My initial 1967 expedition to Papua New Guinea lasted five months. Along with two companions, I traversed the island on foot from south to north, following the Fly River to its origins in the island’s mountainous spine, before descending the rugged northern flanks to the Sepik River and thence to the opposite coast.

In those days, a handful of young Australian patrol officers – while conducting government census surveys – were still discovering isolated pockets of uncontacted tribes, most notably in the region around the Nomad River, a distant tributary of the Fly. Despite ongoing intertribal conflict and reports of cannibalism, the three of us spent a memorable month among them, trekking through the jungle that separated their fortified communal longhouses. It was undoubtedly the highlight of that first expedition, and despite their feuding and fear of ambush, the people accepted our presence with wary curiosity.

One particular event I observed there had a profound influence on my future work. It was a healing ritual (hobora), conducted after dark within a cavernous ceremonial house. Flames from a fire on the earthen floor illuminated the magnificently decorated healer, a Samo tribesman named Igaiyo. He carried a drum and wore a fibrous brown kilt beneath a wide belt of tree bark. His body was intricately painted in yellow, ochre, and black, and his head was framed by a halo of white cockatoo feathers. A band of marsupial fur covered his forehead, and a twin row of dogs’ teeth adorned his brow. A hollow bone nose plug protruded through his septum, and a slender crescent of gold-lip pearl shell traced the line of his jaw and chin. Upon his chest rested a cowrie-shell necklace, flanked by loops of grey grass seed attached to his ears. The burnt umber plumage of four birds of paradise sprouted from the back of his headdress. Inserted in his armbands were whisks of palm fronds, while a more copious bundle of green fronds, tucked beneath the rear of his belt, cascaded down to his feet. Behind this ensemble arched a cane tail terminating in a rattle of dried crayfish shells.

An ailing girl crouched on the ground beside the hearth. Rhythmically beating his drum, the healer began to dance around her, feet together as he hopped, bowed, and ruffled the feathers and fronds attached to his back. The rattle bobbed in unison with his movements, emitting an eerie rustling sound. It soon became apparent that he was imitating the hypnotic courtship display of the male Raggiana bird of paradise – a reclusive denizen of the surrounding forest, hunted for its dazzling plumes used in ceremonial regalia. By attaching its feathers to his own body and reproducing its mesmerizing dance, the healer – and the onlookers – believed he had absorbed the bird’s power, which he now employed to cure the girl of her illness.

Until very recently, these people had had no contact with the outside world and relied upon resources from the surrounding forest, as well as occasional barter with neighbouring tribes, to sustain themselves. In that respect, they led a primal existence, but they were not “primitive” in the misunderstood context of that word. They might have appeared unwashed and “wild" to the Western eye – wielding stone axes, attacking one another with bows and arrows, practising cannibalism, and believing in witchcraft and spirits – yet I was witnessing a performance that would have impressed audiences anywhere in the world. Their use of costume and ornamentation, fused with dance and musical accompaniment, evoked a sense of euphoria common to all cultures.

It troubled me that only a handful of outsiders would ever witness such an event in its authentic setting, and that assimilation with the outside world would ultimately bring about its demise. This thought inspired me to begin documenting examples of self-decoration as practised by other tribes on the island. Thirteen years later, following six subsequent trips, my book on the subject, Man As Art: New Guinea (Studio Books, Viking Press, 1981), finally came to fruition.

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