The Dead of Tana Torajah

In 1991 I traveled the spine of Sulawasi into Tana Toraja, an idyllic mountainous area to meet an Indi friend. An earth brown river wound through the valley by the small town. Mistahs were scarce, since Iraq I was raging on the other side of the world. The Tana Torajans were Christian-animists with a history of head-hunting. None supposedly since the Dutch forces invaded the Highlands in 1905. I spent my days writing, hiking through the forests to visit burial caves cramped with ancestral bones of the long deceased. A few weeks into my stay my friend arrived to honor his grandmother and hundreds of family members traversed a ridge leading into a valley unconnected with the modern world. Bulls and pigs were herded over the divide in time to a traditional villages of ornately carved long houses. I drink warm arak with the celebrants attired in tribal garments. I wore all black. Later in the afternoon the men started trance dancing as the women unfurled the silk wrappings from the corpse to respectfully wash the deceased bones. I sat to the side with friends from my hotel. A bull was dragged into the clearing and a man threaded a rope attached to the beast's nose ring through a thick ring attached to a thick pole. The chanting rose to a crescendo and a young man with a kris stood before the bull, placed hand on the neck, and then slashed the throat, blood spurting wildly. The bull collapsed onto its forelegs and the men shouted with glee. They hauled away the dead creature and brought another sacrifice. It wasn't the last. I didn't move, except to drink offered arak by two young women in black. The chanting rose and fell and the bovines were replaced by pigs. My friend approached with a long knife. "You now " I must have looked hesitant and he said, "Before not buffalo. Men." I politely refused, saying that I obeyed the Fifth Commandment. He excused me and night fell on the. Fire-lit blood mud. We drank more arak and ate all sorts of meats and offal. I stayed awake until the last men collapsed in a stupor. I found a deserted long house and lay on the floor with my small bag as a pillow. In the darkness a long white row dully glowed from the main beam. I shone my flashlight upward onto a long row of skulls. I never get scared, but I was spooked. Thankfully I had drank enough arak to fall into the sleep of the dead. In the morning I rose with the roosters before the dawn. People were leaving the village to get to church in town. Only the tingri or spirits lived there. I joined their trek, smoking kretek cigarettes and showing them postcards of New York and my family members. They all wanted to know if I had a wife and children. I lied and said yes. Reaching the ridge I looked back to the valley. The centuries lay atop the land and I was glad to be several hours from the 20th Century and there was beer there. Cold too.