Tana Toraja-The Stuff of Crazy Dreams

The next morning, we hopped into a cab to the airport for Sulawesi!!!  Until we arrived and discovered that the flight had been cancelled; but you know, there’s no such thing as notifying people before they actually arrive at the airport, so no one knew.  We waited around for about an hour, while the airline staff tried to reschedule everyone.  We did get a free night’s stay at a hotel, with a shuttle there and back the next day, so it wasn’t too big of a deal.  We had wanted to wake up bright and early the next day for a tour, but hadn’t actually paid for it yet, so we were in the clear.  After settling arrangements for the next day, we took a shuttle with other people to a nearby hotel.  We didn’t even unpack, but walked to the closest restaurant for dinner and just watched a movie before going to bed…for Sulawesi the next day!!!! Right?
Right!  Very early the next morning, our shuttle picked us up for the airport, and the flight was good to go.  As usual, the trip was short and sweet.  We arrived in Makassar, Sulawesi with just a bit of light left, and took a taxi to the hotel we had booked.  There were not many people around when we arrived at the hotel, and we checked in to our triple room with no problem, until we realized there was only one bed.  I attempted to explain that we had booked a triple room, which kind of confused them; I hate when hotels falsely advertise their facilities just to book anyone wanting a room.  They ended up just taking a queen sized mattress off the bed of a different room and lying it on the floor.  Sure, I guess that will work.  This place was probably one of the more gross hotels/hostels where I’ve stayed.  The sheets had stains, which I hate, so I had the staff change them; the bathroom only had a squat toilet, which I always hate also, because I am not accustomed to using the bathroom in that position.  Now, let me explain that: yes, I can pop-a-squat in the woods or over a toilet, but that position didn’t often work with these toilets, because the back wall was so close to the squatting area.  You have to squat down entirely, to where the back of your thighs rest on your calves.  Also, the basin is very shallow, so I often end up splattering all over my shoes.  UG!  Too much information?  I’m just trying to be as informative as possible!!  I also dislike squat toilets, because once you’ve done your business, you have to grab a small pail out of a large water basin and pour several loads of water into the squat basin to “flush”.  I am not touching that thing!!!  Do you know who else has been touching that, and what they’ve been doing with their hands!?!?  How long has that water been standing?  No thank you.  I can stoop to do some pretty rough things, but I am not grabbing that pail!  Needless to say, whenever I see that kind of toilet my digestive system pretty much shuts down, so that’s good.  Lastly, the shower didn’t work at all; only a few drops came out when I turned it on.  All around yuck!  We laughed the whole situation off, and set out in search of dinner.  We walked to the corner and looked up and down the street for anything resembling food stalls, but couldn’t see much.  There was a lone food vendor just in front of the hotel, so we walked over to see what he was offering, which looked like some sort of large pastry that he would spin out, like a pizza crust, until it was very thin.  Then he placed it in a large puddle of oil inside of a wok, and place some greenish glop into it, before folding the side of the pastry around the glop and frying up all the sides in the oil.  Uhhh, yea sure I can eat that.  We ordered three, and they were actually pretty tasty.  Well they basically just tasted fried, but it could have been worse!  After dinner, we contemplated walking around, but there really didn’t seem to be anything up and running, and it was already very dark out, so we opted to just walk back across the street and stay at the hotel.  I did not even change out of my clothes that night, and slept on top of the sheets, but it wasn’t a rough night’s sleep, so that was good!  Hmm, Makassar, you haven’t shown us anything great thus far. 
We only stayed in Makassar one night; not because of the previous night’s experience, but had always planned to move on the next day.  We woke up, and ate the minimal breakfast at the hotel before checking out and grabbing a taxi to the bus station.  The staff had quoted us the average price from a taxi, but of course, even using the meter, we noticed the numbers flying up much faster than they should have.  When I finally arrived at the bus station, which wasn’t that long of a drive (but when the numbers on the meter continue to rise higher and higher above the quoted price, the time seems to go slower and slower), I was pissed.  I begrudgingly handed him my money, and tried to just shrug it off.  That type of thing happens much more frequently that I like, but it seems to go with the traveling territory when you don’t speak the language.  Anyway, we unloaded all of our stuff in one spot, and I started walking around looking for a place to buy tickets.  There seemed to be different “offices” around the bus depot, so tried my luck with the first office.  There was a man inside, and when I asked for the price the hotel staff had quoted, he said no and quoted a much higher price.  He wouldn’t budge, so I moved on down the line to the next office.  As I was about to enter the office next door, he came out and hollered something at the person inside the second office.  They went back and forth for a second, before I was invited in to the second office.  The instant that happened, my insides started screaming.  Did he just tell the next bus company his quoted price in an attempt to raise the price!?!?  Oh God, if that’s what happened, I was going to be irate.  Wouldn’t ya’ know it, the second office quoted the exact same price, again substantially higher that the price the locals had quoted at the hotel.  I was livid.  When I know that people are intentionally trying to screw me over, I go into fierce lion mode.  There was NO WAY I was buying the bus ticket from him.  I asked around a bit more, but no one else was really available to sell tickets.  As we moved our things to a seating area under shade to try to figure things out, he kept approaching and quoting his price.  I was so close to just yelling at the guy.  I did go off on a bit of a tirade (which he couldn’t understand), about him trying to rob us, and clearly not needing our money, because he had now successfully lost any opportunity of receiving it, but I did so in a calm voice!  I would literally have bought a ticket from a crossdressing homeless schizophrenic who drove me the whole way on a moped, than purchase a plush bus seat from that man.  Anyway, he kept approaching, and I kept trying to convince him that there was no way in hell it would happen.  Finally, a bus drove in and the driver agreed to our price.  I loaded my bags onto the bus, waved at the man trying to swindle me, and found my seat.  The ride took about eight hours, mostly of which I watched old episodes of Sex and the City.  The landscape was a myriad of green landscapes from rainforests to farms, mountains, rolling hills, plateaus, and plains.  We stopped at a restaurant once along the way for the bathroom and for people to eat some food, and continued on our way.  We arrived in our intended location, Tana Toraja just after the sun had set.  There was a bit of a drizzle when we started our short walk to the hostel.  It took about 10 minutes to walk there, and when we arrived there were a few people scattered around playing on the internet and chatting.  Tana Toraja is a bit off the beaten travel path, so travelers were few and far between.  We settled in before making our way back out to the main road for a good dinner.  After dinner, we ended the night back at the hostel with showers and bed.
The next morning, we were up early ready to plan our day.  We started off with a good free breakfast at the hostel, and asked the front desk what our best plan of action should be.  Tana Toraja is known for its unusual burial rites, graves built into boulders and cliff faces, and the interesting architecture of their traditional houses.  Luckily, the man at the front desk informed us that he knew of a couple burials that day, and could drive us and be our guide.  What luck!  We quickly packed up a few things for the day and loaded up the car.  He drove us about an hour out of town, up through the hills and mountains of the countryside, through small villages with dirt roads, until we started to follow a bit of a procession of cars.  We were headed in the right direction.  He pulled over, and we all got out.  We followed the crowd through a dirt driveway to the back of a home.  The area behind the house opened up and it took several attempts to look up from the animal feces and pools of blood on the ground we tried to sidestep, in order to take it all in.  First, yes pools of blood and flies everywhere.  I think the second thing I noticed were the pigs everywhere.  They were lying side by side, half overlapping, haphazardly about, with front and back paws tied together, and their bodies strapped to large bamboo poles used to carry them. 

Next I notice all the people sitting around the central pig depot, under covered roofs.  We nimbly made our way around the blood and pigs to the seating area, where our guide ushered us in to one of the covered areas.  We sat under a canopy on palm floors, that our guide explained had been built especially for the funeral.  Each seating area was about 3x3 meters, and separated by a low lying wooden fence you could set over to sit in the next section.  Most people wore black or at least dark colors.  There seemed to be a low speaker playing music, and occasionally a man would start speaking, apparently announcing different family’s arrival.  Once a family was announced, a single file line would appear from the driveway, up around the pigs to one central seating section that was separated from the rest and in front for everyone to see.  The announced family would enter the central seating pagoda-like structure, and drink teas and eat snacks for about 15 minutes, until the next family was announced, at which time the first would find seats among the other guests, and a new line would proceed forward.  Occasionally, a line of women would come out from the main home with trays of tea, coffee and small snacks, which they would bring to every seating section for everyone.  Our guide explained that people were not immediately buried after their death; I believe the deceased at that funeral had been dead for about three years, during which time family members begin to start saving enough money to host the funeral.  As we sat, we saw more and more pigs being carried in and left in the central area, and the occasional ox pulled through all the way to the other end, all awaiting slaughter.  We stayed for about an hour, trying to take in the entire experience, before we walked back to the car again.  We drove a ways again for the second funeral.  As we drove, we noticed many regular style houses, but also the traditionally built homes.  Before stopping at the funeral, our guide brought us to a village of traditional homes.  Only wealthy families could afford to build the intricately designed homes, and their constructions could take around a year.  The homes were built high above the ground on stilts, with a raised wooden platform below the house, about two feet above the ground.  We saw many people sitting, talking, and lounging on the raised platforms.  The most noticeable feature of the homes were their arched roofs.  I believe the guide explained, the roofs were built to resemble a boat, which they did, but I’m not sure why, as Tana Toraja is located in the mountains, hours from the coastline.  The roofs were covered in palm leaves, which would be added to over years, and most had fern and flora growing from them, adding to an organic feel.  When we walked through the village, we noticed the amazing design work of the home’s facades.  The side of the homes were made of wooden rectangular panels, with very detailed artwork in yellow, red and white.  Each panel was a different design, from circles to diamonds, swirls to jagged lines. 

The front of the home had a central support pole from the ground to the front tip of the arched roof.  On that pole were fastened tons of ox horns from the ground all the way up.  I believe, the more ox horns the more prestigious or perhaps wealthy the family.  There were several different sizes of the structures, and the guide explained that the smaller ones were for food storage through the year.  We saw one home in its construction phase, with a series of bamboo poles used as reinforcement and scaffolding.  We next stopped at our second funeral for the day; that one hosted by a very wealthy family.  There seemed to be more people attending, and we even noticed two people from our hostel.  All of the structures surrounding the main area were the traditional style homes, and the storage units had been especially connected with roofs and seating platforms for all the guests.  There were thankfully less animals I noticed, but I don’t think there were in fact fewer in attendance, they just were not displayed in the front area as much, which I preferred.  Families were again announced over the loud speaker and food and drink were served, but this time we notice traditional attire by young girls and boys that had not been present for the first funeral.  The boys wore black loose fitting shirts and pants and bandanas.  The girls were my favorite though.  They wore white or black, most were white, dresses with beaded headdresses, beaded thick necklaces with tassels, beaded belts with tassels and tons of makeup.  

At one point, a group of men entered the central area and interlocked pinkies for a dance while they chanted and sang.  The dance wasn’t very expressive, they really just swayed back and forth in a circle and sidestepped occasionally.  There was also a group of older women who came out, each with a thick bamboo stick.  Each started dropping her stick into what looked like a trough, to make drum like music.  Now, that sounds very unimpressive, but I’m not doing it justice.  There were about eight women.  Each only made one monotonous beat with her bamboo stick, and each had a different beat they maintained.  When the rhythms came together…well it sounded like a STOMP show in New York.  It was really a cool sound, and I was floored at how they were able to create that from what they were doing.  We stayed at the second funeral a litter longer than the first, and I really enjoyed it.  They were both amazing experiences, and I did have to see all the animals and blood from the first to really understand, but I didn’t have to see it alllll the time!  Anyway, after, we got back in the car for a long drive and some lunch in the mountains at a really nice hotel, overlooking the valley and distance hills.  After lunch, we continued our drive, and noticed large round boulders randomly placed through the green farmland.  They looked very much out of place, each popping up like an eye sore amongst the greenery, but our guide explained that they were actually burial sites.  Each boulder was hollowed out and used as a person’s final resting place.  It doesn’t really explain how they got there, but it’s good that they were using their land resources well!  In fact, our next stop on the drive was a burial ground, where small squares had been carved into the sheer cliff face of a mountain.  Some square cut outs were quite low to the ground, but some were stories high.  I can understand how people would use bamboo poles to make a ladder and carve out the holes in the cliff face, but I have no idea how they later hauled a coffin with a body inside, up to his/her hole!  The face of the cliff kind of looked like an advent calendar, after you’ve taken all the secret treats out from behind their door.  At the mouth of some of the squares sat little wooden figurines, which the guide explained were replicas of the person buried within.  How neat!  Maybe it’s similar to how we write someone’s name on his/her tombstone; there, they build a doll!  When we took all our photos, and the guide answered our questions, we headed back to the car, and as we were loading in, someone informed the guide that there was a funeral happening close by, and they would place the coffin into stone grave!  We quick walked over to the funeral, just as people were leaving, and watched as a group of young men, half-carried a coffin passed.  I say “half-carried”, because they were barely carrying it.  They were kind of trying to run, I’m not sure why, so people would fall off the coffin, new people would grab on, the coffin swayed left and right, precariously bouncing above the ushers shoulders.  It was not the solemn procession to which we are accustomed.  Since they flew past us, we tried to book it after them along with everyone else to see what would happen next.  We followed some of the locals through a shortcut, and found ourselves standing on high rocks to get a good view down onto a boulder that had been hollowed out.  The guide explained that usually an entire family could fit within a boulder.  The ushers came scampering through the woods to the boulder and had to awkwardly traverse large and small rocks with the coffin.  They finally, less-than-delicately, placed the coffin at the mouth of the boulder as people tried to shove it inside while keeping in intact.  Family and friends also placed large…I’ve having trouble figuring out how to do this justice…decorative signs around the boulder.  They were many large Styrofoam signs, maybe 2x1 meters large, with Indonesian writing made from cutout Styrofoam.  I have no idea what the signs said, but along with the writing there were fake flowers lining the signs, crepe paper designs, glitter etc.  I looked like something you might create for a huge high school’s graduation, so your kid knew where your family was seated, and then when he/she was called onstage you’d all start screaming and waving around your burial sign.  The people placed the signs around the burial site, I guess in a gesture of farewell.  After the coffin was placed inside the cave, we all made our way back up the hill, and got in our guide’s car.  So what do ya’ know, buy two funerals, get the third free!  We stopped on the way back to the city at a craft village, where we got to see specially designed machetes of every style and size, and wooden carvings being prepared for the city’s big market.  We could have gotten a discount, but…gosh I just didn’t have room for that two foot long machete in my pack.  When we arrived back at the hostel, a bit before dark, I was pretty pooped!  What a day!  I took a shower and grabbed a nice dinner across the street before bed!
The next day, Bernard opted out of activities, because he had some school stuff to arrange for back home, but our guide said he could show us to some more cultural gatherings, so I signed up!  Now, let me preface this story by stating that this day was possibly one of the single most…traumatizing/eye opening/scary/vegetarian habit-inducing (?) days of my life.  I think if I remember five things from this entire how-ever-many-long-years trip, this will be one of the things I remember.  So, here goes.  Just like the previous day, I hopped into the car with the guide and we drove off into the mountains, looking out at the beautiful scenery below (RUN! HIDE! SCREAM!).  The guide said we would be going to a housewarming that day of a newly constructed traditional home (RUN! HIDE! SCREAM!).  We pulled into the street and parked, following the lines of people moving in the same directions.  As we rounded the house, I again had to sidestep the animal poop and pig blood landmines.  This time, however, I saw really interesting little houses made for the pigs.  They were constructed above ground, with poles sticking out for men to carry them; so basically the pig was at shoulder height when carried in.  The sides of the cage in which the pig was held were made of bamboo with flowers, feather, and leaves decorating it, and the front of the cage had a hole where the pig’s head would stick out, but the pig couldn’t fit its head back through, kind of like the old stocks used for torture, and framing the head of the pig, on the cage, was art work.  It was really an interesting way of displaying the pig…but kind of weird to see.  We continued through the line of people at the side of the house, around to the bag where the festivities were held.  Again, the area had several storage structures, temporarily attached to another to provide to shade and a seating area for guests, but a lot of people stood closer to the central area.  The energy was much more festive.  Most of the pigs held in the center were already dead, unlike the day before, so there were innards strewn about.  Some of the children were again dressed in the traditional village attire with beading everywhere, but that day the dresses underneath were orange.  The children would dance around the dead pigs in their traditional attire, while people put money into their headdresses. As we stood and watched, families were announced, but this time, instead of solemnly filing in, groups of men would come running around the corner of the house, holding up the pig cages, and jumping up and down as they barreled through, sloshing the pig around in its cage, making it squeal and scream.  The men were tripping over pigs and jumping on top of dead pigs to make their way through.  Once the central area was full of a family and all its pigs, they started shooting off fireworks and what sounded like canons.  Most of the time, just crack crack, sizzle…normal firework, and then occasionally a series of loud, thundering booms would blast out, making my ears ring, accompanied by the screaming pigs.  Now, I’m not sure if any of you have ever actually heard a pig scream, but it is not a squeal, it is a shriek.  A horrifying, blood-curdling shriek.  Some of the structures had already been dismantled, and people were starting to slaughter the pigs.  No one seemed to have a problem with any of this; these people know animals as food…as do I, normally.  Four or five men would surround a pig and start stabbing it with knives until they were confident they had successfully disabled the pig, and it would soon fall (if it hadn’t already) and die.  Unfortunately, some of the pigs were fighters and they would get up and try to escape by running headlong into a crowd of people, splattering its blood, which was pulsating out of it, as it ran by.  Blood got on my shoes (which are the cute Toms with the cutouts), and seeped into my foot.  That’s around the time when I lost it.  The sound of the fireworks, the booming thunder, the shrieking pigs, the screams of people as blood-squirting pigs ran toward them, the laughter, drumming, singing…it was all a bit much.  I felt like I was in a creepy war scene.  My eyes started to well up, and I was sweating, and in a bit of a panic.  Of course, I realized I had to keep it together; can you even imagine what the locals would think if some Gringa came to their housewarming celebration and left in tears!  I was successfully able to fan off the tears, and just tried to tune out the noises and not watch the men go from pig to pig.  I’m not saying I’m a PETA member or anything, but I usually like my pig in the form of bacon strips in the freezer section, not strewn in front of me bleeding and being dismembered.  Finally…LUNCH!  No, I’m serious.  The women started their procession of rice and…you guessed it…pig.  (RUN! HIDE! SCREAM!).  Oh, no.  No no no.  I’m not having lunch here, I can barely keep down my breakfast.  We left shortly after, where I vowed to give up pork…for the week.  Our next stop was the pig-free traditional village of Tongkonan.   We again saw all the intricate paneling and large ox horns adorning each house.  We were able to actually enter one empty house, via a steep ladder up to the main floor.  The guide explained that each house is constructed the same way, with three rooms inside, partitioned, more than actually separated.  One room is for the parents, one for the children, and one for the elder members of the family.  Do you remember when I mentioned that people don’t have a funeral and burial when they die, but ages later when the family has saved up enough money to host a funeral?  Well, guess where they store grandpa/grandma while they save up?  In the room with the elderly members of the family! In a coffin!  In the same room!  Crazy.  Anyway, that was neat to see.  The inside is not intricately design as the exterior, but very minimal, without a kitchen or washroom.  We proceeded through the village to their burial grounds, which were again the small squares cut out into the flat face of a mountain.  There seemed to be a bit of a space issue though, because the village had also cut out small circles into the face of the rock, in which they then placed timber and then gingerly set a coffin on the timbers. 

It seemed very hazardous, and we could even see where some of the coffins had fallen from their perch, smashing and sending boney bits about.  There were skulls, hip bones, femurs etc littering the area.  Interesting way of doing things.  We finished up the village visit, and got back in for one more burial ground.  The site was again a sheer rock face with squares where coffins were placed.  There was also a large cave, which we walked through where coffins where placed helter-skelter around and on top of one another.  We could see the offerings people had left including fresh fruits and tons of individual cigarettes.  When we exited the cave, it had actually started to rain, so we booked it back to the car and spent the drive back to the city resting from our long two days.  The first thing I did back at the hostel was quarantine the clothes I had worn that day and then showered aggressively.  After a good shower, some packing, dinner and bed before the bus ride back to Makassar the next day.