November 13, 2010
I arrived in Sulawesi (east of Kalimantan) four nights ago and I have very mixed feelings about the place. Lucky for you my day is ending better than it started. :) As you know my arrival started off on a bad foot when after asking for a map at the information booth I was escorted to a travel agent. He then tried to sell me a package to Tana Toraja (where I am now) for a ridiculous amount. When I said the prices seemed high he got mad and started cursing about my Lonely Planet book being *!#*^! and he was nasty with me. I met an older French gentleman at my hotel here and he paid for the package. I don’t know if he booked with the same man, but it was the same scam (didn’t mean to rhymn!). He was irate that he paid twice as much and to salt the wounds even more his guide switched people on him and the motor bike also broke down. He missed the high caste funeral yesterday because of his guide and the bike. He was making the tour company pay for his five nights at the hotel to make the feel more reasonable.
Along this vein, I spoke with a couple this morning who has traveled India and SE Asia for a year and they said Indonesia has more scammers than they’ve encountered elsewhere. I felt the scammers for transport in Bali, but mostly I’ve just felt it here. They’ve been pick pocketed elsewhere, but didn’t come across so many scams.
I had a pleasant evening in Makassar, the main city that I had flown into. I climbed onto another bus the next morning that was supposed to be 8-9 hours, but turned out to be 10 ½ hours. I’m learning never to believe the estimates as much as I hope they are true. This bus “had AC,” but it just spat out luke cold (is that a phrase?) air and I think open windows would have been better. To make matters worse I sat across the aisle from an old school European who didn’t believe in deodorant. I jinxed myself because I walked by him before we boarded the bus and hoped I wouldn’t sit near him. And what do you know! I attribute my headache throughout the ride to his hygiene choice. The plus side was this bus did have a pop up ottoman so I was able to avoid the cankles I got on the earlier bus ride. For better and for worse I sat just behind and to the left of the driver. This helped me keep from getting carsick with his driving, but it also gave me prime seating for all the close calls we had.
There was no nice highway like from the airport. He drove fast when he could and then would brake hard. The speedometer didn’t work so I can’t say how fast. Then he plodded along the gravel and pot holes. He also made sure he passed everyone no matter how tight the squeeze was. And to let everyone know where he was and to make them get out of the way he honked. Now this is common practice here, especially when passing, but he seemed to have a particular obsession with honking. Every few seconds the horn would go and I think it was louder inside the bus than outside. Once again my prime seat gave me an intimate experience. I thought I was rather prepared for the trip with my sarong (i.e. blanket), socks, food, journal, water, and book, but apparently I needed my earplugs. I noticed at times that local passengers were nervous (though not as frequently as me) and some pedestrians on the road literally made a dash to get out of his way. Chickens and dogs also had to scurry because he definitely wasn’t slowing down for them. Survival of the fittest seems to kick in early here in terms of watching the road. There are a couple of chickens I’m not sure made it. Little kids here are much more aware than at home – at least the ones who make it. Grabbing the arm seat as we took fast curves in the mountains became my standard position. On one of these turns, the daypack of the old school European came crashing down on my head. I think the sign on the bus should read “Hati Hati” – Bahasa Indonesian for “Danger – Be Careful!”
I’m taking another bus ride tomorrow so I’ll put to use my lessons learned - pack my eye mask and my ear plugs so that I am blissfully ignorant of how close the calls are. I might need nose plugs too because despite the non-smoking rule the driver lit up the last hour of the way.
On these buses you can ask the driver to drop you anywhere along his route. This added probably an hour to the trip, but I thought at least I’d get to take advantage. So I told my driver the hotel in Rantepao (in the Tana Toraja region) and he understood. Later the old school European and his friend told him there hotel and I think the driver assumed we were together since we’d been talking. So he zipped by my stop and dropped me at their place. He didn’t seem to apologetic or concerned and a man with a motor bike offered to take me for 5,000 rp ($0.60). I refused to pay when the driver had messed up. I considered looking at this hotel, but it was on the noisy main street and I hated to cancel my reservation. The man said the driver had paid the fee (yeah right) and he took me for free. I’m sure his motive was to get my business as a guide the next day, which he got. I didn’t have time to waste finding a guide the next morning because another funeral was waiting. This guy, John, said he is an official guide (unlikely), but I had good feeling and we negotiated a price I was comfortable with (mind you this was much less than the airport maniac quoted me).
After a long two days of traveling I was looking forward to my shower. Low and behold my bathroom had no sink or shower. The lack of sink wasn’t a surprise, but to only have a facet coming out of the wall at hip height was a disappointment. As I was about to “do as the Romans do” and have a bucket bath, I realized there was no towel, soap or toilet paper. I hobbled down the stairs (my knee is acting up on the stairs again) and asked for and thankfully received them. Another hotel made me go out and buy my own tp and some don’t provide soap. So I finally got my cold bath. The cold was less bearable now that I’m in the mountains and the evenings are cooler.
I considered switching hotels the next morning because I really wanted a shower (and they had told me they had one – lost in translation). I worked out moving to another room though that had a shower AND hot water. I thought I was in heaven, but I should have remembered that in the budget hotels you gain one thing and lose another (even if you pay a bit more). I rejoiced under the warm water – for about 3 minutes. Apparently, I need to speed shower. I do have a sink, but it drains onto the floor. There’s a floor drain, but I preferred to put the large bucket under there. Then I use the water to flush the toilet. Most toilets here don’t flush the western way, but have water thrown into the bowl to wash it through. Sometimes that results in lots of water on the toilet seat. Although many places have a squat toilet rather than a western style one. The bucket flush is the same though. Again, tp is usually AWOL so I always carry a stash. Back to my new hotel bathroom – so I’m having my shower and turn to see one of the policemen staying at the hotel leering at me through the high window. I yelled at him and he scurried off of whatever he was standing on. I was furious and upset (still am). I’m not sure which “polisi” it was, but I saw the hat. I told the hotel owners and asked them to cover both my high windows with cloth. I also made use of my ducktape by taping down the drapes. There was a gap at the edges that could be peered into. I haven’t heard a single good thing about the polisi and now my experience leaves me with nothing good to say. The owner had told the police boss at the hotel so I had hoped that at least he would apologize for his man’s behavior, but that was apparently asking too much. So you hope that having police stay at your hotel makes you safer…
The polisi are here in large numbers to keep the peace after elections 3 days ago. A tourist couple said they asked their guide if he voted and he said no. He said they are rigged and votes are bought. He also said you can be killed by the candidate you didn’t vote for. I hope that’s an exaggeration, but I have no idea. This all sounds very Tammany Hall to me. I have less and less faith in Obama’s claim that Indonesia is a model democracy for developing nations. I think “his peeps” need to do a little recon – go undercover as tourists or expats.
Yesterday was packed with sightseeing. John took me to see cave burials and a funeral. The main tourist attraction in Tana Toraja is the burial traditions. We saw graves, some recent, in the cliff face overlooking rice fields. People are buried inside and a “door” covers the carved out space. Two funerals often occur for the deceased. The first happens immediately after death and the second is a four-day one that is held after enough cash has been raised. After the four day ceremony has occurred, meaning sacrifices have been made, a statue of the deceased is carved and usually placed at the cave, but visible. Some high caste families have the statues in the home. Between the two funerals the body is kept in the best room of the house and the family and guests are obliged to sit, chat and have coffee with them. The rice fields here were being harvested so I got to see that for the first time.
Lonely Planet described the funeral rites as “brutal and captivating.” I can attest to the brutal character, but captivating no. On my first day in Sulawesi I saw my first water buffalo, on my second day I saw my first slaughter of a buffalo. From what I saw the formal funeral is a massive slaughter. We parked a distance from the funeral so we didn’t get blocked in and as we walked we saw several pigs tied to bamboo poles being carried to the house. They couldn’t move and were laid on their side when they got to the house. Some squealed and others seemed to accept the situation or had given up. Again, I tried to give them comfort through telepathy.
The ceremony takes place at the family’s home and there are open-air buildings arranged and subdivided for different groups. As we entered this area I saw hundreds of people, pigs tied to bamboo and a slaughtered water buffalo. The children (and maybe grandchildren) of the deceased family were dressed in special attire. The girls had their hair pulled up and sprayed with probably a bottle each of hairspray. Flowers also decorated the quaff. They wore beaded overlays to their clothes, which were orange, red, black and white. They lined a walkway leading into the sitting area for the most revered guests. There were a few processions in and out of this area.
A man with a microphone welcomed people, but I never saw any religious leader. Apparently one would perform some rituals after we left. Four water buffalo were in the large central grass area and they tied the largest one to a stake in the middle. He had been a fighting buffalo (it seems cockfighting isn’t the only sport Indonesians like) so was especially large and strong. Actually, another tourist said that at the funeral he attended they had the buffalos fight before slaughter and the crowds really got into it. Back to my funeral, before I realized it his throat had been slit and blood was coming out of his throat like a high speed projectile. The skin below the cut hung down and created a large gape. He reared and made terrible cries. At one point while on the ground, he kicked a large amount of his own blood several feet making some of the guests squeal. I’m not sure if any got the blood on them. His eyes became wide-eyed in disbelief and panic. It seemed to take forever for him to die as he fell down and got back up. It took about four minutes. The butcher had to cut him a couple of more times. John, my guide, wanted me to watch the other sacrifices, but I couldn’t bear it.
I had forced myself to witness one because of their tradition, but there was no need to watch more. For the Indonesians there was no horror in the act. It is such a common experience for them. But I have never seen an animal slaughtered. John didn’t want me to be upset because he didn’t want their tradition to be insulted or disrespected. I held my tongue so the thoughts whirling in my head didn’t come out. I know it’s the tradition, but it bothered me that for all the talk I heard about the sacrifice it was largely about the sacrifice the family was making. The buffalos cost several thousand dollars and are provided by the family and in-laws. Pigs are less expensive, but both are seen as necessary to sacrifice. They lead the soul of the deceased to heaven. No religious ritual or thanks was given to the animal for his/her sacrifice. The sacrifice was not made by a religious leader, but by hired butchers (apparently it’s a competitive business). I also would have like the sacrifice to have been done in a way that the animal died faster. Most of you reading this probably eat meat and because of this trip I have started to again after 15 years, so animals die for us as well. But the way in which they die and the way in which we think of their death is important.
As they began to tie up the second buffalo, next to the recently killed one, I walked away. I walked a back way with no path and came to a slippery patch (you know what’s coming). I could hear the pigs squealing as one must have just been slaughtered. To add to my horror, I glanced up and saw the second buffalo fighting his death and with that lost my focus and slipped. I think I gave the guests a funny story for them to tell about the funeral. John came and joined me and we washed my backside as best we could and I cleaned off my camera. By the time I looked up again all four buffalo were dead. The last three died faster thankfully.
We passed a room where the deceased was laid out for viewing. We didn’t go in, but I saw crosses over his coffin. Yes, this family is Christian. I was witnessing a very clear example of cultural diffusion. The pre-Christian funeral traditions have remained strong and modified to fit their Christian beliefs. The majority of this area is Christian as a result of Dutch missionaries sent in, I believe, the 1930s.
We joined the women in the large makeshift kitchen. Huge pots were over open fires, just as all the food was being cooked over open fires. The pigs were actually, after death, placed directly on the fire and continually turned over. They came out all blackened and then were butchered, mixed with vegetables and spices before being cooked in bamboo poles over the fire. The women were friendly and liked the novelty of me being there. Not too many other tourists were at this funeral. The women were giggling and saying something to John. It turns out they wanted to touch my nose, especially those pregnant or newly mothers. They believe that by touching my nose their baby will have my nose and white skin. I keep hearing and seeing how much lighter skin is prized. In the store I see skin whitening lotions and treatments. I think the preference for lighter skin predates significant contact with the west, but I’m sure subsequent history reinforced it. It’s upsetting to keep hearing this theme. Only one woman got up the nerve to touch my nose, but rather than touch she stole just like when we play with kids. After tea and cookies we walked up the hill to where the pigs were being carved and cooked. I actually tried two pieces, but couldn’t stomach anymore. Actually, my stomach got sharp pains that were likely all mentally induced.
We left and visited some other less gruesome sights. I saw traditional homes that have roofs in the shape of a ship. The home has a wooden buffalo head put above the door if a funeral has been held for the owner (the original owner in the family). There are also horns from the buffalos sacrificed at all the family’s funerals. One house was about 60 years old and had four long strings of horns. Rich, high-ranking families might sacrifice as many as 24 buffalo, but commoners usually sacrifice only one. There are four castes here and they do still play a role: noble, administrative (as best I could understand), commoner, and slave.
I also saw a tree that is used to bury babies that were six months old or younger. If they haven’t gotten their teeth yet they are considered pure and can be buried in this rubber tree that has white sap that gives them life. There were little patches over the openings and after 5-7 years the bark grows back and the “door” falls off. All that is left are the holes from the stakes. It’s believed that when the bark heals the baby has gone to heaven. It was sad to see this tree and know that there were many more like it.
The rains came down hard and John didn’t have a poncho so we ducked into a warung (open air “diner”) for at least an hour. Unfortunately, this meant that two sites were closed. Fate seemed to want to right this for today I walked to Londa and had some good luck. I was frustrated after unsuccessful attempts at booking a flight back to Singapore (it has never worked online when I’ve tried to book with an Indonesian airline), much walking to and fro to arrange my bus for tomorrow and then many unsuccessful attempts to get a bemo to Londa. A couple of bemo drivers stopped, but then either worked going my way or refused to talk me. Most just drove right by AND waved! So I walked about 7 km to Londa (the exercise was good for me). As I got near the Londa cave John drove by with another tourist. He waited for me at the entrance and had me join them. I think he felt badly about yesterday. This cave is also used for graves like the cliffs I had seen with John. It was fun just to go spelunking and we went through some tight areas. I hadn’t dressed for crawling or spelunking so I was in a skirt and flip-flops. This time I didn’t fall! But I did hit my head – oops. I still have mud on my knees from crawling. We heard bats and saw stalactites/mites (?) as well as coffins. Offerings are still made to the dead so we saw things like clothes and toys. Many of the bones are visible. At one point while I was walking in a narrow passage and I turned my head and my lamp lit up a skull. Afterwards, John helped me get a ride back to Rantepao because it would get dark soon.
I have a three day trip to get to the Togean Islands and I hope it’s worth it. Tomorrow is a long bus ride, but the next day is supposedly only a 5 hour bus trip. Then I have to overnight while waiting for the morning ferry. Then it will be 2 days to get to Manado’s airport.
I haven’t found the people as friendly here, which is shame because the landscape is beautiful. A few people have been especially nice and helpful.
One more note about Rantepao – they have a lot of beauty salons. Too bad I don’t need a haircut yet.
I can’t upload pictures so again you’ll have to be patient.
Sorry for the mammoth blog – think I can make it into the Guinness Book of World Records!!!
