climb. When we touched the slab that appeared smooth, it crumbled away. Alpine plants that clung to the thin mud of the rock face slid off too easily for us to rely on as holds. To add to the misery, my legs felt heavy, and I could barely lift them with willpower alone. We gave up at the end of the fifth pitch, leaving behind our shell jackets, a small-sized tent and 2 litres of water, to reduce the weight of our future ferrying up the route. We rappelled in the rain that started on cue and made the flakey rock and muddy surface much worse. So far, I was not as enthralled with the mixed climbing of rock and mud compared to the usual rock and ice combination.
Upon arrival back at camp, drenched, we fired up the stove to dry out. As we began to warm, a porter who had gone down with the men’s party returned to us with a written message. “Two guides arranged. Come down to meet with them. Mining route available now if only with us.”
In retrospect, we should have realized what it signified when we saw several more porters show up the next morning to carry all our gear down with them. Instead, we were so excited for the arrangement of two guides that, blindly, we praised Tantio for such a great job. Time would tell us of our folly.
Navigating the mine was an adventure of its own. As we descended a very steep gully, the open pit came into view between narrow slights of rock buttresses. The land had been desecrated by development; the footprint was like the skin of an apple peeled into a giant spiral. It was a time warp, from the fairy-tale highland full of lakes like jewels to the impact of an industrial site right there in the mountains.
About 1500 vertical metres farther down, Tantio waited for us in a marshland full of flowers, similar to Oze in Japan’s Fukushima Prefecture. “How are things with our guides?” we asked, wasting no time when we met up with him.
“Well, you ladies wouldn’t have come down had I not talked you out of it this way. Going back via Ilaga would take too much time and put our permit from the army overdue. No good,” he confessed in the midst of the beautiful flowery marsh. We had been cheated of the summit, although in an artful manner. Tabei and I looked at each other and saw disappointment, anger and fatigue.
“All right then, let’s try again once this chap is relieved of his duties,” said Tabei.
“Fine,” I said. “Whatever it takes, we’ll get the permit extended in Jakarta then arrange guides and equipment afterwards.” We reached the humid tropical city of Timika at midnight by connecting a cable-car ride with a lift in a Toyota Land Cruiser, having bypassed the mining operation. But that night, Tantio was met with sad news. An accident had occurred on Aconcagua and some of his friends had possibly been killed – the names were unknown at the time. Exhausted, Tantio’s face distorted into sorrow. There was nothing we could do to help other than leave him alone. It was already March 24 – we had six days left on our permit.
The Japanese company Hitachi was also invested in the mining operation we crossed earlier, a fact I uncovered through my own investigation. In Timika, I called the company’s Jakarta office, asking for a favour. I also made use of my artistic talent from art club in junior high school as I experimented with polishing up the permit dates to be more accommodating to our needs. In truth, we did all we could to extend our stay in New Guinea and seek a way back up through the mining route, but our tropical dream did not turn out that sweet.
A proper-looking gentleman stopped us in our efforts. “Going through the mining area, in particular for foreigners, requires procedures of incredible steps. But you ladies have done a good job so far. Try harder in Jakarta. In terms of my boss’s stamp of approval, he’ll only say yes if you submit a proper application.” So, we tore up our experimentally altered permit and packed our gear to leave, half with joy to go home, half with disappointment.
Thus, our, or more accurately, Tabei’s attempt to complete the seventh summit ended in failure.
It was even more saddening to think that our jackets were forever waiting for our return, in the misty forlorn place on the rock route, Tabei’s red and mine yellow.
– Setsuko Kitamura
Cold Night at the Equator
On June 25, 1992, three months after my first attempt on Carstensz Pyramid, I was back at Base Camp, having obtained a permit from the Indonesian Army and the much-needed pass to access the property of the Freeport mine. This time, Agus and Mulia, the alumni friends of Tantio from the University of Indonesia Mountaineering Club, were to climb with me.
In three days, we were at Base Camp via the Freeport route, compared to the ten days spent trekking from Ilaga the last time. It rained almost daily, the norm for a region that has an average of twenty-five days of rainfall per month. But for June 27, the day of our planned summit assault, the sky had cleared in the night and the stars shone above us, followed by a transparent blue that spread across the morning light.
Carstensz is a gigantic chunk of limestone. Right from the start, the route involved technical rock climbing with ropes. Since we had reached Base Camp at a quick pace, via the mining road and cable cars, we had not allotted enough time to acclimatize from sea level to the higher altitudes. At 4100 metres, my two young lads complained of headaches, which was understandable. Although they were locals, they usually spent most of their time at elevation zero. To alleviate the expectation for them to lead, I started to climb.
The rock wall that initially looked daunting from below actually had fairly good-sized cracks, and in various spots, the face was climbable, too, providing a range of options to choose our line. Also, a series of steep buttresses seen from the base had sections with a gentle grade, which further helped. The difficulty came in the length of time it took to reach the upper ridge that loomed above us.
Agus and Mulia, each about half my age in their twenties, were slow moving, likely due to altitude sickness. One of them said, “Let’s go down to the camp today, and try again tomorrow.”
“Well, let’s just check a little farther to see what’s over the col,” I said. “Slow going is fine.” I insisted on continuing and started leading the way up. They may not have been the best climbers, but they certainly filled a gap. Besides, who could expect such nice weather the next day?
We arrived at the spot where a 50-metre fixed rope was left hanging, a tiny bit frayed, but in good enough shape for me to set a jumar on it. It took my breath away to climb that 50 metres without a rest, even with the use of jumars. From the col we could see the south glacier in close proximity, and the mountains that extended indefinitely beyond, an endless mix of trees of rocks. It was 2 p.m. and the sun sat high in the sky without a cloud to be seen. I decided to attack the climbing; the lads sluggishly following behind. A ten-minute walk along the ridge from the col led us to a sudden drop-off that we had to rappel, and I found an anchor with an old sling hanging from it. We removed the faded tat and tied on a new sling, set up two ropes, and then rappelled down 40 metres. From there, we gingerly traversed the sandy face to then begin climbing again.
“That’s the summit of Carstensz,” said Agus, weakly lifting his arm to point to the rock spire in the far-off distance. It was slightly past 4 p.m., and it seemed unlikely we would reach the summit that day, considering the crux was yet to come – an overhanging wall in the form of a two-level stairway directly below the peak. The first level of the stairway was difficult and it was not until 5:30 p.m. that we finished climbing it.
“Continuing in the dark is dangerous. Let’s find a good spot to bivouac,” I said and rappelled down the pitch w
e had just climbed. By 6:15 p.m. we found a tiny hollow for the night, a spot with hardly enough room for the three of us to sit. We hammered pitons into the rock as an anchor to secure ourselves and the equipment to, and then sat there. Since we had no actual bivy gear with us, our camp was quite simplistic. Our water supply was down to 400 millilitres.
The radiant sun that had shone all day began to melt into the clouds, and by the time midnight came, streaks of lightning danced around a starry sky. The Milky Way stood out as a river of flowing wonder. I wished I could have shown this picturesque night to my children, but it would have been difficult for them to imagine me spending the entire time sitting stationary on the rock.
It was cold at 4700 metres. Repeatedly, I checked my watch, as if to hasten time. Eleven p.m., 1 a.m., 2:30, 4:00 – morning was slow to come. By 5:30, the sky brightened, providing us with the second sunny day in a row.
I stretched out my arms and legs, stiff from having sat in the same posture all night. Carefully, we put on our climbing equipment; it would have been disastrous if anything had dropped. At 6:30 a.m., we stood below the overhang that we had run out of time to complete the day before. It took another hour and half before we successfully climbed the intimidating staircase feature.
I assumed we had cleared the crux, but I was wrong. There were four more sections of the rock wall to the summit, which required repeated rappels and climbing. I reminded myself that the sand-covered rock surface was slippery – use caution – and I continued on my way.
As we neared the summit, with 5 metres to go, I handed my video camera to Agus and asked him to film our arrival there. The buttons on the camera – record and stand-by – were labelled in kanji characters, so I briefly instructed him on how to use it as we were perched on the rock wall. A quick learner, he was able to shoot several frames of my final steps to the top. A finely engraved plate was embedded on the mountain’s peak to welcome us.