Towards the Last Frontier

Starting point: Singapore, its towers of glass and greenery, its back alleys where the city shows its other side. A concentrate of modern Asia before heading for the edges of the map. In the evening, Marina Bay Sands and the lotus of the ArtScience Museum light up above the bay.

A night in Jakarta, the Indonesian capital, before crossing Java by train.

The train takes us from Jakarta to Yogyakarta. In the heart of Java, Yogyakarta remains the city of the sultan and of traditional arts. All around, the Hindu temples of Prambanan and the great Buddhist mandala of Borobudur bear witness to the splendour of the Javanese kingdoms. On the terraces of Borobudur, Buddhas meditate half-hidden inside their latticed stupas.

Another day on the train, towards eastern Java. In Malang, the kampung of Jodipan, once a grey slum on the riverbank, has been repainted in every colour by its residents. From the air it looks like an upturned palette; in the alleys children pose laughing, and the railway line doubles as a street. A small utopia of paint in the heart of Java.

The bus carries us east from Malang. At the eastern tip of Java, we climb through the night to the crater of Kawah Ijen. At dawn a sea of clouds spreads below the rim, and at the bottom of the crater the acid lake appears, an unreal turquoise veiled by sulphur fumes. In the evening the Milky Way rises above the volcanoes.

On Java’s east coast, facing the strait, we wait for the ferry. The sun sets behind the Javanese volcanoes, while across the water Mount Agung, Bali’s sacred mountain, rises out of the clouds. A fishing boat passes in the last of the light.

A ferry crossing, then the road to Pemuteran, in north-western Bali.

In the heart of Bali, at the foot of Batukaru, the freshly flooded rice terraces of Jatiluwih draw mirrored curves when seen from the sky; a farmer in a conical hat works them by hand, as for centuries. Higher up, in the forest, the multi-roofed pagodas of Pura Luhur Batukaru fade into the mist.

In the sacred forest of Sangeh, a temple festival: women carry towers of offerings on their heads, the barong is decked with flowers, and macaques watch over it all from the trees. Around Ubud, topeng masks grimace in the half-light of a museum. On the last evening Tanah Lot stands out against the ocean, pounded by the waves, while a fisherman casts his line from the rocks.

A day of flights, via Makassar, to Sorong, at the tip of West Papua: the gateway to Raja Ampat.

At the far eastern end of Indonesia, Raja Ampat scatters its islands across an emerald sea. From the sky, sandbars and inner lagoons draw turquoise rings; underwater, hawksbill turtles and schools of fish move over some of the richest reefs in the world. We stay in a homestay on Kri Island; in the evening the sun sets behind the jetty.

After a long speedboat crossing, we climb the steps of the Piaynemo viewpoint: below us, a maze of forest-covered limestone pinnacles set on turquoise channels. The drone reveals an even vaster labyrinth, and in a hidden lagoon, a village on stilts. Over the following days, we move from one homestay to another, on other islands of the archipelago.

A flight takes us to Jayapura, capital of Indonesian Papua, a few dozen kilometres from the border.

From Indonesian Papua we cross into Papua New Guinea at the Wutung land border, one of the most remote in the world. From there on, no fixed plan: hitchhiking, boats, buses and dugout canoes carry us, at their own pace, to Wewak and the Sepik. First stop: Vanimo, on the coast.

From Vanimo, a boat takes us along the north coast to Aitape. In the undergrowth, the wrecks of Second World War aircraft recall the fighting that ravaged the region; villagers now live among these remains. That night we sleep in a logging camp.

The next day we reach Wewak along the coast, where we catch the bus to the river.

The bus drops us in Pagwi, on the banks of the Sepik: the gateway to the river, where the dugout canoes set off.

From Pagwi the canoe takes us to Ambunti, then along the Sepik to Tambunum, from village to village, where time seems to follow the rhythm of the water. The spirit houses, the haus tambaran, raise their painted gables above the villages, guardians of initiation secrets.

The Sepik Crocodile Festival: days of drums, dances and colour, with tribes come from afar in their traditional finery. On the backs of initiates, scarifications mimic the scales of the crocodile, ancestor of the river peoples. In the surrounding trees, birds of paradise display.

On the second day the spirits come out: masks of black and red wood, fibre costumes that reveal nothing of the wearer. Faces painted black and white are crowned with cowrie shells; on a warrior’s back, scars trace the scales of the crocodile. Then we board the canoe again, and the Sepik plain stretches as far as the eye can see beneath the mountains.

The canoe brings us back from Ambunti to Pagwi, from where we head back to the coast.

We leave the river for the coast. Off Wewak, Mushu Island stretches out into the Bismarck Sea: villages beneath coconut palms, evenings around the fire, sunsets over the neighbouring islands. A maritime breather after the intensity of the Sepik.

From Wewak, a short flight drops us in Madang, on the coast at the foot of the Highlands. From there, we climb the mountain road by bus.

From Madang, the bus hauls us up to Goroka, in the Highlands, where the air grows cooler and the mountains shelter countless communities. We spend several days with the Asaro Mudmen, famous for their mud masks, among gardens, beehives and clearing fires. One evening the men put on their clay masks and advance slowly, spears in hand, like ghosts.

Around Kumul Lodge, in the montane forests of the western Highlands, we watch for birds at dawn: lorikeets, parrots, and the long white tail of the ribbon-tailed astrapia. The valleys vanish into the clouds.

The Mount Hagen Show brings together hundreds of groups from all over the country, each with its own identity, music and gestures. Huli wigmen with yellow faces, Asaro Mudmen, Chimbu skeleton dancers: a living mosaic of cultures, faces and stories.

On the second day of the show, the Chimbu skeleton dancers cross the arena, bodies painted with white bones on black, tongues out, moving in jerks. Around them, elders in moss headdresses smile with all their wrinkles, and red and black masks surge from the crowd. You no longer know where to look: every face tells of a valley.

That same day, a flight takes us from Mount Hagen to Port Moresby, the capital, for a last night in Papua New Guinea.

Back in Singapore, and a clash of worlds. After the Highlands, the illuminated Supertrees and Marina Bay seem to belong to another century. The loop is closed, at the edge of the East and of modernity. A last image before take-off: the glass waterfall of the Jewel at Changi Airport, falling from the sky into an indoor forest.