Tana Toraja, a region in Sulawesi, Indonesia, is known its colorful culture that has remained more or less intact for centuries. The traditional boat-shaped houses on stilts, varied burial sites (Coffins were everywhere: in caves, hanging off cliffs, and inside hollowed-out trees.), and rice terraces are certainly incentives to make the journey, but the real reason to come is to attend a funeral.
It's the most important ceremony in Toraja, even more significant than weddings (which is saying alot because we got stuck in a 30-minute traffic jam in the middle of nowhere one day because a wedding was being held). Funerals last days, up to 10 if the deceased was wealthy, and are pricey affairs, with the most expensive costing up to US$100K. Temporary huts are built to accommodate the hundreds of people who attend--family, friends, neighbors, acquaintances, political figures, and, oh hey, tourists.
It sounds intrusive to show up to a stranger's funeral, but they welcome everyone, especially those that come bearing cigarettes. When we showed up, our guide, Immanuel,* led us to the entrance of the crowded courtyard. There were too many people standing out front to see inside, but they were clearly watching something.
"Oh no," he said. "They already started," Immanuel said, pushing past the throng.
"Oh, that's OK," we assured him.
"No, no," he said insistently. We got to the front. "We missed the buffalo sacrificing."
We stood silently for a moment and took it all in. Nine water buffalo were splayed out on the ground, pools of blood still forming around the 45 degree angles cut into their throats.
One was still standing, its hindquarters facing me, and I thought it had yet to be slaughtered. Oh, Lord. I don't want to watch them hack into this one. Then it grunted and thudded to the ground, where the machete chop already made to its neck became evident. It looked kind of like a tree, the way it fell, knees locked, body stiff. I fully expected someone to yell, "Timber!"
After a moment, Immanuel guided us through the carcasses to one of the temporary houses. "OK. Sit down," he pointed to a blue tarp laid over the floor.
A woman in her 30s dressed in all black came over with a tray loaded with coffee, rice cakes, and biscuits, and set it on the tarp.
"This is the daughter of the dead man," explained our guide. She smiled and nodded.
Josh and I looked at each other. Umm, the mourning daughter is serving US refreshments?
"So, these people, "Josh gestured to a few old women and a middle-aged man in a Malay hat, "are the family?"
"Oh well yes. You are guests of honor, so you sit in the house for the dead people with their family," he stated matter-of-factly.
"The dead people?"
"Up." He pointed directly over our heads. The temporary house we were in was on stilts and, sure enough, when we looked up through the wide slats of the quickly-constructed floor, there were two coffins covered in red cloth. "One an old man. The other one only 28 years old."
Immanuel went on to explain that, before the temporary house is built, the bodies of the dead are kept in the family's homes for a period of time while preparations are made for the funeral. The old man had been dead for three years and the younger man for one. Just hanging out in their family's house, dead.
"Here, eat. Local Torajan snacks," the guide insisted.
I analyzed my situation. Underneath a couple of dead bodies. Surrounded by dead buffalo. Sitting on a tarp covered in hunks of brown stuff that I'm really hoping is just dirt. Surprisingly still super hungry. I shrugged and grabbed a rice cake. "Thanks!"
I turned to look at the buffalo. One was still twitching. A few kids had gathered by another. They were making a mud castle. Like a sand castle, except with blood-soaked dirt.
As the afternoon passed, every kid in the place swarmed the buffaloes, flinging each other with blood mud, climbing over the carcasses, and kicking the hindquarters to make any remaining feces ooze out.
I kept snacking.
After the buffalo stopped bleeding, a bunch of young guys came out with knives and started skinning them, dragging the bloody hides out of the courtyard.
I kept snacking.
The guys came back with long machetes and started hacking the skinned buffalo into chunks of meat. One of them came over with a piece and flung it over the railing onto our tarp.
I jumped. One of the old ladies grabbed it and pulled it close to her bag. With her bare hands.
"The buffalo meat is distributed. Every family here gets some," Immanuel explained.
Slowly, as the men kept hacking, the courtyard went from smelling like a livestock yard to a meat market.
I stopped snacking.
While the reality of throwing around raw buffalo chunks was kind of gross, the concept is cool. According to Immanuel, Torajans are wealthier than other Sulawesis, and it's largely due to the buffalo sacrificing ritual. Buffaloes are wildly expensive. One costs about the price of a car. But everyone who attends a funeral, even strangers, gets some meat, which they can either eat or sell at the market for a good price. The wealthier a family is, the more buffaloes they're expected to sacrifice. In a way, it's showing off. The family hangs the horns of the buffaloes they've slaughtered on their house to show how wealthy they are. But it's also a way of redistributing wealth, even to villagers the family doesn't know.
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"Are you sure you're ready to leave?" Immanuel double-checked.
My exposed, be-Chacoed feet were two inches away from a skinned bull's head. "Yes. Yes, we are."
He held up a heavy-looking plastic bag. My stomach did a flip. "They gave us some buffalo meat. You are so lucky! We stop at a restaurant and cook it."
Believe it or not, I did eat some. And it was delicious. And then I offered the rest to an unsuspecting Brazilian tourist when Immanuel wasn't looking.
*It's not required, but almost everyone hires a local guide to attend a funeral. People don't speak much English, so it was nice to have an interpreter and someone to explain what was happening. Plus, the funeral was in a tiny village far from Rantepao, the main town, and would have been difficult to find. If you're ever lucky enough to find yourself in Toraja, you should use our guide, Immanuel. I gave his card to a fellow traveler, but you can get in touch with him at Riana Homestay. He was super friendly and quoted us one of the cheapest prices of the guides we met.
