Chapter 15: Party Time

Party at base camp

The day of the great party dawned bright and clear. The immense black wall of the previous evening was now a limestone cliff, still too far away for detail, its crest running almost flat for several miles from the summit area in the north-east towards the rising sun, then dipping behind the intervening hills. The Mandala massif is essentially a huge slab of ancient sea bed that has been thrust skywards at an angle, like a badly laid paving stone sunken on one side but elevated on the other. I was looking at the 'stupendous abyss' we had come so far to climb. Behind that solid barrier of cliff-face was just a gentle incline down towards the northern jungle and another fifty miles of foothills, the route of the two previous climbing teams. As the south face was as yet untouched by the sun and partially hidden by the curve of the valley, I could only make out the top of the first spur climbing from the river to the base of the thousand foot cliffs, like a gigantic supporting buttress to the wall above. It was a fantastic backdrop for the festivities.

There was a definite buzz in the air as I agreed a price for the medium-sized pig tethered to a stick at the grassy entrance to the village, and made a large donation towards whatever else was needed. In the middle of the village an enormous fire was already burning, heating the rocks that would do the cooking. There was only one thing left for me to do, and I wasn't looking forward to it.

Peals of laughter were coming from inside the men's hut where I knew Sibet and the others were dressing for the occasion. As I wandered over, Bruce's head appeared in the doorway. He was laughing. 'Get over here, Anstice. Your penis gourd's ready.'

A cheer went up as I climbed through the little entrance. I was confronted by a scene straight from the changing rooms behind an international fashion show. Several men from the village and all our porters were in there, trying on feather headdresses, poking boars' tusks through the holes in their septums, plaiting rattan round their waists and generally preening themselves. It was all good kit for wooing the girls. Bruce and I had an assortment of dusty, second-hand penis gourds to choose from.

The laughter that accompanied our 'fitting' brought such a crowd of faces to the door that some of the warriors had to chase their owners away, and stand guard. Getting into mine was the least comfortable experience I had had since the bridge had snapped beneath me. Bruce couldn't find one that fitted until our hosts, after a search among the houses of the village, triumphantly produced something that appeared to have been used as a tobacco pouch. It was repulsive, more like some prehistoric prophylactic than the fine looking long and pointed ones the rest of us wore, but he loved it.

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