One Life One Chance Read online

  To raise money John had organised items to raffle that he had pulled in from everywhere – football jerseys from the Parramatta club, year-long theatre passes, coaching clinics for kids’ football teams, guest appearances from rugby league stars and all-inclusive nights at some of John’s best restaurants. The tickets were selling like hotcakes and a number of the ladies from the gym jumped in to help us sell all the tickets on the night, doing an amazing job. The raffles alone pulled in almost $10,000 in a few hours.

  As I was floating around during the night, John’s business partners from his various ventures would pull me aside and shove cheques into my hand saying ‘Best of luck on your next trip’ or ‘Go conquer those mountains.’ It was an unbelievable show of generosity. At one point in the night one of John’s associates stood up yelling, ‘I will give you $50,000 for Mount Everest if you take off your shirt and do 100 push-ups on stage right now.’ I immediately jumped up onto the stage and started taking off my shirt in front of 400 of Sydney’s elite. Everyone was applauding and laughing as I dropped down and started pumping out the push-ups with the MC counting every single rep. I think it was the adrenaline and the thought of standing on top of Everest that allowed me to pump out 100 straight, collapsing to my knees to the roar of the room. It was one of the most ridiculous and incredible moments I have been part of. The band were cranking, the comedians kept us laughing all night and the DJ kept it all pumping ’til the end when everyone started departing for home.

  The final tally of funds raised was $57,000 from the raffle tickets and tickets to the gala event. On top of it all was a pledge of $50,000 sponsorship for Mount Everest. I had never seen so much money in my life let alone that amount of money collected in one evening. It was enough to finish the remaining five summits. I was totally blown away. John and I sat back to have a Scotch after the event and he smoked a cigar. He had a look of benevolence on his face and I thanked him for everything he had done for me from the bottom of my heart. He said, ‘Don’t worry about it, Richmond, just go climb your mountains.’

  It was only two months before I was due to depart for Carstensz and my mind had already started to focus back on training and preparation for what lay ahead. With the burden of financing lifted I could now work and train at the gym and depart for my expeditions with the freedom of knowing my bed and place at Rev X would always be waiting.

  Thinking back years later on the chain of events that had led to my success, and following it all the way back to the beginning, it had started with a smile, the shake of a hand and a chicken stick. Never underestimate the power of a single tiny gesture of kindness. Just as the flapping of a butterfly’s wings could cause a tornado, the chicken-stick effect could take you to the top of the world.

  CHAPTER 9

  CARSTENSZ PYRAMID, WEST PAPUA

  …

  I thought I had seen thick jungle before while at the jungle training wing in Tully, North Queensland during my Army career, or patrolling on peacekeeping missions in East Timor. Yet it wasn’t until I arrived in West Papua that I finally discovered what a thick jungle was and how unforgiving it can be. I was on my way to attempt my third summit, Carstensz Pyramid. At 4884 metres it is the biggest peak in Oceania, also known as Puncak Jaya to the locals. I flew out of Sydney and landed in Bali where I would meet the rest of my team and then fly on to Papua.

  Papua has been part of Indonesia since 1969 when an independence vote by Papuan elders, under rumours of coercion, was held with a resulting decision to remain part of Indonesia. The vote was riddled with corruption allegations and rejected by Papuan nationals, who in their opposition created the Free Papua Movement. This movement started with peaceful protests and international pressure but has since descended into guerrilla warfare against the Indonesian administration. West Papua has a population of 800,000 people who spread themselves across some of the most inhospitable terrain on earth. Tribal culture still dominates the jungle regions and I was en route to see first-hand how primitive some of the tribes still were.

  The mountain itself would be a different climb to the two peaks I had summited already. The relatively low altitude, under 5000 metres, would mean very little altitude sickness and much less time needed acclimatising. We were hoping to summit and be back out of Papua in under two weeks. The first stage is a six-day trek through the jungle to base camp at 4330 metres and then one big summit day, which is predominantly a rock climb all the way to the top. There would be no snow on top even though it would be cold and any overnight ice on the route should melt away with the sun. Following summit day there would be a six-day journey back out through the jungle and a flight back to Bali. That was the general plan for the expedition, although reality turned out to be a whole lot different.

  I had signed on to a team organised by Adventure Indonesia, and our head guide’s name was Meldi, a young Indonesian guide based in Jakarta who was all smiles and big welcomes when I met him at the hotel in Bali. The rest of the team consisted of Chris, James, Roy, Susan, Nicole and Dean from the United States, Thomas from Germany, Vitidnan from Thailand and Edward as the other Australian. Ten members from different parts of the world all with the same desire to stand on top of Carstensz and claim one of the seven summits. At the team briefing, Meldi gave us our itinerary for the following few days and then we all went through a thorough gear check, shared our stories and got to know each other. I was fresh off my Denali expedition, still with limited experience compared to some of the other team members, but I had plenty of stories to keep everyone entertained.

  Meldi recommended we wear gumboots for the initial approach through the jungle; it was extremely wet and muddy and according to him gumboots were the best way to try and keep the feet dry. I had no experience in the jungles of Papua and even though I have been in similar environments before and worn normal military boots my feet were always soaked, so I ventured out to buy some rubber boots to give his advice a try. We were partnered up with a tent buddy and I was matched with Vitidnan. He was a very friendly guy and was on his own journey to be the first Thai national to climb the seven summits. He had already summited Everest, the hardest of the seven, and was filming his entire trip for a documentary. We got along great and I offered to help him with his filming any way I could.

  We departed Bali on a commercial airliner and landed in Timika, West Papua. The town’s airport acts as the main gateway for the Grasberg Mine, the largest gold mine and third largest copper mine in the world, located close to the mountain ranges that we would be trekking towards. The mine employs 20,000 workers, many of them Indonesians, and foreigners to Papua. It is largely owned by Freeport-McMoRan Inc., an American corporation and has come under constant pressure and guerrilla attacks from the Free Papua Movement. They view the mine as a violation of the Papua national interest and accused the company of not distributing jobs or profits to Papua, as well as causing large-scale environmental impact. The mine employs Indonesian special forces units to secure the area against attacks but in the years since 2002 roads have been blocked, miners have been shot travelling to and from work and in 2011 two employees were burnt alive in their vehicle after being fired upon by hidden gunmen.

  In Timika we transferred to a small propeller-powered bush plane and took off over the jungle towards a small village called Sugapa, our starting point for the expedition. The dense green jungle below mixed with splashes of red dirt roadways was a big contrast from the white glaciers and snow on route to Denali base camp. We descended towards Sugapa and landed on the tiny, rough gravel runway that was longer than the assortment of buildings that made up the village. We came to a stop at the end of the strip and through my small window I watched as a crowd of locals swarmed the runway and surrounded the plane.

  Stepping off I was engulfed by local Papuans who were all smiling and keen to lend a hand carrying our bags to where we would be staying for the night. The locals were short, averaging maybe 5 foot in height, dark skinned with thick black hair and very lean. While some wore western c
lothing, more than half of the crowd were semi-naked and wearing traditional dress. Most of the elderly men wore a long wooden tube tied to their waist that had their penis hidden inside. This display of wooden endowment was matched with a spear and machete that seemed to be in every set of male hands above teenage years. It was a confronting scene and I could see that a few of my teammates were not sure how to handle it. After my time in Timor I had gained a good understanding of village politics, and felt at ease after shaking hands with a few of the bravest from the crowd.

  Our bags were unloaded onto the ground and the mob of villagers all crowded in to grab something to carry. We were about to employ a number of them to act as porters so I’m sure they thought if they got in early and started working they would secure a job. We walked off into the village following our baggage, that a short time later was deposited in front of the village chief’s house. It was nothing more than a poorly built western-style house with multiple colours of panelling used on the outside walls, and it was our home for the first night. It was late afternoon by the time we moved inside and found ourselves a space on the floor. The largest front room was immediately occupied by the village elders who were going to be discussing who should act as porters for our expedition.

  A job as a porter for western climbing teams not only offers opportunity to earn western dollars but also has a level of prestige in the community. We would be hiring eighteen porters for the six-day trek through the jungle to base camp and with each porter planning to bring their wife and kids along we were going to be an entourage of forty-five people by the time we departed the following morning. To get to that point however, hours of discussion and many heated arguments needed to take place. Meldi had completed this process many times before and wasn’t too worried by the elevated voices in the front room. He said by the morning all would be arranged and we would begin our first day.

  We ate a simple dinner prepared by Meldi and his newly employed expedition cook and settled down for an early night listening to the villagers debate late into the evening. Mosquitos kept me awake for a while as I lay with half my body in my sleeping bag, trying to find a balance between getting eaten by mosquitos and sweating profusely inside. I reflected on how lucky I was to be able to be standing on top of a mountain in Alaska one week and then be sleeping in the Sugapa village chief’s house in the middle of the West Papua jungle the next. We are so very lucky in the western world and have no excuse to not achieve absolutely everything we want to do. We have no roadblocks or limits on what we do in life, it’s only our own conditioning and doubts that hold us back. I finally drifted off to sleep as rain started to patter the tin roof above me and drowned out the front room meeting that raged on.

  A combination of rain, mosquitos, porter debates and a creaky old house made for a restless night and by morning I was ready to escape to the jungle. I picked up a local greeting, A-Muk-A-Knee which means hello and good morning, and as we exited the chief’s house to the waiting crowd of locals I was saying it to all the smiling faces staring back at me. We were told that people from all the surrounding villages had arrived to be selected as porters for the expedition and it was the chief’s job to choose who would be going. There was lots of politics involved when selecting porters equally from each village, and making sure no village missed out was essential to avoid unnecessary conflict between the tribes. This process of careful objective selection took two full hours and when the chief was finished we had eighteen porters plus their extended families ready to leave immediately. They rushed forward grabbing our bags, knowing that once one was on their head and heading to the jungle, the chief couldn’t change his mind.

  We were finally ready for departure and our first challenge was a 500-metre elevation drop down from Sugapa to the start of the jungle trail. Meldi had organised the locals who owned scooters to give us a ride down the hill to the trail head in under fifteen minutes. A shirtless villager rolled up in front of me beaming a big smile and gestured for me to get onto the back of his bike. I thought ‘Why the hell not?’ saying ‘Amukaknee’ as I shouldered my pack and climbed aboard. The engine of the scooter sounded ancient and I was sceptical it would even make it down the hill but he gunned the throttle and I gripped onto his lean body realising I was mistaken. We shot off at breakneck speed and I was second-guessing my decision to take the easy way down. As my driver dodged potholes and muddy sections like a professional, I started to relax and enjoy myself, realising that this guy knew his local trails like the back of his hand.

  Ten minutes after leaving Sugapa we stopped at the end of the dirt trail at the point where it entered into the jungle. Travelling by foot was the only option from here on in. I thanked my scooter driver, slipping a few American dollars into his hand and wished him farewell. He swung the bike around and flew off back up the hill and out of sight. I waited at the edge of the trail for the rest of the team to be dropped off from their motorbike shuttles, some looking a little white knuckled. Once we were all together Meldi took the lead and we made our first steps into the jungle. I was wearing my new gum boots and with thick socks they actually felt fairly comfortable – when it started to rain, turning the ground to slop, I was happy with Meldi’s recommendation. I pulled my trouser legs over the top of my boots to keep the water from pooling inside. After an hour of constant drizzling rain all but my socks were totally soaked.

  I hadn’t felt the discomfort of jungle travel since leaving the Army and most of my team had never set foot in anything like it before, so the first day being wet, muddy and uncomfortable was a big ‘welcome to Papua’ for all of us. A few hours after departing we came across two men in tribal dress blocking the trail. They had machetes and spears and told us we couldn’t cross into their land. First I thought we had done something wrong to offend the locals but after the first exchange of words between Meldi and the villagers, and hearing money mentioned, I realised they were simply trying to cash in on westerners passing through their territory. A few rounds of negotiations concluded with a small cash payment and us being able to carry on down the trail. I was soon to learn that this was one of many negotiations to be had with the Papuans for the right of passage.

  Travelling through heavy jungle can be uncomfortable at best and soul destroying at worst. While trekking along the trail, no foot placement was secure and I was stumbling around and tripping over constantly. I knew my body would adapt to the new environment eventually but on day one I was getting frustrated and slightly embarrassed in front of the locals every time I fell over. The path was overgrown with branches, leaves and vines at about western face height – the porters passed happily underneath with their shorter stature leaving the silly, overgrown foreigners to get slapped in the face. Overlay this scenario with soaking wet clothes and sweltering humidity and you have a recipe to test the limit of anyone’s patience.

  By the time we had stopped for a lunch break that first day we had encountered two more trail blocks by locals, one guy claiming he actually owned the mountain yet was happy to rent it to us after a small cash payment. Then another tribe was upset about none of their people being hired as porters, only to find out after a name check that there were three of his tribe already with us so we were okay to proceed once more. Our eighteen porters had brought along their kids, wives and whoever else wanted to come for a walk with them and when we were all caught up for lunch at a small village we counted forty-six in total. The sun was out for a short time over lunch, allowing me to dry my clothes and bathe in the morale boosting warmth. When we were ready to depart the rain started to fall once more and the porters wanted to renegotiate their wages before setting off. One more round of negotiations had concluded and as we made our way back into the jungle I smiled at Meldi and congratulated him on his patience with the locals. He smiled back and said, ‘Just another day in Papua.’

  The rain poured all afternoon turning the trails to mud; in some parts I was sinking up to the top of my gumboots and hoping it didn’t spew over the top and fill the
m up. Waterfalls were forming along the trails and the terrain was getting steeper and more densely covered as we moved further and further away from the villages. It was close to dark when we stopped beside a river that had a partial clearing next to it and a small wooden structure built on its bank that looked like it was once a cabin. The porters all piled into the wooden shell and lit fires in the centre to warm themselves. We set up our tents in the pouring rain and tried to crawl into them without saturating the inside as well. The only way it could be done was to get naked outside leaving my clothes in a wet pile at the entrance, then crawl inside and dry myself quickly with a towel from my pack.

  Part of the team was travelling slower than us up front and they didn’t arrive until after dark. I could see their head torches coming through the jungle and making their way along the river to the camp. The team’s cook made us all a hot meal for dinner. He was a local Papuan who had a smile on his face at all times and I was feeling guilty as I took the steaming hot food from him as I sat warm inside my tent. I thought to myself that I could easily make my own food to save him the hassle but then I remembered that this was probably one of only a few small jobs he would have this year and the small amount he would earn could see him and his family through with a year of food. The guilt evaporated as I took a mouthful of the noodle and stew combination on my plate. The heat from the food fogged up the air inside our tent so I couldn’t see Vitidnan sitting less than a metre away from me.