As I sit down now to write up the events and thoughts of the last week, it is with a heavy sense of resignation. I have lost my diary of our journey to date – forever it seems. It only amounted to some eighty pages and I can, I suppose, piece together from memory the trials and tribulations of the last five weeks. What really irks me, though, is that the first diary I have ever succeeded in writing diligently is not truly lost. I know exactly where I left it, where it is now, and who is now fingering the pages.

The young Korowai tribesman called Yakop, surely by now returned from his pig-hunting trip, will be in his hut sheltering from the rain and wondering whether or not those bizarre white men will return for the book. His own language has no word for ‘book’ but Yakop, unlike the other men from his tiny village, has had some dealings with the outside world and speaks a little ‘Bahasa Indonesia’. He also understands the value of money so will probably also be wondering if it is worth as much to me as the price of a steel parang(machete) for him.

Alternatively, he has discovered that paper makes excellent tinder…

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There was a marked difference in the methods of Catholics and Protestants. The Protestant missionaries set about tearing down the fabric of the communities they came across, determined that the people should eschew everything in their lives and customs that was morally and biblically indefensible. The Catholics followed a more benign, pragmatic approach. Of course, there was quite a lot going on that had to be stopped - such as headhunting and wife-swapping - but there was much to be built upon. The rituals and beliefs of the Irianese, they realised, were vital to the stability and spiritual health of each community. They should therefore not only be encouraged but, where possible, adapted to Christianity - the cathedral I was sitting in had been inaugurated in the same manner as a longhouse, the political and spiritual hub of the village. The Catholic fathers and brothers saw that their first duty, before saving souls, was to attend to the earthly welfare of the people around them. They administered medicine and became the tribes-people’s only representatives before the Indonesian authorities - saving lives, and risking their own to do so.

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In mid-afternoon - thank God - we reached a small shelter built near the Eilanden. The feeling of weightlessness you experience when you finally drop a heavy load, was bliss.

‘These boys don’t know it yet,’ I said, ‘but Father Christmas is in their midst, and this is his sack.’ I kicked my rucksack.

‘What are you going to give away?’ Bruce asked.‘Lots. The pleasure gained from trekking is inversely proportional to the weight carried, and I am carrying too much.’

I was rather pleased with that statement. Soon the contents of my pack were strewn over the ground but, depressingly, I couldn’t see much to give away. The spare bar of soap, two shirts, a pair of shorts and two pairs of thick socks that I could dump would make barely any difference to the load. There was nothing else I would not miss: the mosquito repellent might be a lifesaver, the bivouac bag would be vital on the mountain, the hammock would be a Godsend on the impossibly steep and overgrown foothills. The rest was camera equipment, and the satellite phone we had brought to keep in touch with our sponsors. Only one item begged closer scrutiny. I went very quiet. Superman’s breathing picked up a pace.

The following morning I felt no grief at the loss of the sleeping bag, and those few pounds made all the difference. As if in confirmation, Bruce had a tough day, setting an excruciatingly slow pace through the forest. Sensing the possibility of more goodies, the porters watched him closely, like wolves trailing an old, infirm member of a caribou herd.