by Carl Hoffman
There were, however, huge reasons to doubt either possibility. First, sharks rarely attack humans. While it’s possible that Michael could have been a victim, I never heard a story about shark deaths in Asmat; the animal rarely shows up in their carvings or symbols. He’d had two gasoline tanks tied to a rope that was tied to his waist, and none of that rope was found—not even a knot or tail end on the Johnson fuel can that was recovered 150 miles away. The Neptunes had been searching the very next morning after he’d swum away, and they never spotted anything—not a chunk of human flesh left behind, not the cans.
He could have just grown tired and drowned, except that he was tied to the floating gas tanks, which tests showed the Neptune radars could pick up with ease. As carrion, he might then have been bitten by sharks, but again, he wouldn’t have been consumed whole. More important, none of this would have happened quickly, and the radar of the Neptunes should have spotted him, or pieces of him, and his flotation aids.
In the end, the chance that he was attacked and consumed by sharks so completely that neither he nor the rope or belt or other gas tank was found is low.
ON THE GROUND, everything looked different. The day Michael disappeared, both van Kessel and von Peij were waiting for him, von Peij in Atsj and van Kessel farther south in Basim. On November 19 both heard the sound of engines, rare in Asmat, and looked skyward to see the circling Neptunes, and both were alerted by radio the next morning that Rockefeller was missing. Van Kessel immediately sent his assistant, Gabriel, an Asmat who’d been baptized and had been with him for years, by canoe north along the coast to the Ewta and Otsjanep—the farthest point north in his district—to warn the villagers and ask them to keep a lookout. Gabriel saw nothing out of the ordinary, only two young men at the mouth of the Ewta.
Van Kessel followed him, traveling up the Ewta at four p.m. on November 20. Otsjanep lay only three miles inland, and villagers traveled up and down the Ewta constantly, fishing at its mouth. But as the sun sank low that afternoon and the green of the prehistoric-looking nipa palms and the blue of the sky and the silvery brown of the river deepened, van Kessel saw no one. The usually bustling river was deserted. He camped for the night in a bivouac at the mouth of the Faretsj.
Throughout Asmat, Dutch officials were cranking up the search, and Asmat from the villages were fanning out, prowling the shore and rivers. Van Kessel linked up with the Tasman, on which the Dutch police commissioner, known as the HPB, was sweeping along the coast. Gabriel, meanwhile, spent the entire day on the Ewta and along the beach south to the Fajit, on which lay Basim. Although many villagers were searching, he saw no one from Otsjanep.
It’s hard to know exactly how this frenzy of searching appeared to the Asmat, but it was something they’d never seen before. So many steel ships. So many airplanes. So many white men. That the missing man was a Rockefeller, the son of one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, meant nothing. They knew only that he was a white man, a Tuan, who was gone.
As the days passed and the search intensified, the helicopters arrived. No one in Asmat had ever seen one before. Some had seen airplanes high in the sky; a few in Pirimapun and Agats and Amanamkai had seen Catalinas land on the water, but most had never seen these strange spirit canoes up close. Equipped with floats and Australian army pilots, the helos came out of nowhere, out of the sky, and landed on the rivers beside villages, their rotors thundering and blowing eighty-knot gusts of wind that made clouds of water and sticks and debris. The villagers fled into the jungle in terror, screaming. Considering the Asmat reticence and wariness with outsiders, it’s little wonder that the helicopter pilots found nothing, heard nothing. On November 27, Nelson’s last day in Merauke, van Kessel’s assistant, Gabriel, flew on a helo to Otsjanep and, as always, the village emptied at the sight of the machine. Gabriel pushed into the underbrush beyond the village, and finally Ajim and Fin appeared. They said they knew nothing of Michael, but Gabriel noticed, again, that no one from the village was helping in the search.
In Atsj, von Peij watched as ship after ship and one helicopter after another came and went.
And then Asmat became quiet. The helicopters were shipped home. The Neptunes stopped circling. The Tasman and Eendracht returned to their regular patrols. In Atsj, von Peij waited a week to let the villagers go to the jungle to collect sago before he went on his rounds. His first stop was Jow, where everything seemed back to normal.
The next day he traveled the long way to Omadesep, via the inland creeks and cuts by canoe. The day was hot, but he felt glad to be out of Atsj, glad to have the Rockefeller search behind him, glad to be back to his regular routine. He arrived in Omadesep around noon.
“There are some men who want to meet you,” his catechist said. “They have a message for you.”
“Let them come,” he said.
20
December 1961
AJIM (NAKED), PHOTOGRAPHED BY FATHER VAN KESSEL IN BASIM SHORTLY AFTER MICHAEL ROCKEFELLER’S DISAPPEARANCE.
(MSC/OSC Brotherhood, Order of the Sacred Heart)
IN BASIM, van Kessel started hearing strange, conflicting rumors. That something unsettling had been spotted on the sea. That the village of Warkai, just up the river from Otsjanep, was saying a white man had been killed and eaten by Otsjanep. Everyone seemed to know something. On December 3, van Kessel sent Gabriel back to Otsjanep. He sat and smoked, talked, listened. There have been rumors, he told the men in each jeu, that a man from the village named Bere told Omadesep of a white man having been killed. “We saw a fierce giant snake in the sea!” said Wotim, but that was all. They denied knowing anything else. But Bere went on a rampage, running through the village, yelling, screaming, telling everyone he hadn’t said a thing, and then he ran off into the jungle. Van Kessel sent a canoe from Basim to Otsjanep and brought Bere and three other men back to Basim to question them. He did so one by one in his house on December 5.
“I just made it all up,” said Bere.
“I didn’t see a snake,” Wotim said. “Just a piece of wood.”
“There was a giant crocodile in the sea,” said Aitur.
“I saw something with a face, but it was just a tree trunk,” said Ekob.
Van Kessel asked them why Aitur didn’t kill the crocodile. “We didn’t have any weapons with us,” he said.
He called in Wotim again, but Wotim ran into the jungle.
On December 8, he sent Gabriel to Otsjanep yet again, this time with a large supply of tobacco. They gathered in the Otsjanep jeu and sat and smoked. “Men of Otsjanep,” Gabriel told them, “some of you have already been questioned, and you know that the Tuans are searching for a Tuan from America. They know the corpse washed ashore in the neighborhood and that you must have found it and didn’t know what to do with it, because the government could suspect you of wrongdoing. Hand me his shorts, so I can show it to the Tuans and they won’t have to search any longer.”
It was a tactical speech designed to get them to admit they had the body, not mentioning any murder or the suspicion of one. But no one knew anything. Pep had a new dagger made from human bone, though, and he offered his old one to Gabriel. Ajim wasn’t there. And Gabriel felt they were behaving strangely. He “saw they were acting; people exaggerated their amazement and they gave cautious answers,” van Kessel wrote in his report. “Behind his back they were whispering and they were really nervous.”
Van Kessel wasn’t sure, but he began to think that Michael Rockefeller had made it to shore and been killed by the men of Otsjanep.
ON DECEMBER 9, von Peij arrived in Omadesep, which lay at the far southern end of his parish. The sun had dropped by the time he settled into the house of his catechist—a spare, native-style room on stilts with gabagaba walls, a palm-frond roof, a table, a bed, and a cupboard. He felt unsettled; he wasn’t ready to hear any news. A gas lamp glowed, and on the walls nearest the light, pale bug-eyed lizards with stubby tails and suction cup toes were poised, waiting for insects attracted by the light. Thou
gh only a few inches long, they emitted a loud barking sound. Outside, crickets buzzed and a pair of dogs squealed, fighting over scraps of fish skin.
Von Peij was waiting when in walked four men. Bere and Bumes were from Otsjanep; Mbuji and Tatsji—one of the men who had escorted Michael, Wassing, and Gerbrands in the canoes from Omadesep to Otsjanep back in June, who had relatives in Otsjanep—were from Omadesep. They wore shorts, since they were visiting a priest, but they were adorned with the usual bipane shell or carved pig’s bone in their septums.
“Okay,” von Peij said, “tell me your story.”
Bit by bit, it spilled out. On Friday, November 17, Otsjanep had heard that van de Waal wanted building materials in Pirimapun, which they delivered on Saturday. The fifty men departed for home late Sunday afternoon, and on Monday morning they paused at the mouth of the Ewta, safe in their own territory. It was a good time to have a smoke and a bite of sago. Something moved in the water. They saw a crocodile, an ew, in the Asmat language. No. It wasn’t a crocodile, but a Tuan. He was swimming on his back. He turned and waved. One of them said: “People of Otsjanep, you’re always talking about headhunting Tuans. Well, here’s your chance.” An argument ensued. Dombai, the leader of the Pirien jeu, didn’t think he should be killed. Ajim and Fin thought otherwise. While they tried to lift him into a canoe, Pep stabbed him with a spear. It wasn’t fatal. They rowed him to the coast, to the Jawor River, where they killed him and made a big fire.
“Was he wearing glasses?” asked von Peij. “What kind of clothes was he wearing?”
Their answer burned in his memory, a detail he’d never forget: the white man was wearing shorts, but shorts they’d never seen before and that you couldn’t buy in the shops of Agats—shorts that ended high up on his legs and had no pockets. Underpants.
Von Peij listened. Nodded his head. “Where is his head?”
“Fin-tsjem aotepetsj ara,” they said. “It hangs in the house of Fin. And it looked so small, like the head of a child.”
“What about his thigh bones?” said von Peij, who knew that thigh bones were used as daggers. “And his tibia?” These were used as the points of fishing spears.
Pep had one thigh bone, Ajim the other. Jane one tibia, Wasan the other. As had Michael’s left upper arm, Kakar his right. Akaiagap his right forearm, Akaisimit his left. Bese, Erem, and Fom each took a rib. Ainapor had his shorts, those strange shorts that had no legs and no pockets. Dombai or Bese had his glasses.
“Why did they kill him?” von Peij said.
The killings in Otsjanep almost four years earlier, they said.
Von Peij was overwhelmed. The details, especially the description of Michael’s underwear, were too concrete not to be credible. He’d been in Asmat almost six years, spoke the language fluently, was as intimate with the Asmat and their culture as any European had ever been. He felt burdened. But he feigned disbelief. Said little.
The next morning he returned to Jow and sent his cook to the jeu. A few hours later, the cook returned. The same story was now making the rounds of Jow; everyone knew everything.
Von Peij moved on to Biwar Laut, Amates’s village. A crowd of men were gathered there. They were excited. They wanted tobacco. “Nda kapak to,” they said. “We have to smoke!”
“If you want tobacco,” von Peij said, “then you have to do something for me. Bring a letter immediately to Agats.”
“To the HPB [the government official]?” Their enthusiasm dampened. They didn’t want to go. Not to Agats. Not to any government officials. They were afraid.
“Okay,” von Peij said, “then I’m not giving you any tobacco. And the letter isn’t for the government, but to a priest who’s just passing through for one day. That’s why you have to go now.” The tide was going out, the water dropping fast. In order to make the journey, they had to go immediately.
They agreed. Von Peij scratched a note: “Without having the intention of doing so, I stumbled across information and I feel compelled to report this. Michael Rockefeller has been picked up and killed by Otsjanep. Jow, Biwar, and Omadesep are all clearly aware of it.”
He sealed the note in an envelope addressed to Father de Brouwer, the head priest in Agats, but inside of that was a message addressed to the government controller in Agats, Cor Nijoff.
Von Peij returned to Atsj the next day.
On December 12, van Kessel arrived in Agats to talk to Nijoff, who showed him von Peij’s “small note that was absolutely clear.” Van Kessel immediately traveled to Atsj to talk to his colleague.
ON DECEMBER 15, back in Basim, van Kessel wrote a long report to Nijoff. “After my conversation with Father von Peij, the one percent of doubt I had has been taken by the very detailed data which matched with my data and inspections.
“IT IS CERTAIN THAT MICHAEL ROCKEFELLER WAS MURDERED AND EATEN BY OTSJANEP,” he wrote in all caps. “This was revenge for the shooting four years ago . . . and in all the villages until Sjeru [sic] people only talk about this heroic act of Otsjanep and it is known everywhere.” Van Kessel spelled it all out. Names. Who had which body parts. That Tatsji, who had free passage between Omadesep and Otsjanep, had arrived in the village as they were singing bisj songs and had seen Pep’s new thigh bone dagger. And that Otsjanep was in a turbulent mood, “ready to receive” anyone from the government who might come to investigate. In rough water and high winds, Gabriel took the note that night to Nijoff, who was now in Pirimapun. Gabriel’s canoe capsized three times and he arrived sick and exhausted; he would almost die of pneumonia.
Five days later, on December 20, Ajim, Fin, and several other men from Otsjanep arrived in Basim, where a relative had died. They steered clear of van Kessel’s house, but he sent them a message: he would pay three steel axes for Michael’s head and two for his femur. The two warriors from Otsjanep refused. “THEY DID NOT DENY THE MURDER,” van Kessel wrote, “though they also said, ‘Tatsji is talking nonsense.’ ” The priest found the two men and took a photo of them, “so one would later (if necessary) recognize the main culprits.”
Van Kessel’s long report found its mark. On December 21, six days after sending it to Nijoff, P. J. Platteel, the governor of Dutch New Guinea, cabled Theo Bot, the minister of the interior. The cable is marked “secret” and “destroy.” It was in fact partly destroyed, and only part of it remains in the archives, but it carries a handwritten note: “Remainder not distributed.
“Resident Merauke [Eibrink Jansen] received through controller Agats [Nijoff] a letter from Father van Kessel in which it is stated that the latter assumes beyond any doubt that Rockefeller was murdered by the inhabitants of Ocanep [sic] village and eaten. His information, which was obtained by contact persons in other villages, would allegedly agree with similar information obtained through Father van Pey [sic]. According to this information, on the morning in question a number of canoes would have found Rockefeller at sea and allegedly he had already been run through with a spear when he was hauled aboard. Once ashore he would have been slaughtered and eaten. Skull, bones and clothing are said to reside with person known by name. Resident also reports that rumors are making the rounds in Merauke about these things already and that it is improbable that the case remains outside the press. In my opinion some reservations need to be made. No evidence has been found yet and therefore there is no certainty yet. In this connection it doesn’t seem germane to me to give information to the press or Rockefeller Senior at this time. If any questions arise then we could respond to these by stating that the rumor has reached us too and that it will be investigated. This will gain us some time and would enable us in case of confirmation to pick a more favorable moment for publication. Resident Merauke is still considering which action would be most proper to get definitive closure.”
21
March 2012
MEN FROM OTSJANEP AND PIRIEN GATHER TO TALK IN PIRIEN DURING MY FIRST TRIP TO THE VILLAGE. THE MAN IN THE CENTER IS BER, SON OF DOMBAI; TO HIS RIGHT IS TAPEP, SON OF PEP.
AMATES,
WILEM, FILO, Manu, and I piled into the longboat at six a.m. and headed back to Otsjanep. Although I’d read all of van Kessel’s and von Peij’s reports before my first visit and had spoken at length to von Peij, I had wanted to take things slow.
Finally I’d told everything to Amates and Wilem, and neither was surprised in the least. “Otsjanep killed him; every Asmat knows this,” Amates had said. “We will find out everything, don’t you worry, Mister Carl.”
This time we were returning to just Otsjanep and Pirien, where I wanted to spend a few days and finally question the men directly about Michael Rockefeller. With us was Hennah Joku, a small, quiet woman who’d grown up in Papua New Guinea and on Lake Sentani, outside of Jayapura, in Indonesian Papua, where her father had been an early leader in the Papuan independence movement. I’d been waiting for her for five days in Agats, and she’d finally arrived. Her English and Indonesian were perfect; I hoped she’d help fill in the spaces that I couldn’t understand when Amates was translating.
We slid into the mud banks of Pirien just after noon. The village felt hot and still. There was no dock here; we clambered over three canoes and up onto sagging, rotting logs that formed a precarious path over the mud. At the house we’d stayed in before there was shouting.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” said Wilem, shaking his head.
Amates looked grim. “We cannot stay here,” he said.
Though the house was vacant, it was next door to a family whose outhouse we had used, for which Amates had given them money. The patriarch wouldn’t let us stay. “People were angry at him,” Amates said. “Jealous. Come.”
We walked along Pirien’s main boardwalk, raised five feet over the swamp. We descended a notched log, then walked twenty feet along a single two-by-four two feet over the black mud to a three-room house with a small veranda. Amates said a few words and whoosh! the family inside gathered their nipa palm sleeping mats and little piles of clothing and disappeared into the back kitchen area, a twenty-by-twenty thatched room with a mud hearth. Its floor was made of sticks an inch in diameter, placed two inches apart. Blackened pots hung from the eaves, which were filled with faded cloth and palm net bags, bows and arrows, and fishing nets.
