Le'go Indo )~~~~~~>

My comments were so far removed from the norm, I felt and sounded like a hermit who had braved the breeze of the masses and stopped the jukebox in the process. And in that silence, that breeze became a tempest of memories that whirled past me all at once; the volcanoes blowing right before my eyes, the manta rays, the venerable Mt. Rinjani, scuba with sharks, the buffalo sacrifices, the agony of boat rides, hunting dolphins, the 30 hour travel that became routine, the breakdown involving "hello mister", the ubiquitous Indo smile, the discovery of a simple food that tasted so good after monotony and the inexplicable colors of volcanic lakes, beautous beaches boring into my soul, the alacrity with which I met other westerners along the barren path that Burns spoke of, the prohibition of beer, the 8pm "go2sleeps", the hook-up with Bri, the craze of not being able to get off an island and meet Kristin, the sushi, the sadness, the anger, the affection, the breaking of my boots, the blisters that made me walk like an old man, almost coming to blows with a con-man after a murderous hike to Semeru, the wrecking of a moped, the constant courting by a married woman, the renewal of my Indo Visa, and what I'll probably miss most--the ability to speak the language.

Music: Sombody Still Loves You Boris Yelstin & Elliot Smith

Books: Finished the following: "The Feast of the Goat" Mario Vargas Llosa (now showing as a movie) about the tyrant of the Dominican Republic, Trujillo. Also, "The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" Robert Louis Stevenson (Scottish) and "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer" Mark Twain.


Lingering Lyrics:

"Why is it hard to make arrangements with yourself,
when you're old enough to repay, but young enough to sell?"

N. Diamond

"Temporary, this cash and carry

I'm stepping up to indicate

The time has come to deviate.

...estuary is blessed but scary..."

RHCP

New Pics Folders: Tana Toraja, Toraja Trekking, Village Faces

When I set out 10 months ago from Hartsfield-Jackson Airport, I'm pretty sure Indonesia wasn't even on "the list". Though as I reach for this THICK pink Lonely Planet with the faded title, "Indonesia" I'm amazed at how much I've seen & all the places I've been. A country where most people visit 2 islands or 5 if they're really ambitious, I've somehow stepped onto 20 different islands. Of course, this is nothing considering that the world's largest archipelago is around 15,000 islands...give or take several thousand. Even so, of the 11 main islands in Indo the 8 that I witnessed could've occupied 2 months each.

In stepping into the filth and feculence of the steamy and smoggy capital, Jakarta, the memories each island once flooded me with were almost cast away...almost. Somehow I "timed" it perfectly without conscience:

1. Bomb in Jakarta (A&W Restaurant), Nov. 11
2. I indulge in A&W rootbeer float, Nov. 15
3. Bush visits Singapore, Nov. 16
4. I fly Jakarta to Singapore, Nov. 17
5. Bush visits Jakarta-Bogor, Nov. 20

I know it may sound a bit counter-intuitive, but the "leader of the free world" isn't very popular in the muslim world...not even with this normally pacified populous. And so there are many protests that are often violent now in Java where the infamous President will visit. However, in recalling my 4 months of Indo travel, I was confronted with an acrid tongue only once by a muslim politician in one of, if not THE, most muslim area(s) of Indonesia, Poso, Sulawesi. You may have heard of muzzy-fundos beheading schoolgirls, or christians killing some 70 muslims in riots, or a priest being shot, or police shooting at muslims in the street, or churches being torched...or something else involving Poso. It was only here--where I ventured to defy all local advice and travel (though quickly) thru---that I was accosted by an old guy with a funny hat. Killing with Kindness couldn't have found a better encounter to stab at.

But with regard to Indo...I mean what's there to be nostalgic about? Who would miss it? Who would miss city irrigation systems, that is...rubbish and human excrement baking in the sun off the side of the road; miss the pigs stinking up the bus, chickens next to or on top of your lap; miss the imperceptive people that encircle you and stare...stare for a very real though expanding 15 minutes, saying nothing; miss the crushing volumes of music on local transportation nor the boy band crap they karaoke shameless to; miss the silence-piercing inquiry as you stroll thru a crowd of people, "Where U from Mister?"; miss the smoke crawling thru all areas and into your lungs; miss the screaming on loudspeakers of mosques at 4am; miss the sight of littering the world; miss the racism and prejudicial pretenses; miss the howling of chickens at ALL hours of the early morning, miss the constant throwing up of passengers, into skirts, into hats, into plastic bags if lucky???

I guess I would...or maybe not all that, but everything that comes along with that; the proverbial "bad with the good" sort of taking. The friendly people, the peaceful, relaxed agenda, knowing you can ask anyone a question and receive a warm response, the general honesty, the ability to stroll down a dark alley at midnight without ANY fear, the curiosity, the affordable--no...insanely economical--living, the vast variety of cultures from one island to another, the local delicacies and dialects, the sharing of ALL by EVERYONE, the freedom grown men exhibit as they belt out a melody in any circumstance or arena, the contrasting countrysides--the string of volcanoes, the diverse diving and marine life, the placid lakes--the ease of perambulating.

But I hate to do some "overview" that's so general and boring...and generally boring...for the reader. Lemme say that Indo is the only place that I've seen, the service attendant pumping gas into myriad vehicles as he lit up several cigarettes, loads of people washing their motorbikes and SUVs in the river (just drive 'em down there right in the middle). A place where I looked with surprise at a plush Toyota rolling thru a terminal, and with my head looking in the other direction, did a face plant into the side of a pig being carried on bamboo sticks--kissing the lipless--and a buffalo followed the landcruiser in the queue as I wiped the stink of bristle off my mouth. The only country where I've seen a woman hock up a loogie, spit it onto another woman's foot (accidentally), and the other woman go on talking and walking as if nothing happened. Where I've seen boys linked together, arm in arm, hands on legs, holding hands with other boys, and girls holding and hugging other girls, but only once in 4 months did I see an indo boy touching an indo girl as they walked...they were kinda holding fingers. I had a boy of 10 asking me for a cig and saw a boy of 6 years old smoking one, yet only in Java did I see any woman smoking.

What a special place that enormous and sprawling country--rife with political and religious turmoil, constant natural disasters, a plethora of ill-reputed stories via western media--is; and yet, this is the one country in the 16 that I've visited where I felt the safest...even as an American. Almost always, I said I was from the country that is most hated in the world today, and never was I ill-received...never!

After having been in the country for 4 months, I kinda lost the reality of where I was and all that I was doing. It was only when I reached Singapore, that I was reawakened with the beauty and glory of the last 4 months in a country few backpackers travel thru.

Singapore, where cleanliness dominates the reputation, where modern buildings rise up into the clear blue sky from the verdant parks and the strolling people who look not twice at my different color, my stature, my straight and long...very long...hair. It's not true...you don't get arrested for spitting on the street...at least I didn't when I was rudely made self-aware of my acquired habit.

None-the-less, the difference from country departed and country arrived couldn't be more 180. Indo, where garbage blankets the streets like leaves a November's day in New York and Sing, where you CAN find garbage on the street...but you have to look quite hard for it. There, where people stare and ask alarmingly intrusive questions and here, where people look once then quickly away. Archipelago, where fried rice is omnipresent and Island, where variety and cuisine are comfortably coupled. Sprawling islands where women expose almost nothing, solitary city where women wear almost nothing. A Muslim motherland, where white people R found few and far between and a Christian city where 1-1 ratios R found.

But the real shocker was arriving at this hostel where there R...other travellers. A dorm with 16 beds, fully occupied greeted me upon arrival. That along with the westerner roaming Singpore's streets with the all-too common quick look away--DO NOT acknowledge other travellers mentality, the platitudes of traveller conversations, and that horrible taboo, the tourist trail. As I shrugged my pack and heard the noise around me, I was taken back to the wealth I had acquired in Indonesia.

My comments were so far removed from the norm, I felt and sounded like a hermit who had braved the breeze of the masses and stopped the jukebox in the process. And in that silence, that breeze became a tempest of memories that whirled past me all at once; the volcanoes blowing right before my eyes, the manta rays, the venerable Mt. Rinjani on Lombok, scuba with sharks near Komodo and Rinca, the buffalo sacrifices in Sulawesi, the agony of boat rides, hunting dolphins in Lembata, the 30 hour travel that became routine, the Sumbawa breakdown involving "hello mister", the ubiquitous Indo smile, the discovery of a simple food that tasted so good after monotony and the inexplicable colors of volcanic lakes on Flores, beautous beaches boring into my soul in the Togeans, the alacrity with which I met other westerners along the barren path that Burns spoke of, the prohibition of beer, the 8pm "go2sleeps", the hook-up with Bri on Bali, the craze of not being able to get off Sumba to go see Kristin, the sushi, the sadness, the anger, the affection, the breaking of my boots, the blisters that made me walk like an old man, almost coming to blows with a con-man on Java after a murderous hike to Semeru, the wrecking of a moped, the constant courting by a married woman in West Timor, the renewal of my Indo Visa in Timor L'este, and what I'll probably miss most--the ability to speak the language.

Now preparing for the Philippines, I know how hard it will be to just scrap the language I spent 5 months learning for another that I won't come close to mastering in the 2 months I "plan" on being there--still gonna giv 'er a go. It's so obvious to me now how much further I was able to go in just speaking Indonesian; so many travellers couldn't or wouldn't stay with families, go to random villages, or just roam around because they couldn't communicate. I went wherever I wanted whenever I wanted and it was so liberating to be able to throw jokes at locals and astonish them with the anomoly that a foreigner had gone and acquired their mother tongue. I really will miss that capacity after which I strove so long and stubbornly to attain.

However, the vigor with which I now look onward is unrestricted...the Philis have me revved and ragin' to throw my feet out b4 me. To spend Christmas in a Christian country will be so appreciated, and to be island hopping as I run up more mountains of fire has me giddy as a gibbon.

Bri-Guy...stoked that you're comin'--you will make phat this phili-phase; we'll rip it even more this go. I wish all the peeps back home a FEAST of a Turkey Day celebration...stuff it home for this vagabond that will pull himself up to a foodstall and probably be afforded the luxury of rice. However, if ya picture me...picture me smilin' cuz what I love is walkin' the earth...and walkin' the earth is what I'm doin'.

-----Flash of Toraja-----

Traditional Torajan Tongkonan (Kete Ke'su)


Traditional Dress Family Pic

Togeans n' Tana Toraja...

Aussies showin' their spirit in celebrating an American holiday.
--sorry 4 the light effect guys--

Nice work, I might add.


So that was my halloween--sand sifting between my toes as the illuminated orbit marched its avenue from the wavy blue to the hill that would be my view for 8 days, Bolilanga. A retreat that reposed this writer into a celestial state; basking, snorkelling, loving all parts of life that rushed to his bungalow's door. Blue-spotted stingrays, crocodile fish, a lobster, humpheaded parrot fish, and on my last snorkel, all alone I was blessed with a white-tipped reef shark about 2m (6ft) that lurked up some 10m from my smilin' snorkel...lovely way to bring in November.

I'm so short of the words that would do justice to my trip in Tana Toraja. It was so characteristic of my luck. The bus into Toraja territory brought my eyes wide open from their drowsy state that is the product of an overnight Indo Bus' journey. The wondrous arching of the traditional houses provoke an affinity that rips thru your entrails and ignites a passion to walkabout.

I had planned to do a little trek of sorts thru some of the villages, but as my path would draw me, I'd never arrive at the intended destination...and all for the better.

Batutumonga was a magnificent place set above a thousand tiers of rice terraces, verdant vistas pushed me up Mt. Sesean, a vegetated rock thrust up to the heavens that was enveloped by clouds by the time I reached.

On my way to the next village, I encountered a "party" in a village about half way from my "planned" stop. It was a funeral procession, a famous Torajan ceremony that brings truck loads of tourists to visit in Jul-Aug and is impressive to say the least. Impressive in every sense of the word, for it can leave you crying, shaking your head, shaking your fist, or just captivated by the strange culture, as was I, that has held on thru the thick Muslim presence of Sulawesi for years and years.

I tore myself away from my plan--which is not an exaggeration--and stormed down the hill with them to witness the buffaloes buttin' brains. To get them fuming, so to speak, they insert chiles into their rectum and draw their leads to the leads of another buffalo and you get a pretty exciting sight. Then I was asked to sit with the well-to-do family that was hosting the funeral "party", where I ate some of the pig that I saw sacrificed just minutes before, then burned with hair and all. Not really sure which part of the pig I was feasting on, but it's strange to feel like royalty, yet still be sitting on the raised floor, eating with my hands, ripping the flesh with my teeth, the juice spilling down my arm.

Oh the stories that ensued, a sick man that let me stay in his shack, then insisted that it "was no problem" to sleep in the same bed with him and his sick child...even though there was another full-size bed completely empty...I couldn't understand. So many more that will have to wait.

I should say first, that the funeral "party" is conducted in two stages. The first is shortly after the death (like in our culture), then another much more extravagant party is held months and sometimes years after. The more important a person is the more money that must be...spent. Some would say wasted, thrown away, etc. but there's much more to their culture than just profligate parties. During this second party, a number of buffalo (which is the base of Toraja culture) and pig are sacrificed in honor of the deceased; again, the greater his life, the greater number of buffalo/pig sacrificed. Many guests/friends from all over the countryside are welcomed on certain days, where there is still a very formal celebration in welcoming them. On another day, the deceased is raised up to his platform where he "presides" over the rest of the ceremony. People take photos with the coffin and treat him as though he were alive. I've heard of some ceremonies where one must ask his permission to leave...I wasn't forced to succumb to such silliness; imagine waiting for an answer.


Welcoming guests with Traditional Toraja rice barns in background

The dead guy I was so lucky to celebrate was quite an important character...thus, I saw more buffaloes sacrificed than I cared to...there's no way to describe the "sacrifice" of 70 buffaloes, more than 200 pigs, and a horse for ONE man.

It is amazing the spirit of sharing this culture represents and there is a lot to be said in defense for their sacrifices; and they make a LOAD of sacrifices.

One buffalo takes on a price from $400US-$20,000. The average cost of the buffaloes in this ceremony was roughly $1500US with the most expensive being $7000US. Now try to understand that figure in a local currency, obtained by an agriculturist; it's mad! Many of them go into debt for their entire lifetime to show their respect for an individual and what they did for their family. It can be touching...all depends on your frame of mind, and what you understand. It must be known that not a single part of the buffalo is wasted...NOTHING! Many tourists see the sight of blood and run away ignoring all the implications of such a society...that's just not fair in my perspective. However, there's not enough space here.

A kind man took me into his "hut" where I spent 2 nights in the frigid conditions of the mountain. People in full-body sarongs double wrapped themselves in rice sacks...a funny sight, but from my warm sleeping bag, I commiserated. This man, Antonios fed me truckloads of Toraja Coffee, I was teaked on toraja's blend as you can imagine drinking more than 15 cups a day...I LOVED IT!!! Actually, Tana Toraja is famous world-wide with their Arabica Blend that is quite pricey. I ate loads of buffalo, pork, more sweet cakes than I ever care to eat again. But I felt like a part of a close family; strolling around to take pictures whenever I felt and with whatever subject I desired...really some great photos.

My last day I woke to see 35 buffalo sacrificed in one go...WOW. They start by tying the beast to a pole in the middle of the bloodied courtyard, but after about 8 enormous creatures fell to their end, they had to tie those that would follow to the horns of the buffalo that lay with throats slashed open. I will never cease to be amazed at the composure each buffalo had while walking up to be fastened to his brother, bloodied and born-again, to await his own slice of destiny. Then taking in the panorama of creatures cut down, hides being torn away, pieces being apportioned, and blood returning to the fields that once provided nourishment for the blessed beautiful beast that is the fundamental of every torajan's life. The way they love this senstive, gentle creature its whole life is inspiring. Waking with it to take it for a nice healthy feed, then washing it down twice a day, to put it to a peaceful sleep. When I speak of how amazing this beast is, I mean that in the fields you hear it purr, softly, gently. While he witnessed the crime (relatively) man was commiting on his species, he couldn't contain himself...and I was drawn to his emotional state that no person could ever call bestial; a buffaloes tear...more real than this picture tells.




Actually to see the daily washing of each man's buffalo is the witnessing of brotherhood; you see man and/or child pull a fistfull of grass from the earth and in the other hand, cupped with water, they begin to soak and scrub it down. The horns, the back, the belly, the twice-over of the bollocks and never depriving him/her of its daily enema...they really love these beasts till their final day. And we all have our final day, don't we?



The first to stand; the dawn of his death