Three Funerals and a Wedding - Part II

Rantepao, Sulawesi island, Indonesia (map)

In this blog: a huge water buffalo market, a cave graveyard, being invited into a wedding, and buffalo fighting 

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Tana Toraja is a region in Indonesia that's home to an ethnic group known as the Torajans, who have some very unique traditions and possibly the most elaborate funeral ceremonies in the world. This follows part one and is equally morbid, so I suggest you read that first to understand what this strange ol' place is all about.

Rene and I with a mega-expensive and rare Albino water 

buffalo, prized by the Torajan people

Market Day

Gustine is a local Torajan girl who my travel buddy Canadian Rene had bumped into on our first day in Rantepao -  a 21 year old studying for a degree in English, and as I'd helped her out by teaching an English class to some local kids, she offered to take us around the local area the following day, starting at the local market.

The market happens every six days and is a big deal in the area, with locals sat cross legged on the streets selling everything from vegetables and dried fish to hand made machetes, but in a large dirt area at one end was where the real action happened - the water buffalo market. Buffalos are a status symbol to Torajan people just like a BMW might be to some, and are very well kept - you see people in the countryside leading them round individually to grass, and I even saw one guy hand feeding his buffalo like a baby one day! Strangely because of the status, in total contrast to the 'real world' their live market value is actually greater than the meat value afterwards. The best cattle are sourced from all corners of Indonesia and the best of the best are black and white albinos. I'd never seen albino cattle before so it was a truly fascinating sight, with their pink and white colouring and piercing white and blue eyes. 

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Gustine translated and asked prices for us and I was truly amazed - £635 buys you a fairly standard male, £750 a medium sized shorthorn, £5000 for a pure albino, and unbelievably for a top flight part-albino a guy was asking £30,000! I checked three times with him, and even wrote it down and made him check again but it was no lie. There was no auction though, everything gets sold privately for cash which can be a lot of paper when you consider than the equivalent of the £5 note is the biggest in circulation in Indonesia! Interestingly, despite there being hundreds of buffalo present only a few of them actually get sold on a market day; the rest go back to their 5-star farm treatment. I wondered if their cattle beds have Egyptian cotton sheets? We spent a fascinating hour wandering about, looking at the farmers stood around in their flip flops smoking away and chatting, with their cattle haltered from above by rope through their noses. 

Nearby was the much smaller pig market where we found two bizarre and slightly shocking things. Firstly we came across people stuffing sold pigs head first into plastic feed bags like shopping at a supermarket, Gustine could give us no answer why. Secondly, we found pigs tied individually to bamboo racks, just like a wooden pallet for a pile of boxes. It transpired this is to allow people to take them home on the back of their motorbikes - a sight in itself. Pigs were more sensibly priced generally at £150 for a hog, £100 a sow (in case anyone cares). Gustine then took us through the fish market which had a few sights and we were encouraged to pick up an eel from a bucket - a local speciality that are apparently often kept in the water of rice paddy fields. With their slippery skin and snake-like movements which I can't say I'm a fan of them, yet low and behold ten minutes later we were eating it for lunch at Gustine's mother's nearby cafe! It wasn't a taste I favoured I must admit.

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In the country

After the market we went out in the countryside to explore. The whole local area is just beautiful, and everywhere you go you see the remarkable sight of 'tongkonan' houses - traditionally made wooden homes, stood on palm tree legs, with carved sides and huge bamboo (or just steel) roofs in the shape of a boat. These buildings can only be built by the family and passed down, never bought or sold, and are phenomenally expensive to construct. They're also always accompanied with one or more rice barns nearby - a smaller version where the rice harvests are kept. 

I had a map of the area and pointed out a few things that might be of interest so Gustine led the way, the first of which took some finding and involved a lot of asking locals and getting lost. We parked up in a hilly area far from town and learnt we were the first tourists of the year to visit this spot. Two local teenagers volunteered to lead us for free, hiking a short way along a path and up a hill to a traditional burial site - a huge natural rock with three graves carved into it in the traditional manner. Interestingly, a fairly new wooden coffin, cotton-clad and containing a body was left on the floor outside 'because there was no space inside', and when I asked what might happen to it Gustine said 'oh, it'll probably just stay there'. OK! After a few minutes of following blindly up steep overgrown paths, we reached a lovely viewpoint with a view for miles over rice fields, mountains and the nearby town.

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Scream 

The next stop a few miles away was quite literally something else; the sort stuff of stuff you might see in old horror movies. 

Gustine, in conversation with locals heard of a traditional sight well off the tourist map and we turned into a side road and parked up. We walked half a mile or so up a track, past traditional homes, through someone's yard then onto another narrow path until we reached some old gates. This we discovered was a very old burial area set in the large entrance to a cave, where coffins were either placed on the ground or originally suspended from the cliff faces by wooden supports since rotted and collapsed, and we spent half an hour or so looking around. Everywhere you looked there were these beautifully carved but broken and rotten old coffins, many carved from one piece of wood and some with buffalo heads carved into one end. But more prominent than this were the hundreds of human skulls lying around. Some resting on the ground, some on rock ledges, some in open coffins where whole families had been buried together, and others in smaller caves. This might all seem a bit weird and disrespectful but in Tana Toraja this is their tradition and perfectly normal, and it occurred to me that it's funny how travel makes you adapt to such things so quickly, almost desensitising you.

The cave graveyard

Wedding bells

Since she had a week off from college with nothing planned, Gustine had now become both our local friend and a free guide of sorts (to the annoyance of the pushy guides who frequented our guesthouse). She told us of that whilst she was born locally, she's lived for the past nine years with her uncle in Papua - the Indonesian part of Papa New Guinea and returning only recently, so was therefore pleased to be exploring the local area herself properly for the first time. She showed up around 10am the next morning with a male friend of hers from uni who's name I forget, and we all headed off to explore the area north of Rantepao. 

Passing through a small village on the way I heard loud music and saw something happening so beeped to the guys in front to stop. 'It's a traditional Toraja wedding' they said, so I suggested we turned back and had a quick look through the entrance. We took a couple of photos then to our surprise the usher invited us in. We politely turned the offer down as it felt like gatecrashing but he was insistent, so before we knew it we were sat there in our scruffy clothes in a small booth surrounding the nicely decorated outdoor courtyard, eating snacks and wondering what on earth just happened. 

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The couple weren't yet present - it was a Christian wedding and they were at the church with close family sealing the deal, but villagers and friends slowly made their way in. I couldn't get over how well presented it all was and how immaculately everyone was dressed, wearing a mixture of modern suits and colourful traditional clothing. After maybe an hour the couple arrived, and led by maybe twenty young boys and girls in matching Torajan outfits walked in a procession down a red carpet then up to their throne; the top table of sorts with their parents sat to each side. A preacher gave a short speech and the register was signed before food was distributed, and despite our hesitation at the generosity were told we must eat - the sate pork was absolutely delicious. 

Surprisingly, after the couple had been there just an hour or so to our surprise it was all over. The guests formed a line and took it in turns to shake the happy couples' hands and leave. We still felt like gatecrashers but they seemed very happy to see us, to the point that Rene and I even got in the official photos with them! It was a great surprise and privilege to be part of the event, and the value of such authentic real-life experiences was only cemented in our minds when we headed to a nearby traditional village afterwards. It was more of a tacky outdoor museum than the real lives we'd just seen, and it the amount of tourists that visited had turned the locals into pushy hawkers trying to flog souvenirs so we didn't hang around long. 

A few miles later the scooter got a puncture. We were in the middle of nowhere and the feeling of isolation struck immediately. But almost straight away a truck slowed and shouted out the window to Gustine, and to our total surprise we found there was a little shack just around the corner that did repairs. Even more surprising was that the guy got onto it straight away, stripping down the back end of the bike to remove the wheel and tyre and fit a new tube. Just £2 worse off, we were soon on our way feeling amazed at how quickly a big issue can be solved sometimes. We headed up into the mountains for an hour or so over bumpy tarmac and sometimes muddy bits of track, passing through more small villages and roadside graves carved into giant rocks. The best part lay further ahead though when the trees cleared beside the road and revealed huge sections of rice terraces built into the hill. It was the stuff of postcards apart from the fact it was raining, and I was a little awestruck by the sight of the hundreds of different levels of paddy fields.

The Torajan wedding we attended, surrounded by traditional rice barns

Buffalo Fighting

Gustine had been told through friends of her parents of a local buffalo fight going on one day; another part of the intricate funeral ceremonies the Torajans have, and she lead us there by scooter. Arriving quite early, the locals welcomed us into the courtyard at the centre of events and we sat under one of the many traditional rice barns, watching pork being boiled in huge vats for lunch. We'd visited a buffalo fight at a couple of days before but the fighting had finished just as we arrived, which now made this the third funeral ceremony we'd visited in as many days! 

The proceedings started with the fighting buffalo being led in to the main courtyard for people to see, haltered by rope throes the nose and controlled by what we presumed was their owners. One buffalo looked very angry as it passed us, and a local laughed when he saw tears running down it's cheeks - I think I'd cry if someone did that to me too! A traditional priest sang and chanted for quite a while in a near evangelical manner over the PA, in a special language not even the locals understood, and Gustine noted that the old guys near us were moaning that they were bored. With music playing, a long line of ladies next entered the courtyard, holding a long narrow piece of red cloth above their heads in the manner of a Chinese dragon, and danced slowly along for a few minutes to music, and at this point I suddenly realised what a unique and special event we were witnessing. Everyone present including family, friends, villagers and guests like us then got fed a fairly simple meal of rice, beans and the boiled pork we saw earlier, though the pork unfortunately turned out to be mostly fat and gristle. Gallons of strong home-made rice wine were then passed around to wash it all down, a bit of an acquired taste I decided after a couple of sips.

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Fight time

An area below roughly the size of a five-a-side pitch had been prepared nearby for the buffalo fighting, and the crowd gathered round on all sides mostly unprotected from the 'contestants'. Owners led their buffalo in from both ends of the arena and simply let go of the haters and walked away. The buffalo usually then just stood there for a few moments, slowly gazing around at the crowd and wondering what was going on before eye contact was eventually made, some sniffing happened and they moved closer. Suddenly horns would lock together and the action began. The crowd started cheering, bets were made, and the buffalo went head to head forcing the other into the ground. Eventually one would break away and run off out of the arena, the crowd desperately jumping out the way whilst the cattle sprinted down the road or into the woods out of sight, and the one chasing would be proclaimed the winner. In one particular contest things moved very slowly and with nothing happening for a few minutes the owner went behind his buffalo, and square between the legs kicked his buffalo in the testicles with his bare feet! Brave but stupid, yet had the desired effect. It was all good fun to watch, and unlike the brutal sacrifice I'd seen a few days before there was no real harm done as far as I was concerned.

As if we hadn't seen enough already, later that afternoon we headed to Ke'te Kesu; a traditional village nearby to Rantepao town where we were staying, but in contrast to all the real-life-off-the-beaten-path sights we'd seen in the past few days, again it was touristy and soulless and just a bit disappointing to visit.

We ended up stayed in the Tana Toraja area a week since it was so beautiful and interesting, and the final day Gustine decided to meet us to see us off. I'm not exactly sure why, but dear of her, she cried as we got on the bus and headed off south to Makassar. We'd seen a fascinating culture with traditions seemingly well preserved on the whole despite the tourists who visit, had some free lunches (there IS such a thing), met some kind locals and seen some stunning countryside to boot. A perfect kind of travel experience.

Looking cosy on the scooter out and about in Rantepao

Market day in Rantepao 

Local farmers at the market

Live pigs just sold at market, ready to take home by motorbike

View over paddy fields

Eating lunch at the wedding with Gustine (R) and her friend

Traditional Toraja village, even if this one had been a bit ruined by tourism

Rice terraces up in the mountains

Ceremony in a courtyard surrounded by rice barns before buffalo fighting

Three Funerals and a Wedding - Part I

Rantepao, Sulawesi island, Indonesia (map)

In this blog: a mass buffalo sacrifice at a funeral, looking at cliff, cave and tree graves, and teaching English in a class

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Typically beautiful Tana Toraja countryside

Thanks to the road chaos I reported in the last blog, we didn't manage to make it to our destination of Rantepao in one day. Instead, at midnight the bus dumped us off in a suburb of the town of Palopo where we had no idea where we were, where we could stay, or how we could get around. It felt a bit hopeless. A group of teenagers gathered around curiously, and one of them got their older mate with a car who quoted us a ridiculous price for a lift to Rantepao. He wouldn't negotiate, we walked off. Outside a university, a few students mingled at the gates and we hoped they might speak a little English. Instead one pulled out his laptop and we had the slowest conversation ever using Google translate which amounted to nothing, so walked off again. A couple of them finally caught up on their scooters and with a new understanding kindly gave us a lift to a guesthouse nearby. 

The next morning we still had little idea how to continue on, so walked along the road in the vain hope we might find something, when out of nowhere a share taxi pulled up and an old guy shouted 'RANTEPAO?' out the window. It all seemed legit, so we hopped in and were on the way. The van weaved up a steep road into the mountains, switchback after switchback and the scenery was stunning. This windy road was too much for a young guy who made the driver stop so he could vomit in the ditch. A couple of hours later the scenery changed as we reached a plateaux, and we knew we were in the area known as Tana Toraja. 

Torajans have a unique identity in Indonesia, being an ethnic group that are of originally said to have come from Burma before settling in the mountains, and their life revolves around death. To them a funeral is viewed the same way as a wedding is in Western society, with elaborate plans, money saved for years, and lavish ceremonies involving hundreds of people over many days. This, along with a very unique style of architecture and a love for buffalo makes for a fascinating place to visit - the sort of place you might read about in National Geographic, with traditions which surprisingly continue seemingly mostly unaffected by tourism.

Torajan funeral

The funeral sacrifice

Surprisingly, Torajans have no objections to foreign tourists visiting their elaborate funeral ceremonies. Whilst it might seem odd to want to go to a funeral of someone you don't know it was said to be a real experience, so intrigued, we took up the offer of hiring a guide for the day - Yacob - and went along. The three of us rode scooters half an hour south of town, passing through paddy fields and down country lanes, before turning into an anonymous looking farm track. We arrived at a sort of courtyard surrounded by beautifully made wooden rice barns, and were just in time for the days events - the traditional sacrifice of buffalo. I was a little hesitant about what this would be like, and rightly so it transpired. I've decided to leave out the more gory details of what I saw, but needless to say it's not pretty reading so feel free to skip to the next section. You've been warned!

Sacrificing buffalo is believed by the Torajans to help carry the spirit into the afterlife, and the number sacrificed depends on the deceased persons position in society - poor people will have just a few, rich people up to two hundred (plus maybe a few pigs, dogs and chickens), but in this case they had four pigs, and eleven buffalo, the meat of which is divided amongst everyone in the area, almost like a party bag at a child's birthday. 

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When we arrived the pigs had already been killed, and they lay on the dirt floor with guys burning off their hair with blowtorches. It was the first time I'd seen that, but knew it was fairly normal practice so no problem. Buffalo, specifically water buffalo native to South Asia, were gradually being led into the courtyard and Yacob suggested we go to one of the specially built viewing areas 'as it can get messy', so there we went, along with about fifteen other Westerners including some particularly rude and irritating older French people. 

A slaughterman came out and not much happened for a few minutes. Locals spoke on the PA and it was decided that all of them would be killed. Suddenly the crowd gasped - the first buffalo had had it's throat slit and was staggering around with blood pouring out everywhere, and did so for nearly a minute before it collapsed, rolled about and wriggled for another couple of minutes before finally dying. I was totally and utterly shocked, and stood motionless with my shoulders tensed.

Now, I'm gonna sound like a mad animal rights activist here, which I'm most certainly not, but I am human and feel a bit of empathy for things. I have no objection to eating other animals, it's the natural food chain and has been going on forever. I've visited a number of slaughterhouses at home before and understand the process, I've seen many dead cattle, carcasses hanging, and seen chickens killed but never anything like this sacrifice. It was absolutely and completely brutal, barbaric even, the most cruel thing I've seen in my life. Animals should either be alive or dead, not suffering in a way like this - Indonesian law even says that but is flouted cause it's 'tradition'. If you're going to kill something, do it swiftly and properly, and stun if first if required.

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I watched two more being killed, and this time just felt nothing but numbness. A few tourists had left. The fourth kill made me angry since the guy did such a poor job at the kill and it suffered even more; I was beginning to comprehend what was going on walked away briefly to calm myself down. The seventh buffalo collapsed for a while after having it's throat slit, then shockingly a couple of minutes later stood back up and wobbled around, still alive. The crowd let out a roar of delight as if watching a boxing match. I was infuriated at the slaughterman for doing a terrible job, but most of all I was angry beyond belief at the crowd of locals who took such it's glee in it's suffering. Amongst the noise I found myself shouting 'this is TOTALLY messed up' before walking off back to the motorbike, where I waited a few minutes then drove off to the main road.

Cars and motorbikes reeled out after a half an hour or so, and feeling calmer I went back to find Rene. They were now butchering the animals on the dirt floor, a huge crowd of blood-covered men with machetes. This bit I could cope with as it was just butchery, though far from hygienic with meat, guts and dung all left contaminating each other. Rene was where I left him and said he was close to leaving but just held it together. Was it just me being soft I thought? I emailed a friend that night who works in an abettor just to get her thoughts -  she replied with the honest opinion that it was was wrong, cruel and shocking, and most people in their abettor would be feel the same. An event I will never forget.

Traditional Torajan village our guide Yacob took us to, wher the locals hadn't
been corrupted by tourist money

Exploring

We headed off by scooter, still feeling a little shocked but trying to put it behind us even if the theme of death still continued. The countryside was beautiful, more rice fields with tree covered hills between and Yacob led us to a sight called the baby graves. Believe it or not, Torajan tradition dictates that if a baby dies it is buried in a tree. Certain trees are nominated, and specialists chisel their way into the tree to provide a recess where the bodies are placed wrapped in cotton in the foetal position, after which the opening is then hidden by stringy bits of palm tree. It was fascinating to learn, and the practice still continues today apparently. 

Equally unique is the way adults are buried, which depends again on their wealth and position in society. A couple of miles away we were led to a cliff face where there were a number of wooden doors in the rock, which it transpired were also graves - those that can afford it have a coffin sized opening chiselled into the rock where they are laid to rest. In some cases though, the whole family is placed in a specially built concrete vault, and in past times were just left in coffins on the floors of caves. Fascinating, but more than enough death for one day.

After the English class I 'taught' (the v's aren't a swear sign in Asia by the way)

Teaching

I spent two half-days in Toraja sat in sweaty noisy Internet cafés, designing a poster and tickets for the young farmers ball I have a connection with at home, and during this time Rene went exploring the area and met Gustine; a very sweet and innocent 21 year old local girl whilst walking up to a viewpoint. She's studying English at the local university, but also teaches an English class to young kids and after they got chatting she asked if Rene would teach one day. He agreed to it, only on that day to come down with shingles (which cleared up in just a few days) so I willingly took the reins instead. 

Gustine picked me up at the hotel on her scooter then made me do the driving to her family home where she teaches the class. It was a pretty basic little cottage in a poor neighbourhood in the outskirts, and as we rounded the corner the sound of 'yaaaaaaayyy' filled the air from a string of enthusiastic young kids running into the house. I had no ideas for what I was going to do, nor did Gustine really so I made it up as I went along with the help of a simple text book. I pointed at objects or colours in the room and asked them to say the English name, I said words and asked them to spell them, I pulled faces and asked them to describe my mood - these sorts of things. There was about fifteen kids, all around 7-10 years I guess and some were pretty darn good. They were a happy smiley bunch and really enthusiastic to learn. Gustine told me she teaches them six days a week for an hour, and with only a couple of parents actually chipping in any money essentially does it for free which I thought was very kind hearted of her.

Next: A cattle market, buffalo fighting, a wedding and more 

Just before the sacrifice

The baby graves

In a simple country warung (cafe) where meatball soup cost us 60p each

Cliff graves, including one in construction

Rice harvest 

Gustine (2nd left) with her uncle (left) and parents in their kitchen

A Bridge Too Far

Tentena to Palopo road, Sulawesi Island, Indonesia

It all started off so nicely

It was like being part of a Top Gear Christmas special, except it wasn't faked and we were both cast and cameramen. A live version in fact, and enough of a drama that it's worthy of a blog in itself.

We'd been travelling down from the town of Tentena when we came across this scene, riding on a bus which almost predictably had left two hours late. We'd driven along steep windy hills, through roadworks, past little villages with white picket fences. Lucid green paddy fields lined both sides of the road at times as well as cocoa tree plantations, and people dried the freshly harvested grains and beans on tarpaulins in their front yards. The journey was all a bit slow but pleasant enough thanks to the scenery, until we reached a queue of traffic.

Something was up but we didn't know what. We could see the road turned to dirt ahead, and a lorry waiting to cross a bridge but nothing more. After fifteen minutes our bus moved on a few hundred metres to said bridge and the driver shouted something in Indonesian, after which everyone stood up and got off. We followed them, confused, and the bus drove on alone across the bridge. We then saw a sign and it made sense - the bridge had a fifteen tonne limit, and he didn't want the bus to end up in the drink below. Rene and I chuckled, this was a first!

However this was only the start of the story we discovered, as the other side the road had been ploughed up by builders who were preparing to build a new, stronger bridge. Two tracks lay in front - a temporary gravel one which was blocked by two broken down lorries, and an extremely muddy one which people were slowly attempting to make their way through, taking it in turns from both directions. Piles of steel for the bridge were dumped to one side, wooden shack houses lay to the other, and sixty or so people stood around watching the chaos that ensued. With our bus not able to pass along the muddy track, we had to wait for the lorries to be towed away so stood by the track watching and waiting.

Some very strange custom scooters came along with their loud exhausts coughing out clouds of smoke, whilst the bikers themselves all looked mean in denim with patches, and bandanas on their heads though were actually quite friendly - the 'Slankuters community' it said on their backs, whatever that meant. I say scooters, but they were weird monstrosities, some converted to sidecars, some more like racing cars, and one with two wheels on one side and six on the other. One was styled like an army tank, another had a barrel trailer behind. They looked totally and completely nuts - exactly like something Clarkson and co. would come up with on their show. They were very low to the ground which didn't bode well with the mud, and one by one went flat out into this track only to get stuck and need pushing and lifting out by their mates. It was hilarious, even to the guys themselves who were on some sort of roadtrip together.

Motorbike gang stuck in the mud

It was now the turn of a couple of people carriers who bumped their way through with a bit of speed, slipping and sliding left to right before successfully passing without much trouble. Another car needed digging out by onlookers, before a pair of overloaded motorbikes tentatively passed way through, wobbling along the way. A couple of curious chickens were now pottering around, only adding to this scene of madness. A van roared through flat out hoping the momentum would help, rocking violently through the first ruts then slowing for the dodgiest part - we were convinced he was about to roll, he was leaning over that much. On a steep drop he edged forward, with two guys stupidly standing under the side that looked like it would roll onto, and one wheel briefly lifted off the ground a little before going back down. He was now stuck. Some guys went and got a rope and tied it to the top of the van, holding it like a tug-of-war rope to stop him tipping, and eventually he worked his way out and continued on. 

The ruts were deep and slippery now and we'd waited quite a while. Despite the manpower available, and a shovel standing beside the road no-one had really bothered to help sort this mess and get traffic going. A couple of guys threw some small stones into the ruts but that was it. I was seeing the funny side of it all, but was a little annoyed that no-one was taking any responsibility, so for both a bit of fun and to try and encourage them to get off their lazy backsides and help, I got stuck in. 

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I picked up a couple of largish rocks and placed them in a rut, then grabbed the shovel and dug for England trying to level out the ridges and ruts. The locals all found this hilarious as you might expect - it's funny enough for them to see a foreigner let alone one getting his hands dirty. After a few minutes another van decided to try and pass through, whilst at the same time another lorry turned up to tow away the broken down lorries. I looked at my hands to find I'd blistered off two pieces of skin - after all this time travelling my hardened rowing palms had now turned into soft girly hands it seemed! 

The gravel track was finally clear. The bus worked it's way through and the other side everyone hopped back on, moving on past by a huge queue of traffic that had built up. I looked at the clock and realised two hours had passed, but finally we were on the way again, with a grin on our faces and a story to tell.

Getting stuck in!

Custom scootercar

Get out and walk

Crazy scootercars

It almost rolled

Up the Mahakam pics

A week or two after the event, the pictures from my Mahakam river trip are now online - here - Enjoy!

Batman

Tentana, Sulawesi island, Indonesia (map)

In this blog: a change of island, some slow journeys, scootering around a beautiful area, and eating bat.

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Before I start I want to make an acknowledgement - these blog posts are long! I realise many people can't keep up and have to dip in and out of them, but I like to write it how I see it, and give the full picture of the journey to show it's an experience rather than just a holiday, so thank you regular readers (5 to 25 people a day it says) for your patience, and for reading it full stop! They take ages to write so I hope you find them as well written rather than boring, and continue to enjoy them wherever you are.

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Sulawesi is possibly the craziest looking island you've ever seen - from above it looks something like an octopus run over by a truck (see map link above). But this craziness extends to activities on the ground as well; the food, people, rituals and chaos, and as you'll see over the next couple of weeks it's often a weird and wonderful place.

After two months on Borneo, we took a flight across the Malassar Strait to the Central Sulawesi city of Palu, arriving at nearly midnight after a nearly two hour delay with Lionair. I'd accidentally (honest guv') left my Swiss Army knife in my hand luggage, and had it confiscated by security when boarding in Balikpapan, so after reclaiming it at customs in Palu, we grabbed a taxi into town and at 1am after three attempts, finally managed to find a guesthouse that was open, even if it was a bit of a dive. 

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Palu

The graffiti was the only interesting thing about Palu

Rene and I only had a vague idea of where we wanted to go in Sulawesi, so the next morning after a couple of hours research and planning, we realised Palu had nothing to offer us and tried to get out of there as quick as possible. With no bus station and only share taxi services scattered around the suburbs it was easier said that done though especially as no-one spoke an ounce of English, and it took a lot of walking and asking around ('bis Tentana?') before we finally found a ride, even if it did leave four hours later. 

We took a stroll through town. It was hot but a more pleasant dry heat in contrast to Borneo, and the open sewers beside the road sometimes stank as we headed to the waterfront, which itself was no better with a the sandy beach covered in rubbish and lined by street stalls on one side and dirty seawater the other. This was no tourist town. We turned down a small road and found ourselves walking through a small karaoke street party, where people were very supposed to see us and waved away, and a lady grabbed Rene's nose. This happened to me as well a few weeks before and we learnt that our Caucasian noses are quite a novelty, being long and narrow compared to the short wide Indonesian nose! Eventually we found seemingly the only nice place in the city to relax and wait a couple of hours, before we were finally on our way.

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On the road

The share taxi almost predictably left nearly an hour late - a people carrier 'kevved up' with a big exhaust, and for no particular reason except coolness or maybe because they considered it 'too safe' - they'd removed the airbag, headrests and seatbelts. Perfect! The scenery was noticeably different to Borneo, and a bit of reading soon told me that whilst Borneo was once part of the Asian continent, Sulawesi has been proven to have formed from landmass from both Asia and Australia and thus had some of the flora and fauna of both. No kangaroos though! A few cultural differences were also noticeable, such as the sight of herds of three or four cows grazing on the roadsides and feral dogs roaming as they please, often looking a bit mangy. We climbed windy mountain roads through rainforest clad hills, past small roadside produce stalls, before descending to the plains. The driver decided to take an hour and a half dinner break to chat to his friends, and we impatiently sat waiting whilst curious local kids spoke phrases of English, took our pictures and gathered to look in curious amazement as I, ahem, read a book. Eight hours later we finally reached the town of Tentena and arriving late at night for the second day in a row, had to do a lot of doorbell ringing before we found a bed.

Tentena is a smallish town set beside the largest lake on Sulawesi, and with a bit of altitude and a nice breeze is pleasant with it. It's hard to call it a beautiful place as few towns we've seen in Indonesia are, but it's certainly got some character with mountains all around, picket fences in front of houses, and many green areas. There are also more Christian churches than one community can possibly need - I've never seen so many in one town, though this strong belief caused all manner of conflict with other Muslim-dominated neighbouring regions just a few years ago and many people died in clashes.

Kooky Canadians

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Scooter scouting

There wasn't much to see in walking distance, so Rene and I hired a scooter for a couple of days to get out and about. A few miles in, the vague hand-drawn map the guesthouse had given us was a little ambiguous and we took a wrong turn, heading up windy roads into the mountains. We kindof knew it, but kept going anyway to see what we saw. Both sides of the road were covered by often dense jungle, but often interrupted by clearings locals had made either just for the wood or to plant cocoa trees; the dominant crop of the area. Road building was in progress and we passed some women breaking up rocks beside the road with hammers into gravel sized pieces, and men building walls. We eventually found ourselves in a quarry and turned backed back on the workers advice, stopping to look at the fantastic views below on the way, looking at primitive hut houses and small veg patches set back from the road, and taking in the sound of the wildlife amongst the trees. We may have been lost, but it wasn't a wasted journey.

Eventually we found the beach, which is slightly perplexing as you normally need waves to make sand - something noticeably absent on this lake, but the beach very nice anyway It was a great place for a dip - probably the warmest lake I've ever swum in, and we found what we thought was a deserted waterside cafe for lunch. Rene doesn't meet many Canadians on the road, let alone French-Canadians (since French is his first language, and English a close second) yet here in this deserted place we found three of them from Quebec eating a melon so he was a happy chappy. They were heaps of fun for the hour or so we chatted over lunch, them sometimes en Francais, and they told us a few stories from their travels before showing us really stupid funny videos they'd made of themselves along the way - dancing in streets or doing silly monologues. Québécois are renowned for their very unique and quirky sense of humour I learnt afterwards, and here was proof.

That night we went for tea with some Swiss girls who stayed at the hotel, and I ordered a fresh orange juice. To my surprise there were quite a few ants in the glass either desperately swimming around or dead so I politely complained to the owner. To our surprise and amusement, she walked off and came back with not a replacement but a spoon, and carefully fished them out before grinning and walking off. Still tasted good! An even more pleasant surprise was Skyping my Grandpa that night - at 89 years old, he went out and bought his first computer recently, learnt how to use it through books and advice, and now here we were having a face to face chat. You're never too old to learn.

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Waterfalls and caves

On our second attempt at finding it the next day, we visited Terjun Salopa waterfalls, hidden ten miles from town along a rough lane. I'd see a photo before and it looked good, but nothing prepared me for the spectacular sight of it when we rounded the corner. It was a huge multi tiered affair with water cascading in consistent motion all the way across, indeed it was all so perfect it looked artificial, and with no moss on the rocks, we were also able to paddle amongst it. A beautiful spot to spend a couple of hours. The cafe back by the road advertised 'pyton soup', which we wondered whether was an Indonesian word or a misspelling. We asked the woman who pointed to a photo on the wall of a huge snake, before saying 'sorry, no python today'. Crickey!

Me ruining a photo of a nice waterfall

The stunning Terjun Salopa waterfalls

The scooter was a great way to get a feel of the area independently, as it can feel quite constraining sometimes just relying on public transport or the soles of your feet. We continued on and explored the town, visited a viewpoint with a fantastic panorama over the town and many nearby paddy fields, and finished up the day at a cave. It was dusk, and after walking a few hundred metres down a path through cocoa trees we got something we definitely didn't expect. Seeing the cliffs, I walked up some steps to a huge limestone overhang, to find not a cave you can enter and explore, but instead a shallow cave with piles of broken old coffins and a number of skulls lined up on rocky ledges. Actual human skulls. We were quite taken aback, but were aware burials around here are a little unconventional - as you'll hear in the next blog in no uncertain terms!

Bat 

The finish to our time in Tentena was a memorable one. That morning we'd popped into the local market for a look, and came across a huge section of freshly butchered bat meat. Yes, bat! 

It was a startling sight, but little did we know that that evening in a local warung (small cafe) we'd have the opportunity to eat it. It was a perverse temptation, I mean bats are scary things right, but the curiosity was too much and tentatively we went for it. There were just a couple of small bits of wing amongst it though otherwise you'd never know what you were eating, and the texture as ever was similar to chicken. But as far as taste was concerned, we guessed the burning sensation of huge amounts of chilli hid something just a little inedible without.

Breaking rocks by the road

Basic hut home up in the mountains

Rene and the beast

View over the local area

Rotovating rice paddies

Going home from work

Bat carcases - scary eh?!

Make it Snappy

Balikpapan, Borneo island, Indonesia (map)

In this blog: a strange friend, spolt by local ladies, flight nightmares and a crocodile farm.

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After a month where the longest I'd stayed anywhere was four days, I wanted to stop. I was tired of the road, tired of moving, just tired. In a funny way then it was fortunate then that the city of Balikpapan was nice but boring - a good place for a bit of normality of sorts. But even when i do everything in my power to have a quiet week including spending three days solid on a computer - fun and games still seem to follow and interesting things happen.

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After the epic boat journey we'd had the week before up the Mahakam river, Rene (my Canadian travel buddy) and I arrived back at the city of Samarinda and took a bus to Balikpapan, a journey uneventful bar a busker briefly walking onto the bus playing guitar which made us smile. Once in Balikpapan centre it was back to civilisation, or so it felt anyway. We headed straight to the bakery, after ten days or so without bread left us craving carbs like you wouldn't believe. We then set about finding somewhere to stay, but every place we found was either full, expensive or grotty, and it took a frustrating and sweaty two hours of lots of walking about to finally find a bed - thankfully a fairly rare occurrence on this trip. We relaxed for a bit, walked along a dodgy waterfront market, had tea at a funky cafe with a live band, then passed a party we spotted earlier only to find we'd annoyingly just missed out on free food for all. 

The next three days were a blur of computers - two full days of writing blogs on my tablet in the room, then one day copying and uploading pictures in an ear-poppingly noisy and sweaty internet cafe; it all takes forever. The evenings provided some light relief though. I shaved off a five-week travel beard, wandered past a little cafe called 'Bude' (like the Cornish town), then watched some guys playing chess on the street. A local guy got chatting to us - a commercial diver, who upon hearing we'd done some diving recently, instantly whipped out his tablet, and full of joy and excitement showed us underwater videos he'd downloaded from the internet.

Another night we fancied a beer, but being a Muslim country it can be hard to get hold of at times. We asked a guy on the street and he pointed up towards some market stalls and getting there, we asked the owner. She nodded gently, as if to say 'yes, but keep it quiet' and told us a price. As ever in Asia we tried to negotiate, only for her to shake her head in disgust at the price and totally offended, walked away back to her friend. We were as shocked as her, that never happens! When we asked another guy nearby his eyes darted from side to side, before he reached under the counter and quickly pulled out two bottles and put them straight into our rucksacks like nothing had happened, as if it was a drug deal or something.

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Stenly

We were having a wander one evening when a young local guy casually said hello and introduced himself as Stenly, a pleasant but slightly strange young freelance English teacher. 'That's not a very Indonesian name' I pointed out and he agreed without explanation. We asked for a recommendation for somewhere to eat, and he pointed out a place and walked off, before catching us up again saying 'actually there's a better place across the road' and led us there. 'Across the road' ended up being a mile away up a hill, and after an excellent buffet of fish dishes he suggested taking a bus back, which he assumed we would pay his share of. It was cheap, so fine. We went into the Internet cafe where he said he was going in the first place and whilst we spent two hours there, oddly didn't actually use a computer and just sat there chatting or texting.

The following evening Rene and I went to the cinema to see 'Edge of Tomorrow' and he asked if he could tag along. Without realising it we had inadvertently bought tickets in a VIP screen before he arrived where there was just thirty huge plush electric recliners, acres of legroom, a call button for drinks and popcorn, and a blanket each to tackle the ice cold aircon. I'd never experienced anything like it, and at £2.75 it was a complete luxurious bargain. Afterwards when it came to paying though, Stenly said he'd forgotten his wallet saying he'd meet the next morning to pay us back. He never showed up nor replied to any messages. It was only a couple of quid each so the money was incidental, and in the end we decided that he just saw us as rare white 'friends' who could afford to treat him. However, this money soon balanced back out as you'll read later.

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Crocs

Balikpapan is a pleasant city thanks to money from an economy based around the many offshore oil platforms nearby, but is pretty short on anything interesting to see. This was fine with us as we wanted a break from sightseeing, but one attraction was too much to resist - a nearby crocodile farm. It was a proper hoohaa to get there thanks to a bus driver mishearing where we wanted to go and a one hour journey turned into nearly three, but it was worth it. 

The bus dropped us in an unassuming spot and we wandered down a quiet lane between some buildings, eventually finding the complex of delapated buildings that formed this commercial crocodile farm which reared hundreds of these brutes for their meat and skin. Inside were a number of concrete pens, which we soon discovered were held shut with nothing but toilet door latches or bits of bent wire - I kid you not! I tentatively looked over the wall for my first glimpse, and the hairs on my neck stood on end briefly. They were grouped by age and pretty packed in, often lying on top of one another motionless, expect for the occasional splash as they quickly moved into the water. 

I motioned to one of the staff to ask where the crocs were killed and he pointed over a wall, so I climbed on a bench for a peek, quite taken back to find the peculiar scene of hundreds of decapatated crocodile heads laying on top of cages. Outside as a side attraction a couple of elephants with chains round their ankles grazed in a field, and some monkeys were kept in small rubbish strewn pens, not very pleasant and the stuff of nightmares for animal rights activists I imagine. I probably only encouraged this more when upon seeing an old guy offering, spontaneously decided to break a phobia of mine by holding a snake for the first time. The skin felt like latex, and the bones were very prominent underneath though thankfully it didn't really wriggle much. It's mouth was curiously held shut with Sellotape, but whilst a little creepy at first, the experience was actually quite tolerable. Another 'things to do before you die' box ticked.

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With the babies

Personal space? Pah!

The butcher's yard

Where next?

Borneo is a big island and in my mind without thinking I was going to see it all, until Rene mentioned he was thinking of moving on. It had been two months since I arrived from Singapore, and as much as I love Borneo's wild beauty and off the beaten track adventures, suddenly I realised I needed a change. It was time to move on. For a few days it looked like our travel partnership was coming to an end, as we both had different plans since Rene had visas to get for the journey ahead, but at the last moment he worked out a different way of doing things and decided to join me to the crazy looking (on a map at least) Sulawesi island.

The ferry schedule to get there didn't work with our timing, so once again I found myself in the position on trying to book a flight for the same day. It's not normally a major issue as prices don't really go up last-minute in Asia - but on this occasion things conspired against us with flights going up in cost before our eyes, selling out, two lots of payment problems and having to stay another night. After a whole frustrating afternoon disappeared by, eventually we resorted to a good old-fashioned travel agent nearby who surprisingly did it for the same price, and our Borneo exit was sorted.

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Kept men

One night for the week Rene and I stopped at a quiet bar on the waterfront for a drink and got talking to the owner - a 27 year old girl called Ubai (short for Djubaidah), a petite, pretty and chatty 'businesswoman' as she called herself, divorced with a seven year old son. Little did we know what was going to follow!

I mentioned to her I was going to get a haircut the next day. 'I'll show you where to go if you like' she said, so Rene and I met up late the following afternoon with Ubai and her friend Liona. It turned out the place was a few miles away, and she insisted on chauffeuring us there in her shiny one week old Honda wagon. Arriving at this fancy mall the hairdressers there was way too fancy and expensive for my backpacker budget, so we went for seafood soup and rice in a restaurant nearby and Ubai insisted on paying. She then took us to a little neighbourhood barbers nearby where they pruned Rene's mop and travellers beard into a work of art then butchered too much from mine, and this time Liona insisted on paying - the grand sum of £0.75 each! 

The girls had planned to go out to a bar that night and invited us to join them, so a couple of hours later Ubai and another friend of her's - Nila, an accountant, collected us and drove a few miles out of town. We reached Joy's bar, full of mostly foreign male expats and local women, and was pretty lively with it's live band and people getting up and dancing on the bar. Most of the expats work locally in the oil and coal industries, and one of them, a chubby double-chinned Kiwi guy who deals with hydraulics came and chatted for a while, crushing our hands with the most almighty of handshakes and proclaiming his love for living in Balikpapan. The owner Jerry introduced himself and handed us a free tequila, whilst a local girl beat every person in the house (including me) at pool. We met loads of people through the girls and had a great night out, yet once again when it came to paying our bar bill at the end of the night, we found the girls had already done it and once again wouldn't accept our share - over £25 of it! As we had a flight the next day, we said goodbye and went home in disbelief at the generosity.

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It wasn't over though 'cause the next afternoon I received a message asking if we'd like to hang out before our flight, so with a few hours to spare Ubai again drove the four of us to a smart beachside restaurant where the moneyed middle-class hang out, and we had a few fruit juices and chatted away for a couple of hours. Their English was excellent having worked for international companies based locally, and despite our insistence otherwise, the bill was paid again and we were dropped at the airport before saying goodbye. 

Rene and I sat in the departure lounge a little dazed by the whole experience. On reflection we decided it was a mixture of the Indonesian warmness we'd experienced previously, and maybe just a little bit of Indonesian women using their money to attract western men, even if they didn't push that idea too much. You know these stories you hear about western men buying foreign brides? Well, in a strange turn of events somehow the opposite nearly happened to us. There's no wedding bells, but a fun story all the same. 

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So after two months on Borneo, the third largest island in the world, that's it. I knew it wasn't going to be the untapped paradise it sounded and once was, but I was still surprised by both how developed it is, and just how much it's been ruined by logging and other more dirty industries. There's still an amazing amount of natural beauty though in the primary rainforest when you find it, and some very exotic plants and creatures. Was it what I expected? Yes, and more.

Busker on the bus

Rene desperate to tuck in

Indonesian's like to adapt their scooters for all sorts of purposes

Hard day at work

Rene, Nila, Ubai and I by the beach