Traveling in 2009 from my home in Sri Lanka via Singapore to Port Moresby was a cakewalk. But here, at the southwestern tail of the landmass of Papua New Guinea, the world ended, and the real PNG just started, beyond the capital’s limits. Since PNG, as big as x and wilder than any other country I had ever been before, had only one road, the Highlands Highway, I had to take to the air. My little plane left the beautiful lagoons stretching along the coast, behind, climbed in height, was soon shaken by fierce tail winds, crossed the majestic Highlands before turning north. The mountains got smaller and smaller and suddenly we were circling above an endless jungle of green which was crisscrossed by a mighty winding river and a maze of tributaries. Was this the Amazon?

Suddenly I was in the middle of the fourth-largest rainforest of the world: the Sepik River Basin. It felt like a miracle that somebody was really seeming to expect my arrival.  The “airport” was actually not more than a tinder box. We set off In a crocodile-headed canoe, the air filled with the promises of the tropics, past tiny villages built on stilts to honor the changing water levels. Parrots of nearly all colors were flying above and were almost more numerous than locals who were showing virtually no colors but their bare skin. After a lengthy boat ride we stopped at a nondescript tiny landing stage in the middle of the jungle. Only after climbing a veritable hill, I had reached my accommodation, a Tambaran house with forward facades painted , made entirely out of beautiful tropical wood. Every door, every wall, every chair was adorned by a mystic faces, each resembling…. I was obviously so overwhelmed by the spirituality of the place that I almost forgot to enjoy the view. Below me was an endless expanse of jungle, wrapped by a tributary of the Sepik. A fisherman paddling in a mini canoe looked tiny as an ant. I stayed a few days, played football with a community team on a cleared pitch in the jungle, watched local artists carving beautiful masks and ate delicious fish from the river.

From the jungles of the Sepik River I flew back, this time touching down in the Highlands, in time for the Sing Sing Highland Games which were about to begin on the following day. It again felt like another planet. Clouds were hanging low, heavy thunders were rolling in, as we were now driving on the Highlands Highway towards the ramshackle town of Mount Hagen, venue of the Sing Sing. Actually the “Highway” proved more to be a dirt road. But everybody seemed to be now on his feet, walking for miles to get  to the party. Apart from the occasional lorry we were the only vehicle moving. On our way we stopped at a school and disrupted a lesson in geography. The students’ faces were all decorated in a riot of colors and plants, However, it did not look special, just as their regular school uniform. I had the honor to teach the students a few minutes about my home country.

As we continued we passed from time to time a clearing in the forest where a series of dart boards had been put up, Obviously playing darts was a kind of a national pastime. Great characters, camouflaged with branches and sprays, as they went shopping in the forest, lined up for their turn. While I had always considered darts as a peaceful game, the locals seemed to see it as a battle, swinging the Darts missile towards the board in a fierce, aggressive way as they would aim to kill someone…while the competitor was waiting placidky for their turn, less than half a meter away from the darts board. I had entered another strange world.

The next morning at Mount Hagen, the Sing Sing was already at full swing. Some tribes were still preparing for their entry, others had already commenced to march, preferably in military order, presenting heavy singing mixed with orchestrated battle cries.

Suddenly Asaro Mudmen were storming like madmen out of the bushes, Huli Wignan cherished attention by presenting their huge hand-made wigs, Skull Men tried to intimidate.  Enga Men, representing the biggest Highland tribe, made their presence clear with dangling living meter-long snakes aa earrings and table tennis-sized wooden balls to ensure that their naked penises got appropriate balance. Although many participants were barebreasted women with just a few feathers or leaves to underscore their wild beauty it was above all an exposition of testosterone. The Sing Sing had originally been introduced by the British during colonial times as an attempt to avoid bloodshed due to intertribal fighting which had been frequent those days.

Albeit today’s event was heavily guarded by machine gun-toting fierce-looking  military and the marching even felt a big touristy, I did not feel fully comfortable as I never lost the feeling that new intertribal fighting could erupt any minute without warning. It was the most archaic place where I had ever been so far.

Early upon sunrise I went with my guide to the woods high above Mount Hagen town, searching for probably the most beautiful birds in the world. It was still cold, the clouds were just lifting, the air crisp with the smell of mountain oak, huge spider nets full of sparkling pearls of water were illuminated by the rising sun, waiting for their breakfast bait.

And suddenly there they were, first we saw one, then another and finally even a third one: Three different Birds of Paradise, each pulling behind long trails of beautiful feathers, each bird  more beautiful than any other bird I had seen before. As they were flying gently through the air, exuding a nothing-can-harm-us-aura, there could not have been a sharper contrast to the somehow aggressive atmosphere of the two preceding days.

But the darker side of PNG was never far away: on our return to town we stopped at a road stall to buy breakfast. As I was walking around a bit deep trenches separating one village from the other caught my attention. I was speaking to a villager when he was suddenly rolling down his pants to show me a sizable stab wound just next to his pelvis. He explained that in the Highlands of PNG neighboring villages were often hostile to each other, the villagers trying to steal pigs or kidnap women from the other village by force, leading to bloody clashes and injuries like his one or even death. Trenches helped to keep the neighbor aka robber away.. I timidly asked the villager whether such bloody games nowadays still made sense. Well, he said, depending on the kind of injury or loss, the losing side would always be compensated, according the following priorities:

1. by exchange of land
2. pigs
3. women