Sulawesi - Torajan Adventure Part I

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Sulawesi is one of the main inslands in Indonesia. It has a peculiar, spider-like shape and stretches across the equator; therefore having a hot, wet climate. We had been warned by various sources about ongoing tensions in central Sulawesi between Christians and Muslims. This trouble reached a climax in 2005, when three christian schoolgirls were tragically beheaded. Fortunately, we had no intentions of touring in this part of the island, and the rest of Sulawesi promised to be a warm and welcoming destination for adventurous travellers.

Heading for the interesting village culture of Tana Toraja, we flew from Bali to Makassar, where we could then make our way to Rantepao. Makassar is a fairly typical Indonesian city, most noted for its seafood. Historically, this city was an key port for Chinese and Indian traders, but it was ruthlessly sabotaged by the Dutch colonialists when it was seen as a threat to their own trading ports in neighbouring Maluku.

Taking the long journey from the airport to the city presented us with a forboding landscape of desolate wasteland, shacks and potholes, peppered with imposing silver-domed mosques, demonstrating our step into Islamic nationhood.

Our first choice of hotel, frankly, stank, and was clearly dirty, so we checked into the second; more money, less smelly, but not exactly fragrant either. We hopped into a Becak (seat at the front- pushbike with driver at the back) and made a beeline for KFC. Along the way, men called from lazy street gatherings 'Hello Mister', 'Where you going?'. We struggled through the goggling, giggling locals into KFC for a dose of communication meltdown. David spent about ten minutes trying to ask three members of staff which of the two burgers on offer was bigger. He ended up with a child-sized burger all the same, and wasn't cheered up until visiting the toilet, where he managed to photogragh an amusing sign.

We felt like it was about time to see another sight, and so we leapt into a becak towards Fort Rotterdam. Another remnant of the colonial era, the fort housed two fairly uninspiring museums of dusty artefacts and shipping memorabilia. The visit was made more worthwhile when we happened upon a group of young students learning French in the courtyard. Here, we got our first taste of the Sulawesi charm, with the lesson suspended for the sake of English conversational practice, which included the topics of football, travel and language.

We later enjoyed fresh fish with Sulawesi style trimmings (delicious) and a scary film at the local cinema (The Grudge II).

We arose early for the journey to Rantepao. With the promise of logistical benefits and 'dramatic mountain scenery', we opted to go by air. 'Little' did we know that we would be travelling in a flying minibus. Twenty-two seats and five passengers constituted this terrifying journey. We watched the pilot from a few feet away operate the collection of buttons and switches and send the plane rattling along the runway with a thunderous racket. The engines continued to roar as we gained speed, and we looked at each other, holding our seats for dear life as it took off. Up in the air, we gulped and clung on as the plane lurched, battling against wind and rain. We were desperate for this journey to end, and soon, it did. Let's just say that it was sufficient to see the 'dramatic mountain scenery' just the once, and we would be returning by bus!

Fittingly, the airport was the tiniest we had ever seen. Baggage claim was little more than a sideboard, and we soon found out that there were neither taxis, nor a telephone! We stood, taking in the silent atmosphere, and near complete lack of activity, and wondered how the hell we would reach the town with our heavy packs upon our backs. Eventually, and reluctantly, we paid for three motorbike taxis (one for the bags), and gingerly got on ouir way, completing a very nervy day of travel. The scenery as we rolled along was easy on th eye: winding country roads with unusual-shaped houses rising up from the green-valley landscape.

After some time, we reached the little town of Rantepao. The first hotel we checked out told us that we were the first western tourists to appear in five years! Shedding our bags, we went off to check out this tourist 'ghost-town'. Wasting no time, we soon secured a guide to accompany us on a trek to the local mountain villages, to take in the traditional Torajan culture. Taba was an unpretentious and competent man with a fine grasp of English and a government license. We quickly warmed to the long-haired, grinsome Torajan and carefully planned for our two-day trip which would begin the following morning.

We began our trek late, due to bad rain. However, by the time we had arrived at the start of our course, the sun was shining and the air was clear. Traditional Torajan houses set among bamboo forests and wild flowers provided interest, and we wound our way along the path towards Taba's sister-in-law's house, where we ate our Indonesian packed lunch (rice and egg). We also got the chance to try a drop of the highly-rated Torajan coffee. Enak! (tasty).

Our bellies full, we got back to our feet and pushed ourselves up a steep and challenging route. Atop the craggy hill, another village appeared, and we stopped for a break. The pace of life here was slow, and in the mid-afternoon sun the local women made grass mats and chatted in the shade, to while away the time. We ended up having a short nap.

The final leg of the journey took us past rice fields, armies of over-excited village children who followed us for miles, and some of the famous cave-graves used by the local people to incarcerate their dead. We would later find out more about the fascinating funeral rituals that make this part of the country so alluring for travellers. At this point, the rain began to bucket down, and we cut the trek short, taking refuge in the home of a local village priest. We dried off, refreshing ourselves on the balcony, with more coffee and steamed tapioca, later practising our Indonesian with the captivated village children.

The village in which we were to sleep consisted of two dozen or so houses with rice stores and animals. The houses were designed so that animals could live underneath, and we had pigs under our house, while next door a buffalo roamed about. Chickens, dogs and cats wandered freely about the village.

The evening was spent in the simple, wooden living space of our Torajan house, with the male 18-30s of the village. Taba helped us to find out about each other's culture, and they laughed at the idea of passers-by not stopping to say hello, and needing to make plans in order to visit relatives. We told them about the sort of food we eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and they found the idea of a sandwich quite interesting compared to their staple rice diet. They 'entertained' us with downloaded tunes by Green Day, Queen and Busted, played through one guy's mobile phone. Taba tried his best to translate everything we said, but for the majority of the time, we merely grinned at each other across the room. We gave them sweets and cigarettes - which they relished - and we ate our dinner of boiled chicken and rice that Taba had cooked. Ten-thirty came, and it was way past their usual bedtime. We were pleased to retire to the bedroom, leaving Taba and the others sleeping, in the usual manner, on the hard floor. The rain continued throughout the night, and, along with the noises made by the pigs and other animals, we had a broken sleep.

The next day, we left the village, and continued to trek towards some beautiful panoramic views over the rice terraces. We learned how the Torajan people make a circular pool in the centre of their rice-crop in which a carp is kept. When harvest time comes and the rice is collected, the family celebrate with a fish supper!

By lunchtime, we had reached the market, which signalled the end of our trail. After a bowl of noodle soup, we crammed ourselves into a packed minibus, which proceeded to lumber over pot-holed roads back to the town.

Stepping out that evening to sample a local restaurant, we had a memorable experience, for all the wrong reasons. David's cheeseburger was a piece of meat and a kraft slice trapped between two slices of white bread, and we don't even want to mention Louise's chicken stuffed with cashew nuts! Meanwhile, a local man with a guitar sat on the next table, and tortured us with his dreadful renditions of John Denver songs, among other classics. We booked our bus tickets for the return trip to Makassar the following evening, and called it a night.

To be continued...

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Photos

The village children waiting for Sunday school
This part of Sulawesi is predominantly Christian.

Funny sign
This particular sign was not relevant to David, who was fully accustomed to western toilets, and harboured no urge to stand on the plastic seat to do his business.

The house where we slept
Some people say that the house is meant to represent the shape of a boat due to the maritime history of the Torajan people. Others think that the curved roof shows a journey from the heavens to the earth and back again. A third theory says that the shape represents the horns of a buffalo.

A buffalo
The buffalo is an important symbol of wealth and status in Torajan culture.

David's cheese burger
Mmm...enak!

Comments

[Jimmy]

From missionaries to holiday reps
The village children waiting for Sunday school really caught my eye. The kids look fantastic. Don't you just want to take them home with you. Louise, you must have reflected on your own kids back at your school. In contrast the mad Brits getting drunk in Pha-ngan was a hoot. great to see you all having the time of you lives. David, you look like on of the extras in 'Sean of the dead' as in Going(photo 10) Then in photo15 you were going goig gone. Apart from that you are both becoming expert at photography. Some of the photos are simply breathtaking. My favourite is'the beach of Phi Phi Lei' but that said they are all fantastic, you should both be proud of yourselves. love you both xxx