Tana Toraja, Sulawesi

      Between March, 1983 and June, 1984 I lived with my family in Bontang on the east coast of Borneo six miles north of the equator, where I worked at the large LNG (Liquefied Natural Gas) plant. A tiny "Skyvan" charter plane was our only link to the outside world through daily flights to Balikpapan, the provincial capitol, where small jetliners had scheduled flights to Jakarta and Singapore.

      A K-8 international school provided for the fifty expatriate kids, including my eighth-grader, Sally; sixth grader, Amy and fourth grader Peter. Four American couples made up the entire school faculty, and although the facilities were basic, classes and curriculum were very good.

      In the spring of 1984, the "senior" class of nine girls and one unlucky boy took a field trip to Tana Toraja in the central highlands of Sulawesi, the neighboring island. You might think that a single boy with all those girls would be in eighth grade heaven. You'd be wrong. It didn't help that he was pasty white and a bit soft, ("Dorky," was Sally's description.) or that his name was Nigel. As soon as he paid attention to any one girl, eight others ostracized the pair. He quickly learned about the wicked politics of eighth grade love and became, at best, a mascot for the girls.

      Nigel was shy and self conscious, while the girls were more mature, with a self confidence that must have grown from being free of the fashion and makeup wars in school back home. In hot, humid Bontang, makeup became sticky goo within the first hour; teased and sprayed hair looked like a string mop. The climate also dictated informal clothing – shorts with tee shirts were not just allowed, but encouraged. As a result, all the girls were equal, free to be themselves, without competition over who had the latest fashions – nobody did. And there was no competition over the hot boys – there were none.

      When Sally announced the trip over dinner one evening, I had an idea.

      "Do they need a chaperone?"

      "Dad, no! You are NOT going on this trip."

      "Oh, come on. You won't even know I'm there."

      "No way, Dad. You can't. It's humiliating."

      By coincidence, a special project, requiring my working weekends for several months, had just finished and I was due some extra time off. This was a great opportunity to see a fascinating part of Indonesia and to become that fly on the wall and observe my first-born Sweet Sally among others of her kind. Besides, two adults to shepherd ten teenagers on a week-long excursion to Sulawesi, a very undeveloped region, seemed a stretch.

      When I spoke with the principal the next day about going along as a chaperone he almost hugged me. John and Dorothy Piquado, representing a quarter of his staff, were assigned to accompany the kids, and he couldn't spare any more teachers for the trip, even though he was a bit apprehensive about it himself.

      On the morning of departure, the seniors and their families gathered at the airstrip. The kids were international travelers, some veterans of many trips. But for most, this was their first time to travel without parents. They tried hard to be nonchalant, posing for pictures and goodbyes, but excitement built noticeably. By the time the call came to board the Skyvan, they bounded across the tarmac like puppies let off their leashes. They expended several rolls of film on pictures of each other trying to avoid having her photo taken: hands in front of faces and the backs of heads. Their squeals of laughter were louder than the drone of the engines.

      During the half-hour flight to Balikpapan, the kids settled down, and by the time we boarded our next flight, they were back into their usual roles as bored teen queens. And Nigel.

      If you look at a map of Indonesia, Sulawesi's shape is striking. Three stump-like peninsulas join a long, thin, curving one that looks like the neck of a giant bird. All four are connected at the mountainous center. Our flight from Balikpapan to Ujung Pandang the capitol of Sulawesi, and its only city of any size, took us along the north-south mountain range that forms the backbone of the island. Green-clad peaks, including 11,320 foot Mt. Rantekombola and several others over 9,000 feet, rose out of the deep blue Makassar Strait. As our cruising altitude was only 15,000 feet, the peaks seemed to be just outside the window. White ribbons of waterfalls and rapids were clearly visible on their steep green slopes.

      The next morning, we loaded into two seven-passenger minivans. I watched the girls sort themselves into two groups for the ride. Although there were no cliques, some were friendlier than others and the negotiations were intense, if brief. The Piquados boarded the lead van while I made sure to be behind in Sally's group. I noted that Nigel did, too. The kids were too excited to even pretend boredom, chattering and giggling as they loaded luggage and climbed in. I took the rear seat where I could observe the kids as well as the scenery.

      These minivans were not your typical American family cruiser with plush soft seats and cup holders everywhere. Imagine a shrunken school bus with thinly padded vinyl bench seats attached to a steel frame, and worse, no air conditioning.

      At 9:00 AM we started and were quickly out of the city, headed north along the coast road. There are few drives anywhere more majestic than that from Ujung Pandang north to Rantepao. There are few drives anywhere as spine jolting in a tinny Toyota minivan. Less than 200 miles, the trip takes nine hours, including stops for lunch and relief of sore bladders. The road crosses a serious mountain range, reaching over 7,000 feet elevation before dropping down to Torajaland.

      For the first half-hour, we skirted coves with shaggy, unkempt palm trees hanging over dark sandy beaches. Large mango and avocado trees lined the narrow stretch between beach and road. Beyond, the clear blue Makassar Strait glistened in the sun. On the right, scattered house-sized gray rocks poked up out of green rice paddies. We passed small, neat frame farmhouses set back from the road and decorated with intricately carved wooden eaves. Chickens and children roamed freely in yards and across the road, the kids stopping to stare and wave as we passed.

      We soon began to climb away from the sea alongside terraced rice paddies descending in steps and flanked by sheer rock cliffs rising hundreds of feet into forested mountains. The road narrowed, and the pavement developed giant potholes, but as we wound up along these cliffs every turn offered a panorama and occasionally a heart stopping encounter with a big truck barreling down the mountain.

      Quickly the climb began in earnest. Switchbacks often looked a thousand feet straight down to a valley floor and the river below. Rice paddies gave way to farms of fragrant clove trees, separated by longer and longer stretches of forest. The air became noticeably cooler, and our ears occasionally popped.

      At the high point of the pass, we came to the first tourist stop. Not exactly Howard Johnson's. The walls were unpainted, rough-hewn clapboards. Windows were rectangular holes with clapboard covers hinged at the top and propped open with a stick, while the roof was palm thatch almost two feet thick. The whole structure was cantilevered over a steep hillside. Inside, the floorboards were worn smooth from years of patrons' feet. Rocks below were visible in gaps between boards wide enough to sweep dirt through.

      But the view was magnificent! A half mile below, a river snaked its way between sheer rock cliffs, the sun glinting in spots from the water. White rapids were easily visible, and green forests covered smoother hillsides further downstream.

      The waitress, a shy girl of about eighteen seemed to be intimidated by our group; whether from the size, the exuberance or the fact that we were foreigners was hard to say.

      "Dimana kamar kecil?" where are the rest rooms, asked Mrs. Piquado. The girl pointed to a door leading out back.

      "Come on, girls, restrooms this way," she announced with authority.

      The first girl out the door turned with a look of dismay. "It's an outhouse," she wailed.

      A flimsy door hung on leather hinges. The girls glanced at each other frowning.

      "Ooh, gross!"

      "Mrs. Piquado, do we have to use that?"

      "I brought towellettes," said one.

      "Omigod, you are a genious!"

      "Hey, give me one!"

      The restaurant had bottled water and soda and a variety of homemade snacks, including sweet fried bananas and nutty tasting fried wafers of fermented soybean called tempe goreng all served on pieces of banana leaf instead of plates. No dishes to wash, no paper to litter the landscape.

      Soon we were back on the road, but now descending to Toraja land. By this time, the sights had become routine to the kids, and Walkman earphones appeared. Except for enormous potholes, the rest of the trip was uneventful. We reached the small town of Rantepao at five o'clock, and found our hotel. After eight hours on the road, it was truly a tropical paradise. The hotel complex covered two acres of lush green hillside including a nature walk along graveled paths, showing off examples of colorful local flora. A beautifully tiled swimming pool, with overhanging coconut palms, an open-sided dining room with a thatched roof and forty thatched guest cabins made it idyllic.

      The guest cabins were comfortable, each two-person room equipped with private bath and twin beds. The girls sorted themselves into pairs, while Nigel and I unpacked in our quarters. At dinner awhile later, the girls compared notes.

     "Omigod, bathrooms! I was afraid we'd have outhouses."

      The teachers spoke to the group about what to expect over the next three days and gave them a bit of Sulawesi culture and history.

      The native people of Sulawesi are of four main tribes and two minor ones. The Bugis (pronounced boo-ghee) people share the southern peninsulas with the Makasar tribe. Excellent seamen and traders, but fierce and vindictive, the terms "boogy man" and "running amok" came from the Bugis people.

      TheToraja tribe in the central highlands are much milder mannered, but were head hunters in the past, and still are a primitive people. Although many have converted to Christianity, their practice of it incorporates pagan animist customs. An especially poignant one is the burial of infants who die before cutting their first tooth. The tiny body is placed in a hole in a certain kind of tree in the forest. As the tree grows, the hole closes, incorporating the baby.

      Adult deceased are buried with great fanfare in caskets placed in caves or in cavities carved into the face of a cliff. The older and more influential the deceased, the more elaborate the ceremony. A village elder's funeral includes a feast, attended by everyone in the village, or even from other villages. Elders slaughter pigs for roasting, and if the family is prominent enough, a water buffalo. Buffalo are highly prized and valuable animals, costing more than a year's wages. Normally used for cultivating rice, the slaughter represents a huge sacrifice for the family.

      After the feast, the casket is carried to the burial site in an elaborate bamboo carriage. The funeral procession must travel a winding route for at least two kilometers to prevent the ghost of the dead person from finding its way back to haunt the village.

      At the funeral cliff, a wooden effigy wearing the deceased's clothing guards the entrance of the cavity. On special days, such as the deceased one's birthday or the anniversary of death, the family goes to the grave, opens the casket and reverently cleans and rearranges the bones. Since the funeral is so elaborate and expensive, a family might save for months to afford it. Meanwhile the casket, with the deceased, stays in the family house. This bit of information brought cries of disgust.

      "Tomorrow we'll visit a burial cliff and I want everyone on their best behavior. Remember, respect their customs and culture."

      The next morning we set out along a rough road at the edge of a narrow valley with forested mountains bordering each side of rice paddies that stretched for miles in acre-sized terraces separated by earthen dikes. Large stands of bamboo with stalks up to eight inches in diameter grew along the uphill side of the road.

      As we rounded a curve we saw what appeared to be a dozen ships lined up beside the road. As we neared, we saw that this was a village of distinctive Toraja houses. The living area is a simple square box about six feet high and raised eight feet off the ground on posts. Exterior walls are painted with ornate geometric patterns in black and shades of red and brown. Atop the box, an enormous saddle-shaped roof soars front and back like the prow of some great seagoing ship. Made of bamboo split lengthwise and stacked like tiles, each peak rises majestically thirty feet above the ground.

     A dozen children ran down the road to greet us, followed by an old man wearing a limp turban and a batik sarong. Our guide spoke to the man, then announced, "He permit us to visit burial cliff. Please follow him and keep together."

      The old man led us past the fleet of houses to a trail in the forest shaded by enormous trees. Sunbeams like spotlights shone through in places so strong that passing through them felt like brushing against cloth.

      The forest ended near the base of a rocky mountainside. From this distance, it looked like an apartment house with the tenants out on their balconies. The old man led us to steps cut into the cliff face leading up to the graves. With some reluctance, we climbed to the lower gravesites, big enough to enter standing. Some of the caskets were plain boxes dug from a tree trunk; others were more elaborate with carved and painted symbols, including a Christian cross. Bones were easily visible, and several skulls were lined up on a ledge. To their credit, the students were quiet, even reverential as they viewed the remains. The ride back to the hotel was quiet as the kids reflected on what they had seen.

      At breakfast the next morning, our guide gave us some exciting news. Another village a few kilometers away was having a funeral for its chief.

      When we arrived mid-morning, the feast was underway so no one took much notice of us. Several pigs were roasting over hot coals, men and women were festive in their best batik sarongs, visiting in small groups. Boys played soccer in the common area with a makeshift ball that upon closer inspection turned out to be an inflated pig bladder.

      As the villagers began the procession to the gravesite, it started to sprinkle rain, and our guide signaled us to return to the vans. He fell in beside the Piquados and me.

      "Villagers say a very old grave cliff is nearby on the other side of the valley. Say we can cross the valley and return to hotel by another route. You want to see?"

      Of course we did, and we mounted the vans and headed back down the mountain. After a kilometer, the lead van turned left across a dike separating a rice paddy from the one below. Barely wide enough for the vehicle, the dike dropped five feet on the right side and two feet on the left. By now the rain was falling harder, and I began to worry. The dike was steep enough that if the van slipped off the edge, it could overturn. The lead van skidded then bounced through a pothole causing us to slow down. When we hit the pothole, we were too slow to power through, and our rear wheels bogged down in the mud. The driver tried rocking but the tires just spun. We were stuck.

      "OK, kids, lets get out to lighten the load," I said.

      "But it's raining."

      "And it's muddy!"

       "Yeah, but there's no AAA here. Come on."

      The girls gingerly stepped into the goo, grumbling, but careful not to swear. By now the surface of the dike was as slippery as ice. Even with the lightened load, the van couldn't move. John came back to see what was happening.

      "We'll have to push. Come on," I shouted, and put my shoulder to the vehicle. "Come on, Nigel." He, Sally and a few others pitched in. Mud spewed as the driver spun the tires; rain and sweat ran into my eyes as I heaved on the bumper. Several of the girls slipped in the muck, and soon John took off his shoes, rolled up his pants, and joined us.

      This time, the van cleared the hole, throwing twin rooster tails of mud. Filthy, soaked and exhausted, we climbed in and made it to the other side.

      "You know," said John, "I think we should skip the grave site."

      Grumpy, wet kids and one tired chaperone cheered the announcement.

      Back at the hotel a hot shower had never felt so good. I joined the Piquados at the open air bar for cold Bintang beers while the kids hit the pool, their spirits back to noisy normal.

      "Are you sorry you came along?" Dorothy asked me.

      "This has been a wonderful trip, and I'm grateful to have observed it all."

      At dinner, I listened to the kids talk about their experiences and observations. It was gratifying to note their empathy for the villagers and their gratitude for the comparative luxury they had back home in Bontang.

      "Did you see those boys playing with the pig bladder?"

      "How did they blow it up?"

     "How do you think, Kara?"

     "Eeew, gross!"