19th – 22nd February 2012
Despite the comfortable seats of the night bus we really weren't feeling up to much. We scored a free breakfast from our hotel and sat down to coffee, a fried egg, toast, jam and fresh juice. We got talking to a cute young UK couple, Owen and Lauren (a landscaper and a seamstress respectively – two occupations I find wildly exciting) and then headed to our room where we decided to chill out. Two films later (Raging Bull and The Rebound) I decided to work out while Djalma chatted to an older English couple who were also pack packing, Lynne and Colin. We headed out to dinner tucking into enormous plates of greens with chicken and prawn and sides of guacamole and tomatoes covered with raw onions and garlic. We headed back, watched another, Made in Dagenham which was a blindingly good film, and slept in our big double bed.
The next day we were up and after breakfast we headed out on foot with Lynne and Colin in the direction of a funeral ceremony. We walked part of the way, the sun hot overhead, we passed by kids on their way to school and pigs on their way to market, not sure where exactly the turn-off was we got into a bemo and rode for five more minutes before Lynne recognised the end of the road. We got out and walked up the road, the traditional Torajan houses jutting out overhead, their distinctive horn shaped roofs arching out at either end of the houses. We passed a huge puddle where a buffalo was getting it's last wash and then we found ourselves in the midst of the excitement. Locals and tourists gathered to wait for and watch the spectacle that is the last day of the funeral. The buffalo sacrifices.
A little background for those of you not familiar with the unusual rituals of some cultures in Tana Toraja: Death is a big deal, actually it's two deals. When a person dies there are usually two funerals, one soon after death when a single buffalo is sacrificed and another much larger one, perhaps months later when the family has saved enough to give the dearly deceased a fitting send off. The savings go largely on the acquisition of buffalo which are then slaughtered (or in some cases sold, nothing like a little business) on the third or fourth day of the final funeral. This is the day that we went.
The tall Torajan houses lined two sides of a patch of open ground, several aside, the open sided bottom floor covered with mats for people to sit on. The family of the departed, an old man who looked like he lived to a ripe old age, were gathered near the largest building which faced the open ground and held the coffin on a top floor. We had bought several packs of cigarettes on the way over and Djalma presented them to one of the sons (we had heard that this was a good thing to do when gatecrashing a funeral) and then we settled down to wait.
Several men stood around holding a buffalo each and more came and were walked around the dirt courtyard, paraded in front of the family and the guests. My heart was in my mouth, the enormous animals were docile and beautiful in their own bovine way, I didn't think I could bear to watch them dying. Still more buffalo came and went, led by the nose, freshly washed and quiet as mice, actually everything was very quiet.
People sat and talked quietly, us tourists were the quietest of them all, not sure what to expect and not wishing to be disrespectful towards the family. Three old ladies came out and gradually worked their way round the gathered guests and gatecrashers offering heavily sweetened tea and small sugary biscuits, they had such lovely wrinkled faces I adored them even despite the biscuits.
As the first hour passed I became much calmer although I didn't stop shaking (still too nervous/excited/caffeinated) Djalma and I ran out of photos to take, doe eyed buffalo with their noses stretched to seeming breaking point, old men smoking cigarettes, young men smoking cigarettes, people waiting, people talking, buffalo being spray painted with numbers (we never did work out the reason for this because they weren't killed in numerical order). After a good hour and a half I was moved with most of the other white people to a larger building which I think was further out of the way.
Despite the hanging around, a man on the microphone talking occasionally and a guy filming there was little ceremony or messing about when it came to the killing. Actually neither Djalma or myself realised the first buffalo was on his way out until the first blow was dealt. A horrified gasp from a white woman made me look up and I saw the blood spray from the first wound. I was hoping I would be brave, and perhaps disconnected, enough to watch the ceremony – it's an important part of the culture after all and people eat very well after it, but as I expected all along, I couldn't watch it.
I sat with my head bowed and tried to stop crying before getting up and moving to the back of the building where I couldn't see or hear anything. I got myself under control only to be joined by an indignant French woman who, I think, was saying to a local guide that it was horrendous. It did make me laugh, fair enough you can't stand blood but to rubbish another culture because you don't understand, to someone of that culture, was a little silly and mightily disrespectful. I stood up to watch again but couldn't stomach much more. Some of the killers were much more experienced than others and Djalma told me afterwards that it made a big difference as to the speed of the demise of these poor beasts.
Aside from growing cheers from the crowd as wounded buffalo after wounded buffalo staggered about it was quiet, the animals made no sound at all, not even as they were dying, as far as deaths go I think they met theirs with enormous dignity, aside from the grotesque spasms that shook the huge bodies before they lay in pools of blood, bleeding out, finishing life. One beast after laying down managed to get back up and again and sprayed blood over those standing nearby, it was awful to watch, people cheered and Djalma got a couple of splatters of my beloved Billingham camera bag (it has now faded to a rusty brown).
I took the camera from Djalma and took photos of the corpses, I didn't have them same feeling seeing dead bodies as I did dying, the suffering was finished and they weren't hurting or confused any longer and besides – have you eaten buffalo meat? It's delicious! There were five huge bodies resting in the thick bright pink red blood when we left and there were plenty more to go. We followed a line of upset ladies who despite sitting down cheerfully ready for their massacre were now leaving in tears, can't say I blame them really. I felt the whole ordeal was a little too much and for anyone who wants to see this for themselves and wants to have more than just a painful bloody experience I seriously recommend getting a guide. I didn't understand much of what went on and someone explaining people's reactions and the ceremony itself would have made the whole morning much more interesting and much less disgusting (which is how I felt about the killers and the people who cheered). I didn't understand and I judged without knowing anything about the people, who had died and how these practices fit into the community as a whole. Yep, I did not enjoy watching animals die especially by the hands of those who were too inexperienced to bless them with a swift dispatching.
On wobbly legs we walked to the Buffalo market, not far away, and spent a little time watching the animals get sprayed by water hoses and wait to be bought. Djalma asked about the prices of the different animals, the most desirable breed to own was a mix of black and white, usually with blue eyes, they commanded prices two to three times that of a normal black buffalo, the pure albinos were no good, Feeling better seeing some ones that weren't destined for the chop that same afternoon (probably at a later date though) we caught a bemo back into town and had some lunch.
Guess what Djalma had... Of course, buffalo steak. I wimped out with some proper comfort food, chicken and cheese sandwiches and extra chips. I started looking through the photos from the day and then stopped when I got to the bloody ones, not really meal time viewing. You have been warned.
That afternoon we watched a Woody Allen film which was shocking, had a snooze and wrote about Labuanbajo.
The following day, Tuesday, we decided to take it easy on the gore and we rented a scooter. Along the way we passed several Torajan clusters and stopped at one that was particularly beautiful, I wandered down and took photos while Djalma waited on the scooter and attracted some curious cats. There were several chickens in a tree presumably to keep out of the way of the cats, although can't cats climb trees too?!
We headed East to what we hoped was a weaving ceremony, what we found was a cluster of Torajan houses surrounding a dirt courtyard, not unlike the one we had visited the previous day, the ground was wriggling with maggots and the air was heavy with the smell of old shit. A man cheerfully informed us that a week ago there was a funeral there, yeah no shit.
The place was swarming with flies and the ground was squidgy underfoot, a pile of buffalo horns, recent removed, were shoved to one side with fur and meaty bits still attached. The closest thing we found to a “weaving ceremony” was a small dark shop, the little old lady who insisted we look around and then impatiently waved us away when we told her we weren't buying her beautiful wares.
We headed back and then went North, heading to Batutumonga, the road was in shocking condition but the road was beautiful, following terraced rice fields that stretched on forever. We stopped several times along the way to take photos but the real corker was near a small coffee shop, with possibly the best view in the world.
The coffee shop was situated on a wall without any trees impeding it's perfect view up and down the almost endless rice terraces. A few of the patches were glowing with young rice plants but most were a clear coffee dotted with the skinny new plants that would grown into the patches of luminous green. In one spot a man planted rice plants was several metres from a buffalo lazing in a small pool of mud.
Not only was it insanely beautiful, there was also an amazing breeze that whipped away the heat from the morning sun that kept peeking out from behind the flat grey blanket of clouds. Stupidly I didn't put on sun cream, expecting rain at any and every moment, I received a very red nose and a very pink face, what an idiot – by now I should really know better. After tea, coffee and a couple of packets of small biscuits we tore ourselves away from the vistas and headed further North . After several minutes and more than a few turns in the road we came to a huge rock with small square windows carved in the face. The “windows” were covered by small doors and on the little ledges sat offerings of flowers, old cigarettes and empty bottles of Jack Daniels, outside one window sat a row of four figures, effigies guarding the dead inside.
We carried on to see if there was anything else but all we passed were bunches of rice drying on mats in the sun, clothes spread out on roofs doing the same and some seriously skanky dogs. We turned back around and took a right turn back to Rantepao, a short cut at only 6km back to town. It was short in distance only, the road was steep in most places and sections of tarmacked road were missing completely, fortunately on our return journey we weren't stuck behind a slow bus belching out suffocatingly noxious fumes. It was a race against the heavy clouds that crowded in and turned the sky black. I am pleased to say that we made it, not only back to our hotel but also to a restaurant for lunch before the heavens opened. We sat down to Rantepao's version of Nasi Campur, here plain rice with some fried sweet tempe, a gently flavoured soup with small chunks of tender buffalo and a small buffalo steak (the memory of the slaughter pushed aside long enough to enjoy the sweet meaty taste).
Wednesday rolled round but we decided it felt more like a Sunday so we decided to chill out for the morning, we had a lazy breakfast and sat chatting to Owen and Lauren over coffee and pancakes. Check out time came and we took the computer round to the Karaoke restaurant where we uploaded photos and blog updates and I managed to speak to my Nan for the first time in weeks, it put such a big smile on my face to hear a voice I've missed so often when travelling. I started reading a horror book which I later accidentally left on a bus (now I wish I knew how the book finished) and drank a Guinness while Djalma fiddled about on the internet. We left around 8pm for our hotel where the night bus was picking us and several other up from.
This time we had seats near the front, not nearly as big or as comfortable as the first night bus but at least the smell of urine wasn't wafting about. The air-conditioning was actually Arctic and I had to snooze with my head wrapped in my sarong so my nostrils didn't dry out and make breathing painful. Neither of us slept that well, or at all really, we were dropped off back at Makassar airport at 5am precisely and killed seven hours till our flight left. We had rice for breakfast, something I actually don't mind (I can't wait for the rice and beans in Brazil) and settled down to wait for our flight in the waiting lounge. Djalma fell asleep while I sat next to a water cooler (and electricity supply) on the floor and updated my diary while listening to Beyonce. We almost missed the call but not quite – I don't think I could handle missing another flight so close to the actual plane. We weren't sat next to any bio hazard armpit owners this flight and we tried to catch a few more z's before our short flight landed again. We weren't entirely successful and we touched down in Manado airport feeling a mite haggard and hungry.
Djalma had called ahead to book a room on Bunaken Island in Scubana, the owners wife met us, arranged a taxi and we met a boat returning from a diving trip going back to the island. Strong currents, getting caught up and breaking part of another boat while getting provisions from Bunaken Village and some heavy rain slowed us down and tested my nerve, I was ready to cry. We finally pulled up at the little beach and Scubana to stand around and wait for our dark damp room to be readied, thus far I was not altogether impressed with the general running of things, perhaps with a couple of hours sleep and some lunch in my tummy I might have found it funny, I didn't have that sleep or that food and I was highly unimpressed. Lunch was cold rice and old fish, this day was not getting better very quickly. Djalma let me rip and I had a good moan which surprisingly didn't make things any better, usually when I get things off my chest I feel hugely better and can move on and enjoy things. Despite a good dinner and a good breakfast the next morning we decided to look around for somewhere else to stay.
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