Michael is shown in an Asmat canoe shortly before his disappearance. It was long believed he drowned but the reason why he vanished was far more sinister.
Is there anywhere in the world you can go where you risk being eaten by Whites?
Floating adrift on an overturn catamaran off the coast of southwest New Guinea on November 21, 1961, Michael C. Rockefeller, the 23-year old son of New York governor Nelson Rockefeller and future Vice President, decided to swim what he estimated to be some five to ten miles to shore in the remotest corner of the world.
His expedition partner René Wessing waited for him on the overturned wooden hull where they had been marooned for twenty-four hours.
‘I really don’t think you should go,’ Wessing told his friend.
‘No, it’ll be okay. I think I can make it,’ Michael replied.
With that he was in the water with the two empty gasoline cans tied to his military-style belt and started kicking slowly in what he estimated to be a ten-hour swim ahead of him.
It would be the last time Michael Rockefeller would be seen alive. An extensive sea, air and land search turned up nothing, and the mystery surrounding his disappearance left the Rockefellers—and the world—perplexed. They assumed he drowned.
They were wrong.
He was tortured, beheaded and eaten in a ritualistic cannibal killing by a notoriously violent New Guinea tribe.
It took decades and extensive research in the Netherlands as well as the remote island in southwest New Guinea and meeting with the Asmat tribesmen for the full story and cover-up to emerge – according to journalist Carl Hoffman in his riveting new book, Savage Harvest, published this week by William Morrow.
After the long swim, Rockefeller saw the shoreline.
Asmat tribesman Sauer is the son of one of the five men murdered by a Dutchman overseeing the colony before Rockefeller arrived in New Guinea. He says Michael’s death was in retaliation for the murders.
He had almost reached safety – but for the flotilla of canoes that were nestled in the trees – and the native men.
There were 50 of them waiting in eight 40’ long canoes at this early 6am hour when the sun had just started to rise.
They reached for their spears thinking it was a crocodile but when Michael rolled over onto his stomach, they saw it was a man — and they recognized him from having been in the village.
His name was Mike.
These natives were muscular and strong, black-skinned with pierced septums the size of dimes.
They wasted no time and paddled quickly out to the swimming man, surrounding him and towing him into shore.
Ajim, the head of one of the five men’s houses that comprised the Asmat village of Otsjanep, turned to Pep, who had killed more people than any of the tribesmen and collected more heads.
He was fearless and Ajim encouraged Pip to act.
‘He howled and arched his back and drove his spear into the white man’s floating ribs. Michael screamed, groaned a deep, inhuman sound,’ writes the author, and they pulled Michael into a canoe.
‘They had done this dozens of times following sacred rules that defined their lives and spirituality, made them men.
‘They were about to take his power, become him, and restore balance to the world.’
The fifty men in canoes rowed south on the Ewta River and turned into the shoreline that was soft mud where they dragged Michael out of the canoe and slapped him on his skull.
‘This is my head!’ screamed one of the tribe.
‘Fin and Pep and Ajim held his chest off the ground and pushed his head forward and with one blow of an ax in the back of his neck, Michael Rockefeller was dead.
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