Visit the Mudman of Papua, New Guinea to experience the ancient custom of instilling fear in your enemies.
VISITING the Highlands of Papua New Guinea to see the Mudmen of the Mat Tribe has not always been a simple tourist jaunt. Twenty years ago, my wife and I, both newcomers to the Highlands, decided to visit the village of the Mudmen. Finding a guide with the courage to come with us was not easy but eventually we found a Goroka man who, after some persuasion and a suitable reward, agreed to escort us to the village.
The journey of many hours over gruelling bush roads in an unreliable wartime jeep proved to be an adventure in itself. As we approached the district in which the village is located we were intrigued by the great number of natives walking single file along what purported to be the road. Every few kilometres we encountered another group of some twenty to thirty warriors with wives and children tagging along in the rear. Each group was in full war-dress complete with spears, arrows and provisions. From the increasing discomfit of our driver and guide it was obvious that something important was happening but our repeated requests for an explanation was either not understood because of our limited knowledge of the Melanese Pidgin or he simply knew little more than we did.
Fear can be very infectious and it did not take long for us to catch the man's obvious discomfit. We began to quietly dread our rashness in going to a native village in an isolated part of the world with an unreliable and nervous guide.
We arrived at the village to be greeted by a sight far beyond our expectations. The village was crowded with countless hundreds of fierce, warlike warriors and their women. The fact that the women were mingling with the warriors was little consolation. All the women were sitting and each group supported long poles of bamboo to which were attached pieces of meat, fruit and paper money of all denominations. Single dollars, five-dollar notes, tens and even twenties, which were extremely valuable at that time.
More frightening and nerve racking was the din being made by the women. Every woman was singing a mournful, chant like dirge and the volume of those countless voices was enough to send a cold shiver down one's spine. Our driver cautiously inched off the road and brought the vehicle to a standstill on the edge of the first row of thatched huts.
Motioning for us to stay in the vehicle and letting the motor run he stepped out of the jeep and slowly walked to the nearest hut. My estimation for the man soared. I knew he was afraid for his life. In Papua New Guinea men from other districts are not welcome in a strange village at the best of times and we knew enough about the country to be aware that one word out of place or one insult, no matter how innocent it may appear, could mean a quick death for our gallant guide.
With trepidation we watched our driver slowly walk up to the most important looking man in the group and begin talking. We were relieved to see that the discussion seemed to remain at a conversational level but it was obvious they were having some difficulty understanding each other. Even the common language of Melanese Pidgin can be difficult at times when different districts try to communicate.
We were obviously the topic of conversation for they both frequently turned to look or point at us. It was disconcerting to see the villager violently shake his head as though annoyed at the intrusion.
While this was in progress the natives we had passed continued to pour in to swell the already seething mass of people. Groups came from all directions.
One intriguing ritual caught our attention. As the tenseness of the situation eased we started quietly discussing our predicament and eventually noticed that as each group entered the village, the obvious leader would accept recognition by the welcoming committee, an important looking group of elders standing by the first hut, and carefully fire an arrow into the stalk of a banana tree which was conveniently propped upright against a nearby tree.
Each warrior in the group, in his order of rank, would follow in turn and emulate the chief by firing an arrow. The women followed the men and as soon as they entered the precincts of the village they began the mournful chant in company with the hundreds of other women. They melded into the crowds and proceeded to erect long poles of bamboo they had brought with them and began tying money and offerings of food to the poles.
Finally our guide returned to the jeep and while he was cautious enough not to smile openly we recognised a sense of relief about him.
Carefully he sat back into the driver's seat and turned the motor off. Speaking in a conspiratorial tone, he slowly explained in Pidgin that the night before, one of the counselors (an elder of the village), had died by natural causes. The natives from all the villages for miles around had come to pay their last respects. He told us the arrows being shot into the banana tree were ceremonial arrows and were symbolic of the tribe coming in peace to show respect for a wise man and former enemy. The mystery of how the news was relayed so quickly in that jungle has remained a mystery ever since.
If we remained where we were and made no attempt to interfere the headman would see if he could arrange for some of the younger men to demonstrate their method of frightening their enemies. We needed little persuasion and indeed would have been pleased enough if they had told us to leave.
While we quietly waited, our guide explained the legend behind the fear in which these their neighbours held "Mudmen". It appeared that many, many years ago the men of the village were out hunting and when they returned they found that a neighbouring tribe had raided the village and all the women had been taken. The tribe, which captured the women, was much bigger and stronger than that of the victims and they had a reputation for being fierce warriors. Nevertheless, pride had been hurt and even though they faced certain defeat and ultimate slaughter, they prepared to go to battle in the early dawn to recover their women.
To get to the enemy village the Mudmen had to cross the muddy Asaro River. In their attempt to cross they became confused and lost in the early morning dark. As a result, they not only lost most of their weapons but also were covered from head to foot in a thick grey mud.
As they clambered up the other bank of the river the women of the enemy village were beginning to awaken and were preparing their early morning meal. Still half asleep, the women saw the "mud" warriors and all started screaming that the evil spirits of the water were coming and ran off into the bush. The sleeping warriors woke in a panic and also fled.
The "mud" warriors took advantage of this situation and calling in their own language persuaded their own women to come out of the bush and return with them to their own village.
After that episode, all the neighbouring villages came to believe the tribe had the spirits of the river on their side. The clever elders of the village saw the advantage of this and kept the illusion alive.
It was not very difficult to imagine the bush being deadly silent in the early morning with the only sounds the calling of wild animals. For countless years they frequently dressed up in their mud uniform and terrorised other villages with occasional visits in the early mornings.
Eventually we were informed the young men were ready to show us how they frightened their enemies and we were instructed to stand in a particular place near the edge of the bush and watch for the warriors. Apprehensively we stood for several minutes waiting and not knowing what to expect. Soon we began to notice a slight movement in the bushes. A tree would shake and then another and then a whole group of trees would shudder violently.
The feeling of fear was very real when slowly; with no sound at all, a native emerged from the trees, closely followed by another and then another.
All told there were over forty warriors all slowly creeping in our direction. Their heads were covered with heavy grey clay masks. The masks had two holes for the eyes, imitation ears were stuck to the sides and horrible mouths were shaped on the front. Each warrior was covered in grey clay and wore a bamboo thong around his waist. Each thong was decorated with green leaves and they carried no weapons.
Slowly the group crept towards us without a word and all they did was wave small branches as though quietly chasing flies (or stirring up evil spirits). It is not possible to describe the eerie tension as the men slowly crept up on us.
Even when their little performance was completed and they had come right up to us we were still a little unsure. They slowly milled around my wife and I and began touching us and feeling our clothes. Most of them at that time had seen very few white people and they stayed to satisfy their own curiosity. Their action encouraged many more of the native visitors to inspect us also and before long we were surrounded by hundreds of natives all eager to see and touch us.
I began to have fears for my wife's safety and was relieved to see an elderly man push his way through the throng to escort me back to the vehicle. My wife was not given the same courtesy. Women, of course, are not considered as very important in tribal cultures.
The proud Mudmen of Asaro now perform regularly for busloads of tourists. My only hope is that the mystique my wife and I experienced has not been lost in the tribesmen's efforts to bring this intriguing story to the modern world.
