Hell Rising

"Then said the king to the servants, Bind him hand and foot, and take him away, and cast him into outer darkness; there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth" (Matthew 22:13).

That's right, we've fallen from the grace of largely Islamic Indonesia and furiously plummeted to the dark depths of a Christian hell. "New torments and new tormented souls I see around me wherever I move, and howsoever I turn, and wherever I gaze" (Dante's Inferno, Canto VI: Third Circle). Searing heat radiates from above and a furious cacophony engulfs your being in the confused and terrified heat. Shrieks and squeals echo off the nefarious swirling red huts and men with enormous pointed horns dance in frenzied cyclones of unknown ritual. The stench here is overpowering. It is the burning flesh smell of bacon.

Last I checked before we fell through the map into the flaming core of damnation, we arrived in Tanah Toraja, South-Central Sulawesi (the crazy big "K" shaped Indonesian island between Borneo and Papua). Tanah Toraja is a mountainous area where the houses have bowed roofs like a ship (or the horns of a buffalo) and life revolves around death. In the former half of the 20th century the Dutch missionaries introduced Christianity to the local people, who incorporated it into their extant complex animist beliefs and ceremonies. Nowadays much of their old religion is dead and gone but some ceremonies live on, particularly their enormous funeral celebrations, where it seems we fell into that abominable hell realm. 

People will save up their whole lives preparing to die and when they do, their families have a small funeral immediately but then embalm the deceased and plan a massive ceremony, in which they invite friends and family who may have dispersed the world over and they construct a veritable village of open-walled "temporary" bamboo buildings (nearly as solid as many homes, also with the typical corrugated tin up-curved bowed roof). But until they have the big shebang, they don't bury the dead. So families might have their dead grandfather in their living room for as many as 10 years before they get around to burying him. And until he's buried he's not quite considered dead. If you go visit them, you must request permission from the deceased, as your host, to depart.

They believe the dead can take their possessions with them into the afterlife so they spare no expense. Hundreds of people are in attendance, each bringing gifts for the celebration that range from a carton of cigarettes to a whole stable of buffalo. Some have these highly sought-after albino buffalo here that can cost over $8000 each. Then they kill them. Pigs, too; lots. At really rich people's funerals they might sacrifice two dozen buffalo (or more). You can see the remains in vast rows of mounted horns on the front of their traditional houses, painted in swirling tribal designs of red, black and yellow. I can't imagine how they could eat the ridiculous numbers of buffaloes and pigs they ritually slaughter but I hear they put in a mighty effort at the celebratory/memorial feast that can last for days. 

We found the pigs writhing in the baking sun to be horrifying. One pig was so desperate for water that, despite its legs being bound together, it thrashed and flailed over to the decapitated buffalo head and lapped up the bloody mud. Truly horrifying. Though I suppose it's no worse than what goes on in any slaughterhouse in America. Plus, as we discovered trekking around the countryside, the animals here live happy lives in the great outdoors, romping in mudholes in the bucolic rice terraces and generally living the way animals are supposed to, which is far more than can be said for the Nazi-concentration-camp-esque factory farms we Americans (indirectly) use tax-dollars to support (through corn/soy subsidies, although ruminants shouldn't be eating these things in the first place).

The Torajan funeral ceremony is pretty much the most important remaining ceremony in their culture. There used to be far more rituals and practices that have faded into the darkness of Christianity. Until this generation, the Torajan people would cut holes in massive trees to bury their unfortunate dead babies, that their souls may unite with nature and reach for the sky. The people aren't calloused to the suffering they're inflicting through sacrifice either (unlike us typical Westerners), as they gave a lengthy eulogy for the animals to be sacrificed, eliciting tears all around. Sarah didn't was struck with manifest horror at the abominable suffering that pervaded the event, which led to her spontaneous decision to run away crying all the way to our hotel. The Lonely Planet Guidebook (aka "The Bible") aptly says, "It's like walking into a National Geographic Special." They then bury the deceased in special cave-graves, dug out in the rock of cliffsides, with tau-tau (wooden effigy statues) standing guard. Death is very much alive in daily life here as these graves are ubiquitous in this region. 

After all that highly culturally enriching violence we went on an overnight trek (with no guide but on usually clearly discernible village roads) to see some more rural living and generally soak in the beautiful mountainous landscape. Bahasa Indonesia's word for "countryside" may be a bit less romantic "daerah luar kota" (lit.: region outside city) but I fail to see how they couldn't be more inspired by the incredible tableau of mountainside rice terraces dotted with happy buffaloes, white egrits sitting on their backs. 

We got lost briefly whilst braving a vague forest path where we saw the BIGGEST butterfly ever! I kid you not, it was bigger than my two hands put together, thumbs meeting, in the shape of a giant butterfly. We also saw some spiders that fantasy movies would omit due to total unbelievability. One had crazy horns on its back (like everything else Torajan: the buffalo, dancing men, and traditional houses), another was white with black polka-dots on a strangely disc-shaped body with radial spikes, and another was a fearsome symmetrical yellow pattern that screamed VENOMOUS!

That night we stayed with a wonderful Torajan family in their traditional house, under their massive bowed roof, red swirls covering the fascinating building on all sides. We stayed up talking to the 8 adults and some 10 kids that live there and had a wonderful time playing with the animal toys we brought for them. Well they may have a different way of celebrating death, but one thing can certainly be said for the Torajan people: they are beautiful and hospitable.