Hello Mister

Upon returning to Makassar from tribal adventures in Tana Toraja, I checked into the dodgiest hotel ever (probably a bit of an over statement but this place wasn't very nice at all). It was however, very late and I asked the driver to take me to the cheapest hotel suggested by the Lonely Planet. The next morning, I left the no name hotel to find a travel agent that would book me the fastest ship outta there and into Flores. The earliest Pelni ship south would leave in four days and after checking multiple agents, because you never know whose telling the truth in Indonesia, I paid the price. Unable to bear another night sleeping with the roaches, I went looking for another cheap but bearable hotel in which to spend the subsequent three nights. Once in Chinatown, I wandered into hotels checking the rooms and asking for prices and although it was the middle of the day, the hotels were poorly lit. In one such cave like place, I even remarked about the oddity that the rooms rates were by the hour. Upon exiting such establishment, I was dumbfounded to see that one of the "rooms" wasn't a room at all but more like a living room with red lights for entertaining guess. Concerned mainly with finding a cheap decent place to spend the night, I naively ignored the lack of integrity of the hotels I had just visited. After settling into The New Legend Guest House, I was reminded by a newly made Spanish friend of the rampant prostitution that is synonymous with many parts of Asia. As I passed "Karaoke" bars called Sexy Lady and the like, I could not help but feel wounded by one of the many ways in which women are exploited and oppressed. But from prostitution I walked into poverty when Jorge and I discovered hidden ally ways off the main port road. There we were greeted by the surprised but amused round faces of many women and children jubilantly screaming "Hello Mister." Although living in tin shacks, these people were extremely friendly and welcoming and despite living in poverty and neglect, they wanted nothing from us and were content with our just being there. It was in the home of one such caring soul that I found myself but a few days later.
As I walked the streets of Makassar I was stopped on the street by a petite Indonesian woman who wanted to introduce herself while her husband and child waited on their motor bike a few feet away. She wanted to share her culture, her home and family with me so she invited me to dine with her parents. After meeting an interminable number of cousins, brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews (for Indonesian families are very big), I was offered a lot more delicious food than I could stomach. After pictures with the family I was taken to a park where Dolphin and her hippie friends hangout making music, art and small talk. In this park, a bohemian rastaman lives in a tree house and many others play the drums, guitars, paint murals, take photographs. We sang Bob Marley songs, "Besame Mucho," and "Para Bailar La Bamba" (two Indonesian favorites). In Dolphin's humble home we ate runny egg noodle soup and stayed up late talking about life in America and Indo. In the morning, it was hard to say goodbye (literally as Dolphin continued to introduced me to friends) but the call of the sea is strong and I had to sail south.

Sticky Rice

Cost effectiveness has brought me to Makassar, Sulawesi where flights from Kuala Lumpur are cheaper than the nearby capital of Jakarta. After arriving in the new airport, I got my first true lucky break. A private taxi, empty after having dropped off some tourists, was to take me into the interior to Rantepao for only $2 more than the over night bus. This saved me the hassle of getting from the airport to the bus terminal on to a long grueling ride up winding roads and then off to find my hotel. I arrived at Hotel Pison before dawn and after ringing the bell for ten minutes, a sleepy doorman showed me to my room. I was in Rantepao to explore the Tana Toraja region and its people. In the villages of Toraja, death becomes celebration as funerals may take up to a week. The Toraja people believe that if not buried with the proper ado, the spirits of their family members will haunt them and bring bad luck. After someone's death, the body remains in the family house from months to years until enough funds are collected to have elaborate funeral processions, bull fights, and animal sacrifices. Upon arriving at the funerary compound in the village of Talung Lipu, I entered the main gate to see a small muddy courtyard, already soiled with blood, surrounded by small houses, the main gate and the main house at the opposite long ends. I watched a truck bring in an ornate coffin and dozens of men lift it onto bamboo trunks to be pushed up two stories onto a boat shaped vestibule, where it would preside over the rituals. A line of shouting dancers would makes it way around, bringing with them buffaloes, a deer and squealing pigs. The family members, all dressed in black, were to follow and accompanied by the sound of bamboo hitting a wooden boat, they brought offerings to the deceased. While talking to other tourists about the peculiar celebrations, I was caught off guard by the sacrifice of a large buffalo. Too astonish to bring out my camera in time, I saw a youth lead the unsuspecting buffalo to the muddy courtyard and cut its throat with a hooked blade. Blood splashed everywhere and the buffalo jumped wildly a few times before collapsing in defeat, trembling in despair, the life fled from its eyes as it calmly laid to rest. A group then proceeded to skin it in front of the crowd to the incessant screaming of pigs who no doubt would be next. In Torajan culture, Buffaloes, specially albino buffaloes, are believe to be sacred and a symbol of wealth that must accompany the deceased to the afterlife. After the excitement of the sacrifice, things seemed to lagged and so I decided to return to my hotel and rest.
The following day I rented a motor bike in order to explore the sites of interests around the area. After the elaborate ceremonies, the bodies are buried in caves or on the faces of cliffs in places such as Londa, Lemo or Ke'te Kesu; wooden effigies of the dead marking the graves. Babies are buried in trees for life having escaped them too prematurely, they will continue to grow in death with the trees of Kambira. While driving to these sites, I was taken aback by the Torajan country side. Time seemed to stand still as I passed endless steps of green rice fields and distant mountains reaching up to meet the bluest sky. Locals collecting the season's harvest would stare as I drove by, sometimes smiling as their children waved hello. I stopped to chat in my limited Bahasa with a man herding his buffalo in one of the fields and watched a small child fly a kite. While walking back to my bike through the narrow paths between rice patches, I slipped and in went one foot. Struggling to get my foot out of the thick mud, I pulled too hard and in went the other foot on the other side. Thunderous laughing came from the boy who had stopped flying his kite to revel in my ridicule. I walked to the nearby stream feeding the rice to wash off my muddy shame. After waving goodbye one last time, I made my way through the fields back to my bike half laughing but careful not to repeat the embarrassing and messy episode.