In the 1870s, New Guinea was one of the last unexplored places on Earth. Since its discovery by Europeans in 1545, visiting traders and missionaries had stuck to the coast – and with good reason. The densely forested interior was stalked by tropical diseases and home to hostile headhunters. For Luigi d’Albertis, an Italian hunter turned explorer, the dangers were part of the attraction: they put most competitors off. Not d’Albertis, who embarked on his first trip in 1872. Six years and four expeditions later, he had bagged hundreds of specimens and artefacts, and reached further inland than any other European. Yet his main achievement was to make New Guinea even more dangerous for anyone who followed.
LUIGI MARIA D’ALBERTIS should have gone down in history as the man who opened up the island of New Guinea, one of the last places on the planet to give up its secrets to outsiders. His discovery of new and fabulous birds of paradise – and many other plants and animals – should at least have assured him a place in the pantheon of great naturalists. Instead, d’Albertis is remembered for shooting and dynamiting his way into the interior, threatening the natives, stealing their food and making off with their most sacred objects.
Before deciding to become a naturalist d’Albertis had fought for the unification of Italy as a soldier in Garibaldi’s rebel army, and then spent several years hunting in the Italian mountains. He wanted to make his mark in his new vocation, and New Guinea was the obvious choice. Reports from early travellers hinted at an earthly paradise, home to giant snakes, tree-climbing kangaroos and beautiful birds of paradise. Better still, for empire-building nations on the lookout for new colonies, the island held the promise of vast mineral wealth. All Europe was eager to know more about what lay in the interior and about its headhunting inhabitants.
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In 1871, d’Albertis joined the botanist Odoardo Beccari on an expedition to the Bird’s Head peninsula, the western tip of New Guinea, in what is now the Indonesian province of West Papua. When they arrived in April 1872, his head was filled with romantic notions of “ever verdant primeval forests… where I should find man the unspoiled son of nature”. While Beccari botanised, d’Albertis went in search of birds of paradise. Shrugging off fever, hunger and warnings about cannibals, he hiked into the Arfak mountains, where the fantastical birds were said to live.
Local villagers led d’Albertis to the birds, and he became the first European to witness their entrancing mating displays. His own behaviour was less endearing. Arrogant and demanding, he was irritated when Papuans proved reluctant to do what he asked or sell him what he wanted: he found negotiations went better when he waved his gun at them or took their chiefs hostage.
After eight months of hardship, hunger and sickness, the Italians returned home to recuperate. In 1874, d’Albertis set off again. This time he set up base on Yule Island, off the south-east coast and handy for making excursions into the interior. Along with his collecting gear and guns he took plenty of dynamite, rockets and fireworks: if the natives had any thoughts about removing his head, a display of firepower would make them think again. D’Albertis had other means of inspiring awe. He convinced the Yule islanders he had supernatural powers by setting alight a shell full of alcohol. To the Papuans, it seemed he could set water on fire. “When their wonder had somewhat subsided, I went down to the edge of the sea… I took a match, lighted it and made as if I was going to set fire to the sea… the poor simple natives were terrified and conjured me not to do this. I graciously consented and extinguished the match.”
Not everything went his way, however. Travelling on foot, he never got more than 30 kilometres inland. While he was away on one excursion, the natives of Yule Island forgot their fear and stole his belongings. He was so annoyed that when his demands for their return had no effect, he decided on more drastic action. During the night, he lobbed a home-made bomb into the trees, causing the whole forest to shake, then fired a volley of rockets towards the village. By daylight, some sheets and a blanket had appeared. He kept up his “war” for 12 days, shooting over the heads of anyone who came within range, and surprising three men by blowing up a large rock they had been sitting on moments earlier. Slowly, his things reappeared.
D’Albertis realised he would never get far inland on foot, and left Yule Island to join the Reverend Samuel Macfarlane of the London Missionary Society on an expedition up the Fly river, one of the largest in New Guinea. Attacks on the mission’s launch were frequent, but like d’Albertis, Macfarlane believed guns and gunpowder were the best means of instilling respect in the natives. “They had to learn the superiority of European weapons and the folly of attempting to capture European vessels,” Macfarlane reported in The Times. “And it would be to their advantage to learn the lesson from the deck of a missionary vessel, where we hoped to teach it without loss of life.” After working their way 113 kilometres upriver, Macfarlane thought it best to retreat to the coast.
In May 1876, d’Albertis was back, making his way up the Fly river in a borrowed steam launch. The Neva was just 17 metres long but carried a crew of nine, a dog and a sheep – and was armed to the teeth. The engineer was Lawrence Hargrave, later to win fame as an aeronautical pioneer.
This was d’Albertis’s most successful expedition. The Neva made it 900 kilometres up the Fly: no white men had ever been so far inland. But it was not a happy ship. D’Albertis gave his crew a hard time, insulting everyone, including his engineer. His dealings with the Papuans were even worse.
As the Neva passed villages on its way upriver, the inhabitants generally vanished into the forest. D’Albertis took the opportunity to steal from their empty huts. He had his men kill villagers’ pigs and steal their crops while he helped himself to whatever artefacts caught his eye. At one village, d’Albertis discovered a shelter containing two large bundles wrapped in bark. He guessed they contained human bodies, but opened them anyway. Inside were the skeletons of an elderly couple, prepared for burial. “The bundles being too large for stowage aboard the little Neva, I abandoned the idea of removing them, but I placed the bones in two bags and sent them on board. Exclaim if you will against my barbarity! I am too delighted with my prize to heed reproof.” He left some beads and hatchets as compensation.
“He stole their pigs and crops and helped himself to artefacts”
Hargrave was appalled by d’Albertis’s treatment of the Papuans. “We had no friendly intercourse with them, but plundered their houses, canoes and gardens on every occasion,” he lamented in a letter to his father.
Sometimes, the natives didn’t vanish but mounted attacks on the Neva. The crew replied with volleys of rockets, bullets and sticks of dynamite. The aim was not to kill, but to teach the natives not to mess with the Neva. It worked – but the lesson had to be repeated up and down the river.
The next year, d’Albertis took the Neva upriver again. It was a big mistake. The Papuans were better prepared and planned their attacks carefully. In the fiercest attack, they came at night and fired hundreds of arrows. The next morning d’Albertis counted 45 in the side of the launch, 17 of them inches from where he had been standing. Pursued by canoes, he dropped dynamite into the water with terrifying effect. And when one of his men killed a Papuan, d’Albertis added the dead man’s head to his collections.
The crew was terrified both of the natives and of d’Albertis. Despite the shared hardships and dangers, he treated his men very badly. One Chinese crewman ran off into the forest. A second died a few days after d’Albertis gave him a beating. Three more deserted, stealing the Neva’s tender and making off downriver, never to be seen again. Still a long way from safety, three Polynesian crew abandoned the Neva, leaving d’Albertis with his engineer and one other man. All six made it back to safety and then to Australia, where the Polynesians immediately accused d’Albertis of murder. The charge was dismissed. The Polynesians were jailed for desertion. D’Albertis .
Ten years later, the journal Science reported that little progress had been made in opening up New Guinea. “A great difficulty in all enterprises in New Guinea is occasioned by the hostility of the natives… generally the natives are distrustful and aggressive.” And no doubt all the more intent on keeping out intruders after their brush with Luigi d’Albertis.
