Hitman, Gangsters, Cannibals and Me

by Donal Macintyre

  The centre of village life is the Haus Tambaran (spirit house) where the magnificent carvings of the animal spirits for which the tribe is renowned are on display. This is also where young men are initiated into manhood by having intricate designs of crocodiles carved on their bodies with a combination of wooden needles and hot branding irons.

  The life force of the area is the mighty Sepik River, one of the great river systems of the world. It is 1,126 km long and its flood plain extends beyond 50 km. The rhythm of life there works in concert with the ebb and flow of the river. It is a beautiful marriage between man and nature.

  There is no major settlement within 800 km and the nearest hospital is a two-day canoe trip away. The river, the surrounding countryside and the gods provide those who live there with everything they need. Fish, wild boar, fruit, building and hunting materials are all gathered from nature, and the village witchdoctor provides them with medical assistance and advice. The tribespeople think of their home as a land of plenty, a paradise that has provided for them for thousands of years.

  They have robustly defended their culture against all comers, from intrepid Christian evangelists to Japanese soldiers during World War II. Their one concession was to allow the missionaries to teach them basic English. Wisely, the elders recognised that they could protect themselves better if they could speak the language of the settlers. The village school still teaches them English today.

  They showed themselves to be as curious about my world as I was about theirs, and bombarded me with questions about London and the ‘Chief ’, or the Queen as she is more commonly known. As Papua New Guinea is a Commonwealth country, Her Majesty is also their chief. She is regarded with a mixture of fascination and awe that I never expected of people so far removed from British culture. The tribe’s own Chief, a rather colourful character called Joseph, was elected by a majority vote for a five-year term. Once in power, the Chief commands supreme authority and is the most respected member of the community.

  Sitting in his wooden three-storey palace, Joseph and I got to talking. I wanted the opportunity to return the overwhelming hospitality and kindness that they had shown to me, so I invited him and his kin to undertake the 20,000 km journey to my home in Wimbledon, South West London.

  It wasn’t any great anthropological experiment or an outrageous idea for a new reality TV show, it was just oldfashioned good manners. I had studied them and their lives and now I wanted them to have the chance to examine the way we live.

  The tribespeople had never before travelled beyond their local stomping ground; the furthest they normally go is a few kilometres downriver, to trade with other villages or settlements.

  Making the journey were Joseph, Samuel, Christina, James, Steven and one of his two wives, Delma. Together they comprised the ‘Swagup Six’, a party of ‘Ancient World’ travellers coming to a microchip world. The Papua New Guinean government had to specially authorise their passports because they couldn’t tell when they were born and had no identification documents. After a multitude of inoculations and much praying to the spirits, they began the four-day journey to London. ‘I don’t know what magic they have in Britain but we are about to find out,’ Joseph declared to his people in a pre-departure address.

  The Swagup Six arrived at Heathrow’s Terminal 4, with spears on their backs and bows over their shoulders. There was a little explaining to be done as they brought their hunting weapons through customs and airport security. Eventually, the letters of invitation and the antiquity of the implements convinced the officials to let them through. ‘They were not going to refuse me,’ said Chief Joseph, convinced the authorities wouldn’t dare to prevent a man of his standing from entering the UK.

  In Arrivals, every escalator was met with terror and every lift with suspicion until one of the group, usually Steven, an expert crocodile hunter, would venture forth. The rest of the tribe followed, slightly in awe of his bravery. A revolving door inspired wonderment. ‘It is an invisible hand that moves this. I can’t believe it,’ Samuel said.

  As a culinary introduction to Britain, I gave the troop porridge and a fry-up for breakfast. Hunters who can’t simply go to the fridge for their next meal tend to have insatiable appetites and a profound appreciation of food. But they were wary of processed British fare and scathing of the airline food they had been served on the ‘bird with engines’.

  My guests were fascinated by everyday objects and situations to which we wouldn’t give a second thought. They believed the leafless winter trees were dead and that the ice dispenser in the fridge was some kind of sorcery. The battery-powered cries of my daughter’s doll drew shrieks from the women. But James was thrilled by the shower; he had never before felt warm water on his skin.

  Delma was bemused to see me cut my daughter Allegra’s lunchtime sandwiches into shapes to encourage her to eat them. She told me that if her children didn’t eat, they went hungry. ‘They soon learn,’ she said.

  When Delma and Christina accompanied Ameera to her seven-month scan, they were ashen-faced at the sight of the image on the screen. ‘The spirit of the baby is in the machine,’ Delma shrieked. Despite their terror, they stayed to share the experience with her.

  Samuel and Christina, themselves a couple, were interested in how Ameera and I related to each other. They seemed to suspect it was Ameera who wore the trousers, a situation that would be unthinkable in their village. There, the men dominate everything from politics to hunting. The women bear all the responsibility for cooking and childcare but command none of the power. Women in the tribe who challenge the male dominance of their society risk the wrath of the masali (evil spirits). ‘It may be by lightning or disease, but women who break the law, die,’ the village witchdoctor had told me in no uncertain terms. Such transgressions include standing up while paddling a canoe, or entering a spirit house – rights that are reserved exclusively for men.

  In the MacIntyre household, I am merely the deputy. Ameera is the chief exec, and I’m not going to say any more, lest I get into trouble. ‘In Swagup, the man is indisputably in charge. He is the boss,’ we were told. But whatever Samuel and Christina secretly thought of our unorthodox marriage, they maintained a public front of diplomatic broad-mindedness. The Chief ’s guiding principle was: ‘When in London...’.

  When I stayed with them, I had done my best to adopt the same approach. My bed was hung from the eaves of the reed house, which was built on stilts in the middle of the Sepik River. It was communal living: in one corner were the two kids snuggled up under animal skins, and Samuel and his two wives slept together in the opposite corner. Occasionally, my eyes drifted in the adults’ direction and thankfully they were all asleep.

  Once in London, the Insect Tribe were cautious about some of the city’s tourist attractions. At the London Eye, the tribe held congress in the shadow of the huge wheel. ‘It’s not meant for humans,’ was the general consensus. But Delma urged them on, shouting: ‘We’ve come this far, haven’t we?’ Released from the patriarchy of the jungle, she took it upon herself to push the tribe to braver heights. Eventually, the Chief decided that they should try to enjoy the bird’s-eye view of London. ‘As we were on the wheel, all our hearts were hanging,’ Samuel told me later. ‘I couldn’t believe I was so high above the land. All the buildings were joined up, and they were huge. They looked like trees, with branches. There’s no end, no mountain, only buildings. I was wondering how the wheel goes round, what gods make this turn.’

  When our capsule reached the summit, Joseph asked me to point out our ‘spirit house’. He found the great dome of St Paul’s Cathedral remarkable, not for its grandeur but for its diminutive size next to the other great buildings of London. ‘In our village, no building can be bigger than the spirit house. Nothing is more important to us than our gods and spirits,’ he said.

  His remark highlighted how our values have changed over the centuries: how the architecture of business and commerce now towers over our places of worship. It was a point worth n
oting. We went to visit St Paul’s and the Chief gave the women special dispensation to enter. This was perhaps in deference to his host but I think it was also an expression of his firm belief that our gods are simply not as powerful as theirs.

  But everyone was impressed by Sir Christopher Wren’s work. ‘This building must have formed with the earth. It could not be made by man,’ said an awestruck Delma. When we showed her the magnificent statues in the cathedral, she said: ‘The people must have just frozen by magic. Maybe they will get up and walk when we are not here.’

  In stark contrast to what its daily passengers think of it, the London Underground also inspired awe. Astounded by the enormity of the network, James was mesmerised by the Underground and was convinced that the Tube was built first, and that the streets were added on top later. ‘London is a double city. The first city is underground and the second city they built on top of the first city.’

  Unfortunately, the underground adventure was brought to a shuddering halt when the train driver announced that a passenger in another carriage had defecated on the seats. I had never expected London to be a civilising influence and I wasn’t proved wrong.

  Spirits were raised by the prospect of a visit to Buckingham Palace. For the Chief it presented the possibility of a meeting of minds. As a tribal leader in a Commonwealth country, Joseph regards himself as the Queen’s representative in Swagup. She was his head of state and he was a visiting dignitary. We dutifully put in a request for a meeting, but regretfully, it was declined. ‘Why can’t I go in there?’ he asked in an injured tone as we stood outside. ‘I will return to my village and I will get old and die. I will never return to London. She should show respect.’

  In his part of the world, he is a king. Here, sadly, he was just another tourist.

  As we walked away, the group’s attention was diverted when they caught sight of a grey squirrel in St James Park. They chased it through the park and up the trees. ‘I like it so much I want to put it on my head for the sing sing,’ James said with a beaming smile. Their version of pest control may yet catch on. There was even a suggestion that we might bring one home to Wimbledon to cook for dinner.

  Not being a huge fan of squirrel, I suggested an Indian takeaway instead, For the Insect Tribe, ‘takeaway’ means fishing and then cooking their catch on their canoes. They ate the spicy food and I think they enjoyed it – certainly very little was left behind. But that may have been due more to their abhorrence of waste than to a newfound love of tandoori chicken.

  After our tour of London, we spent some time in Wales, where the Swagup Six were introduced to falconry. They were aghast that a bird would be trained to hunt in such a way. ‘Hunting is for humans,’ Steven said, as if his own job were under threat.

  It was here too that the group encountered snow for the first time. ‘It’s like the sand on the river bank but the colour is white and it falls from the sky. When will it stop? It is very very cold,’ Joseph said. As six inches of snow covered the Welsh countryside, a world that had become a little familiar was now alien again. But after a tentative start, they were soon throwing snowballs with pinpoint accuracy.

  When I was in Swagup, they brought me out to hunt wild boar, so I brought them to a pheasant shoot in Norfolk to meet some Brits who live off the land.

  Before hunting in Papua New Guinea, incantations to the spirits are said; in Norfolk spirits of a different kind herald the hunt. The hunter-gathers had left their bows and arrows behind but took to the rifle with impressive ease. The Norfolk landed gentry and the men of the forest soon found common ground as they bemoaned the price they get for their produce – farmers are the same all over the world!

  Back in London, the Make-A-Wish Foundation, a charity dedicated to helping fulfill the wishes of terminally ill children, had invited Ameera and me to a fundraising event at the Dorchester Hotel. We took Joseph along, resplendent in his ceremonial headgear. The Chief waltzed past the snapping paparazzi unfazed, and walked straight into the arms of Melinda Messenger and Simon Cowell. Comedian Mel Smith came bounding over to find out about the man who had upstaged Jude Law’s grand entrance.

  Joseph, meanwhile, was working the table like a pro. He quickly charmed two lottery winners into volunteering to travel to Papua New Guinea and bring medical and educational supplies with them.

  Much of what the tribespeople said gave me pause for thought. It was enlightening to see through their eyes how far from our own sense of community we have drifted. When they visited a sheltered housing scheme for the elderly, they were distressed that the ‘elders’ in the UK are not taken care of by their children. ‘It is not right,’ said Steven, shaking his head. ‘They brought you up when you were naked. They cared for you, and when they are old you must care for them.’ James told the elderly residents: ‘You make me worried because your sons and daughters are supposed to look after you.’ Living apart from your parents is something that the tribe cannot get to grips with.

  For all the luxuries he was temporarily enjoying, James was not tempted by our lifestyle. ‘If I stay in England, I have to pay for everything; if I stay in my own village, everything is free … You have such busy lives. Do strangers talk to each other, or even have time to breathe? I think you need too much money to stand still.’

  Their openness and enthusiasm highlighted for me how jaded we have become, and how indifferent we sometimes are to the wonderful sights on our own doorstep. They embraced their experience of our culture, without renouncing an ounce of their own.

  The goodbyes at Heathrow were emotional.

  ‘It was the first time I saw the white man cry,’ James said. ‘We come from the same pot.’

  ‘What do you miss most from home?’ I asked.

  ‘My second wife,’ Samuel said, without a blink. He was standing beside his first wife, Christina.

  And so they left, convinced that it is they who have it right, and we who are primitive. I don’t think they would swap our world for their own, where everything they need is free and plentiful, where everything is shared and where the only things treasured are the values of family and community.

  Since their visit, Chief Joseph died while hunting crocodiles. I suspect that is how he would have liked to have bowed out.

  Back at my home, a carved praying mantis stands on my mantelpiece and a beautifully crafted spear stands in the corner, reminders of our friends who taught us a lesson in simplicity.

  17

  MIAMI ICE

  I once told a fellow journalist that he had permission to shoot me if I ever took part in a show with the word ‘celebrity’ in the title. It was a firmly held conviction and I was confident that I could escape such indignities with ease. I hadn’t of course counted on the persuasive powers of my wife, Ameera, our two daughters, Allegra and Tiger, and the Haitian Voodoo Mafia.

  In the sultry heat haze of Miami, members of the most dangerous and violent street gang in the US were hanging outside the crack houses of Little Haiti, smoking weed and doing deals to a soundtrack of Police sirens and homemade hiphop from their own backstreet studios.

  The previous evening Miami’s finest drug squad officers had taken me on a tour of the neighbourhood and we had driven past the very same drug den. These hoods were threatening a fresh wave of killing and vice in a city with no shortage of either. They were the new pirates of the Caribbean, using new drug trafficking routes into the US via their lawless homeland.

  I leaned into the window of a battered car occupied by a man my own age and his eight-year-old son. The man told me he was a hitman and wouldn’t think twice about ending my days with 9 mm bullet to the head.

  ‘Why would you do that?’ I asked.

  ‘The colour of your eyes; I might not like the way you smell today,’ he answered.

  This man was the real deal. I had every reason to be terrified.

  ‘How many do you think you have killed?’

  ‘By the time I was 21, I had lost count.’

  I believed every word of
it.

  ‘Eat, shit, sleep, kill: that’s what I do best,’ he said.

  His child, eyes wide, held his gaze on me throughout. He didn’t utter a word or move a muscle. Daddy spoke again: ‘There is nothing more exciting than watching someone take their last breath,’ he told me.

  I asked him about his son.

  ‘He knows what I do.’ The boy just looked scared.

  I was sweating profusely from my armpits to my groin, and for good reason: another street soldier, nicknamed ‘Blind’, had lifted his shirt to display a small firearm tucked into his belt. He took it out and waved it about. ‘With my record, if I’m caught with it, I am inside for life,’ he said. Under the ‘three strikes and you’re out’ rule, Blind would get no leniency from the Miami County Sheriff. He had earned his reputation the hard way and had already served time for murder as a juvenile. He knew the stakes were high.

  Blind was keen to explain to me that the Haitian Voodoo Mafia were much more than just a drug dealing gang – they were a community action group, social workers, business facilitators and now artists, with their own music label and pirate radio station.

  A new wave of Haitian immigrants hit American shores in 1991 after a coup d’état overthrew President Jean-Bertrand Aristide. It was said at the time that the black, poor Haitians were at the very bottom of American society, and that hardworking Haitians were treated worse than any previous immigrant population in the history of the US.

  Small wonder then that the second generation, armed with youthful confidence and firearms, had fought back with such ferocity. The Zoe Pound gang gave as good as they got, and then some.

  Today though, the Voodoo Mafia wanted me to hear their music and admire their guns – in that order. After an hour of mindless evasive driving and counter-surveillance, moving from safe house to safe house around the Zoe Pound’s neighbourhood, we pulled up outside a suburban detached house. The banal exterior gave no hint of the madness inside.