A “Wa, Wa” Story (Handshake Edition)

He came striding down the road as if following a private drumbeat—naked but for a penis sheath, a crown of cassowary feathers, a breastplate of shell discs once used as money, and a small shoulder bag. A band of soot across his forehead lent him a stern, theatrical air. He reached the gravel path where I sat with my evening coffee, paused, considered, and angled toward me with purpose.

It’s always surreal to see someone so unclothed against the props of 2011—power poles, asphalt, square houses—but the moment felt ceremonial, not comic. He stopped, smiled up at me (I’d already stood and towered over him), and offered his hand.

“Wa,” he said.

“Wa,” I answered, and we shook—ordinary grip, palm to palm. Then came the twist.

Still smiling, he slid his fingers down and clasped my wrist. “Wa, wa,” he said, the grip firming.

I mirrored him—took his wrist. “Wa, wa.”

He stepped closer, climbed his hand to my forearm. “Wa, wa, wa.” A playful squeeze.

Up I went to his forearm. “Wa, wa, wa.”

Now the rhythm quickened. He gripped higher, near my elbow. “Wa, wa, wa, wa, wa…” I matched him, our hands ratcheting up each other’s arms like two climbers on the same rope. Biceps, shoulder, then the final move: he leaned in until our shoulders met and locked, and the wa’s tumbled out of us in a ridiculous avalanche—wa-wa-wa-wa-wa—so fast they melted into a humming laugh. We burst out, both at once, the sillables collapsing into shared hilarity. The handshake had become a handshake-climb-embrace, equal parts game, greeting, and dare.

What an exquisite way to meet. A test of readiness, perhaps: how far will you go with a simple “wa,” and how high are you willing to follow it up an arm? Like the Japanese bow—the deeper you go, the greater the respect. I couldn’t tell who had “won,” but satisfaction shone on both sides.

His name was Yani, a Lani chief, and to my surprise he spoke easy English—picked up, he said, by mingling with travelers and performing abroad, even in Spain. He’d heard there were Danes in the valley and came to see whether an old friend had returned. Jungle news travels faster than you think; anonymity is for cities.

Yani told me he had five wives and eighteen children. Ages? He shrugged, amused. He didn’t know, not his own, not theirs. I guessed him in his forties, though who can say? The average lifespan here hovers around fifty-five—remarkably high for many indigenous highland communities.

We were in the Baliem Valley. The main town is Wamena—Wa-mena, “place of the pig traders.” The echo pleased me: wa as greeting; wa as pig. Pigs are precious here—bride-price, feast, fortune. Give what’s most valuable and you declare who you are. Languages around the world do this: in Botswana the currency is pula, “rain,” a benediction in a dry land. Perhaps wa is less “thanks” and more “good,” “valuable,” “may fortune pass between us.” A syllable with weight.

We talked easily after that. He asked about Denmark; I asked about the feathered headpiece, the shell breastplate, the sheath. He answered with patience and a lightness that never tipped into performance. He was at home in his world and generous with it. I felt the familiar tug that travel exerts when it’s going well: curiosity turning into regard, regard into a promise to return.

What stayed with me was the handshake-ascent itself. Palm, wrist, forearm, shoulder—respect climbing the body until laughter closes the loop. In a valley where wa buys wives and settles debts, our volley of wa’s bought us a minute of trust.

Before he left, Yani pressed my hand once more—just the palm this time. “Wa,” he said, simply.

“Wa,” I said back, and we both understood. Not just hello or thank you, but valuable—this moment, this meeting, this small contract of goodwill struck in a language with one perfect syllable and a handshake that knows how to climb.