Sulawesi: "Hey Mister, They're All Gonna Laugh at You"

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*Note* After a severe and prolonged case of writers block, I have decided that it will do no good to try and force myself to write a new entry. What follows is a collection of postcards that I wrote to an imaginary friend of mine, while traveling through Sulawesi. I hope that you can follow along and make sense of the babble. Ill get my act together one of these days.

Hey Suess, long time no communicado, huh? Yea, thought that Id write you a little card to update you on ‘ol Beergut and my erratic wanderings. It’s the beginning of August, about the time that we should be preparing for our wanderings along the Great Wall, but as you know, those plans fell through long ago. So as usual, we decided to book a flight into an utterly foreign city (that we know almost nothing about), and arrive in the blackness of night. Lemme tell you, its always fun to try and find gastro-fuel in a darkened city, packed shoulder to shoulder with screaming locals who are on average, the size of an American 6th grade boy. With “begus” being the solitary word that I know in Indonesian, Im finding it perfectly useless in trying to convince anybody around here to direct us to the closest Dunkin Doughnuts. Somewhere along the trail in S.E. Asia, my attorney has managed to, shall we say, misplace his beergut. We’re hoping that D squared here in Makassar will be a good place to start the search.
Note: Id like to meet the person responsible for teaching all Makassarians English. Ive heard “hello mister!” no less than 1000 times tonight and still haven’t found a friggin doughnut. Hope alls well, say hi to your dad for me. -A-

J, what’s going on buddy? After our last fiasco of flying in to Makassar at night, we turned around and flew to the N. of Sulawesi and landed in Manado…at night. Don’t have much to say about Manado, as its just a quick stopover on the way to better things, but I will say this; somewhere out there, floating around on somebody’s cell phone, there is now a picture of myself shaking the hand of a young man who is curiously disguised as a woman. If that ever got out, it could ruin my future bid for presidency. Anywho, a short boat ride landed us on the Isle of Bunaken. It is here that we have been whiling away the last week, diving some of the best coral walls since the Solomon Islands with our new friend, the German vermin roadie/ dive guide, Sven. I just have to say, this speedo sporting Judas Priest nut is a gol dern human fish finder. Look out Bass Tracker! Ill write more later when I can pry myself out of this hammock. Have fun dude and put in a good word for me with your popps. Mahalo -A-

Hey bud, Im finding out first hand that safe, comfortable, quick travel on this island just does not exist. If you want that, I suggest you look elsewhere. Like the United States Postal Service. Those little circus trucks the mailpeople (very p.c) drive around, you know, with the steering wheel on the wrong side, seem like first class on a Thai bus compared to a 7 passenger Toyota Kijang with ten or more people in it. Ten hours of bombing around blind corners horn a-blaring, in the midget (sorry, small person) sized back seat, got us to the staging point for what would be a 15hr wooden boat outing, to the Togian Islands. I’ve since found out that that a 15 hr boat journey in Indonesia is like warp speed, but when your sandwiched up against the engine exhaust and several hundred other humans, all smoking kretek (clove) cigarettes, saying that it was a long night may be an understatement. A swaying, smokey, sweatbox may be a bit more descriptive. On the upside, I had my seasickness and the local kid who was constantly trying to poach our hard earned mats, to focus on. After almost 24 hrs with little food and even less water (super planning, huh?) we arrived in an island group that seemed to be nothing short of perfection. Gotta go munch now, Ill get at ya later. -A-

August 17. People in the know, know that this is one of the holiest of holy holidays, but in Indonesia, it’s also Independence Day. For this special day, we decided to take our lives into our own hands by trying out an open ocean crossing in what amounted to nothing more than a little yellow dingy. Submarines were all occupied. With no sat. nav., no radio, no life jackets, and just enough fuel to get us across in good weather, I absentmindedly started constructing my own obituary in my head. Making it across the other side to Ampana, it was time for another sweet Kijang ride through the center of Sulawesi. Not really known for its stunning scenery, the area is better known for the Muslim/Christian bloodshed (bombings and beheadings) that happen periodically. The highlight of our day occurred at a traffic jam, of all places. Apparently, for children between the ages of 6 and 106, militaristic marching in formation, is more popular than both soccer and laughing at whities. On a similar note, Im sure that I’ve never been laughed at so many times in my life…ever…in the history of ever. Time for Tha Gut and I to spend some time crawling around in the bottom of a few green bottles of Bintang. Sampi Jumpa, -A-

As I reach for the circle off in the distance, I find it slightly difficult to pull myself up and emerge from the bottle I spent the previous hours exploring. Now that I’m out, I see dead people. Far more than I ever wanted to see.
After chewing back the urge to expel my meals of Nasi Goreng and Gado Gado during two days of deep vein thrombosis inducing Kijang rides, we have landed in Rantepao. Its funny how quickly The Benn and I have become, sort of desensitized to the “quirks” (maybe that’s not the right word, but you can be sure that it IS a word) of Torajan society. Far from being the first to find this unique culture residing in the valleys of Tana Toraja, one feels like they are making important discoveries around every corner. It’s the only place that I’ve ever been to who’s major tourist attraction is death and the celebration of life lived. Imagine this if you will: Gramps, after reaching the ripe ‘ol age of 90 surprisingly kicks the bucket while carrying a 100lb. bag of rice up a hill. Instead of having a service and laying him to rest, he is “preserved” by traditional methods, dressed up and given the best room in the house. For the next three years, he is treated like the rest of the family. Included in conversations and is even offered the occasional Kretek.
During this time the family is raising money in order to purchase sacrificial buffalo and provisioning to throw the biggest party ever. Its only after this celebration that gramps is considered gone and will finally be buried in a tomb hewn from solid stone. Sorry, Im running out of room. Continue on the next card…

Sorry, I got carried away, but you can see where its going. There is obviously a lot that I’m leaving out, but hey, Im not writing a book report. If you want to know more…look it up in a book. My attorney and I have just spent 10 days exploring the relatively high altitude mountains surrounding Toraja. In these 10 days we’ve seen more burial sites, jaw dropping scenery, tau-tau, and blood than I have easily ever seen before. It sounds a bit gruesome, but if you look at it in an anthropological way, its fascinating stuff. It definitely made me glad that Im a vegetarian. Once again, hope all is well and Ill write again when I get a chance. -A-

This. This my friend, is the last postcard that you shall receive from me concerning the island of Sulawesi. I’ve found it. But, what “it” is, I still don’t know. I do know however, that what “it” is, will be worth returning to. If not just in my memory. Don’t tell anybody. Bira is a place where goats are free to rummage through whatever they wish. And who are allowed to form goat street gangs that fight to run the sleepy little town. Goat cheese is suspiciously unavailable. This is a place with water so blue, that it makes John Lee Hooker seem like a songwriter for childrens’ programming so sweet, it causes cavities. It is also a place who’s coastline has convinced me to search for that secluded cave and settle down to sell my sculpture made from washed up sea treasure. Of course this was all before the Kijang, packed to the gills with ladies and their clients, discarded back in Makassar. The beginning. -A-

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Photos

Bunaken
A view from our room overlooking some of the best diving we have seen since the Solomon Islands.

Togian Girl
One of our many neighbors on the 15 hr ship journey to the Togian Islands. Accomodation to the left.

A Boy And His...Buffalo?
A boy cleaning his prized buffalo in a rice paddy. Tana Toraja

Rice Dream
Harvest season in Tana Toraja

Tau-Tau
Carvings of the deceased meant to look after the dead.

Dancing for the Dead
The dancers are singing the story of "The Dead Person". This kind of dance is reserved for only the most important members of Torajan society. Descendents of the King.

The Tuac Made Me Do It
A man takes a break to drink Tuac (strong palm wine) out of a bamboo cup, while hacking up an earlier sacrifice. The pork will be cut up into small pieces, mixed with Jack Fruit, spices, and chillies. It will then be packed into 3ft. bamboo tubes and cooked over a fire for 1-2 hours. They call it Pa'piong. Glad Im a veg!

Traditional Houses and Church
Most Torajans have chosen to accept Christianity although it is mixed with their traditional Animist beliefs.

Relaxation
No, that is not a pool.

Bira Boat Builder
A few of the Ships that we ran into on the eastern side of Bira. Built all by hand...pretty impressive.

Comments

[Amy]

Krafty- I must tell you, your blogs are such enlightening reads and the pictures so diverse and beautiful. Where the hell is Bira? Looks stunning. Keep us updated as we await for winter here on the other side of the world. You are quite inspiring to me to say the least. Thank you.

[OrgJB]

You guys really have the guts to explore island like Sulawesi. There probably cannibal out threre...:)