Brightest of Silver Linings: Climbing Carstensz Pyramid In Papua At Age 65. Carol Masheter
8, 2012. The three-hour flight went more quickly than I had expected. As the sky lightened, our plane descended, slicing through a layer of gray clouds. Below us I could see an expanse of dark green trees dotted with white clouds, then cleared fields, scattered huts, a town, and then a paved runway.
After landing we deplaned onto the runway and got onto buses that would drive us to the airport terminal. Carina and I moved down a crowded aisle toward a couple of empty seats near a guy with straw-blond hair and a very weathered face. He was wearing ostrich-skin cowboy boots. Carina asked him whether he was with the Freeport Mine. He said yes. Excited about our own adventure, I volunteered that we were here to climb Carstensz Pyramid. Cowboy Boots frowned, shook his head, and said grimly, “You’re looking for trouble. There have been recent killings.” I almost said, I don’t want to hear this, but I kept quiet. Cowboy Boots continued with vague warnings about unspecified dangers, between muttering into two Smart Phones, one in each hand.
In the crowded baggage claim area, we waited along a worn conveyor belt for our duffels. Cowboy Boots rushed around, popping up like a jack-in-the-box above the crowd, taking pictures of each member of our team. His picture-taking had a grim intensity to it, like he was on a special mission. Kevin sidled up to each of us and said quietly, “Be low key, don’t tell anyone we are here to climb Carstensz Pyramid.” Now you tell us, I thought sourly. Had I known that, I would not have said anything to Cowboy Boots about our climb.
Trying to put this weirdness out of mind, I spotted my duffels and heaved them onto a baggage trolley. Everyone else found their bags, plus several Mountain Trip duffels of group equipment. We guided our loaded trolleys through the crowd, followed Franky through customs, and piled our duffels and ourselves into a dark SUV with tinted windows.
As the sun rose above the trees, our driver, Remmy, a slender, young Indonesian man wearing designer jeans, drove us from the airport into town. In contrast to the shabby glamour of Denpasar, Timika’s roads and shops looked grimy and cheerless even in the clean early morning light. Rubbish spilled into the streets and clogged muddy rivers. Pedestrians sluggishly picked their way over broken concrete and around piles of garbage along the roadside. A few people scowled at our SUV, as we drove through swarms of motor bikers and beat-up micro-buses jammed full of local people. This was no resort town.
Our drivers pulled into a tiny, walled courtyard. A uniformed guard swung a single rusty rail behind our SUV, presumably to protect us, from whom or what I was not sure. We had arrived at the Grand Tembaga, the hotel where we would stay, until we flew to Base Camp. I got out of the SUV and stared. The hotel was a crazy mixture of kitsch and dignity. It was painted a whimsical shade of what could be best described as orange-sicle, yet it had a gracefully curved portico and stately white pillars flanking an arched entrance. The Grand Tembaga, I later learned, was the best hotel in town, favored by airline crews and journalists. The lobby was air-conditioned, a dealmaker for me in Timika’s heat, which felt even more oppressive than Denpasar’s.
The Grand Tembaga had only four rooms for the five of us. I had prepaid an extra 400 USD for a private room. Apparently everyone else also expected their own room. None of the guys would share with each other. Carina invited me to share with her. I felt just as entitled as the guys to a private room and preferred a room of my own, but I agreed to share in the spirit of being a good team player. I had learned on previous climbing trips that private rooms were not always available, even after I had prepaid for one.
After we each had moved our bags into our rooms, we met in the dining room behind the lobby for a buffet breakfast. Its offerings did not match the lavish variety of the Sanur Beach Hotel, but the chunks of fried chicken in spicy sauce and the fresh mango juice were good.
Over breakfast Kevin told us that our helicopter needed routine maintenance, which would take three weeks. Three weeks! Our entire trip was only two weeks long! How did this happen? I wondered. Kevin and Franky said they were talking with another helicopter company. One thing was certain. We would not fly today. After our team meeting, I exercised to keep in shape for our climb and to dissipate frustration about the delay. I climbed up and down the hotel stairs and did “burpees,” as Kevin had showed me. For each burpee, I stood tall, bent over and touched my toes, squatted, jumped my feet back to high plank position, did a push up, jumped my feet to my hands, and jumped up into the air. Then Carina and I paddled around in the little swim pool in the hotel’s courtyard to beat the intense afternoon heat.
March 9, 2012. Over last night’s dinner, Kevin had told us the second company’s helicopter had a rotor problem. This morning at breakfast, Franky had told us that he had talked to a third helicopter company. Their pilot was sick. Maybe we could fly on March 13 or 14. Maybe we could fly later today or tomorrow. I knew that such delays and uncertainties were common in this part of the world, but a sense of uneasiness began to grow. One thing was clear. We would not fly today.
Kevin had advised us not to leave the hotel. If we did leave, he had suggested that we not wear bright colors, cover our arms and legs in deference to local dress customs, and avoid attracting attention to ourselves. Kevin’s warnings made me uneasy. I dreaded facing the heat outside the hotel, but I did not like the idea of being cooped up all day. Carina and I needed to buy bottled water. We could buy it at the hotel, but the bottles it sold were small and expensive. During my previous travels, I had learned that prices were usually better at shops or stalls outside hotels. Carina and I asked the guys whether they wanted to go with us. Qobin was hunched over his laptop and barely looked up. Dennis seemed even less motivated. Carina and I decided we would go on our own.
Outside the hotel’s air-conditioned lobby, the late-morning heat hit me like a wall, leaving me feeling dull and unmotivated. I wished I had worn shorts like Carina instead of my white, long-sleeved shirt and tan, zip-leg, hiking pants. Our first challenge was to cross the street to the nearest shops. The wide thoroughfare surged with speeding motorbikes, taxis, and mini-buses. The traffic had no predictable pattern or lanes. Drivers ignored the one stop light just up the road from the hotel. They probably would not think twice about running over a couple of foreign women, I thought grimly. We would need to be nimble and quick.
When a small gap in the traffic appeared, I ran, weaving among speeding vehicles across the street toward Tops, the nearest thing to a grocery store we could see. Now pulsing with adrenalin and beaded with sweat, I paused and looked back to be sure Carina was OK. She was strolling through the currents of traffic, apparently unconcerned. I had to smile at the contrast between her relaxed saunter and my tightly wound energy. At least my sprint had shaken off my lethargy. Inside Tops we wandered through its aisles, until we found bottled water. We paid a tiny young cashier wearing a black Islamic head covering. She ducked her head and avoided looking at us. I wondered whether she found us to be exotic, weird, interesting, scary, indecent, or something else.
Already wilted by the heat, I wanted to return to the hotel and cool off in the little swim pool. Carina wanted to explore further. I followed reluctantly. We picked our way along the main thoroughfare. In places we skirted high walls bordering the roadside to avoid being hit by speeding motorbikes and minibuses. We stepped over chunks of broken pavement strewn with trash and around puddles of muddy water. The acrid stench of rotting garbage mixed with hot dust stung my nostrils. We passed dark sheds, inside which we could make out piles of plump sacks, probably fifty-pound bags of rice. Near a jumble of closely parked motorbikes, a simple set of shelves displayed plastic water bottles refilled with gasoline, the closest thing to a gas station I had seen here. On muddy corners a few dark Papuan men and women with deep-set eyes and very short, kinky hair had spread faded cloths and sat behind little piles of local fruits and imported packaged snacks, apparently hoping to make an occasional sale.
In contrast to the dire warnings from Cowboy Boots at the airport and Kevin at our team meetings in the hotel, people either ignored us or were friendly. Several young Indonesian guys on motorbikes stopped to practice their English with us. A few asked us to take their pictures. They grinned, struck bold macho poses for our cameras, and then sped off, waving at us merrily.
As we walked down a dirt side road, local children followed us. Carina was especially good at engaging them. A slender little boy in bright yellow shorts spontaneously danced for us. A little girl sitting in a mini-bus told us her name was Angel. Shy and nerdy as usual, I stood awkwardly