SULAWESI (PART 4), IN WHICH WE DO NEXT TO NOTHING FOR ALMOST A WEEK

It's been another, wonderful relaxing day in Bangkok. A day that involved seeing a movie (22 Jump Street) with new hostel friends, a Japanese lunch and pad thai for dinner. I n Myanmar we were on the go most of the time, so it feels nice to pause and slow down for a couple days. Also, it gives me a chance to get some blogging in.

This is the last part of the fascinating four-part series on Sulawesi (which means I'm almost done writing about Indonesia.) Nicole and I split from Matthew and Scott on July 13, after our day in Tentena together. We left in a shared van headed to the town of Ampana while the guys got a bus to the town of Poso, from which they would get the first of many flights heading back to the US. Even though we had only been travelling together for two weeks, I felt like I had gotten to know them both pretty well and was sad to see them go (all the more so for Nicole.) The whole getting-to-know-you process moves along at a lightning speed when you travel with people, so I felt like I was saying goodbye to friends as well. It was certainly fun to travel with them for a while.

On our morning journey to Ampana  brought us over more of the same bumpy, potholed, washed-out, twisty turning, awful mountain roads (are you getting the idea I really didn't like going over these roads? Nicole tried sleeping in the backseat, only to be violently bounced out of her seat awake.) The other travelers in the van were a German guy and a couple from Connecticut - she originally from California, he from Italy. We had met the German guy, David, the day before at the waterfall. By way of introduction, he had told us that he was interested in animals, primarily seeing them and eating them. He recommended a warung on the main street of Tentena where you could try nice, spicy bat dishes. Um... er... yes, thanks for the tip, but... no. And I learned that this really isn't something you should tell people when first meeting them, because although I knew his name was David, thereafter I always thought of him as "The Bat Eater." The couple, Karlyn and Roberto, were very agreeable and we just so happened to see them later at our guest house as well. (By the way, I feel like we've met a lot of Americans and Canadians on this trip. More than usual. It's very weird.)

After arriving, we spent the day in Ampana, as well as the next, as the ferry we needed to take came only on certain days. There wasn't much to do, expect we did have a bit of an adventure going around town trying to run errands. The travel agent who worked at the place where we stayed was a very friendly guy who took us around town by motorbike. (He was a also bit of an amateur palmist - for lack of a better word - who - with our permission - would feel pressure points on our limbs, backs, heads, and tell us about things in our lives, sometimes with a surprising amount of accuracy. He told me I was a "middle" person, very well balanced in my life, and that I wouldn't get any major sicknesses for a long time because I was so inwardly calm and balanced. I could believe it. I'd like to, anyway.) Anyway, he and his buddy very kindly took us to the bank and post office. Of course, nothing ever works the way you expect it to. The bank gave us a crap exchange rate - for absolutely no good reason - and we had to leave awkwardly out the back door because they lock the front door when they're getting ready to close. Have I every mentioned that Indonesians may be the least logical people ever? This is not any sort of bigotry, it is simple fact. The post office was also closed very early because of Ramadhan. But, with our travel agent friend's help, we simply walked around to the back and bought stamps directly from the manager in the backroom office. When you're living in the land of the highly illogical, you need an inside connection to get out of the bank and into the post office.

On the way back, we ran into some shady-looking characters demonstrating at an intersection. This is when the violence in Israel and Gaza had broken out in a spectacularly bloody way. Indonesia, being a mostly Muslim country, supports Gaza and Palestine very strongly. (According to Yulius, from Tana Toraja, many Indonesians mistakenly believe that Israel is a Christian country, which goes to show that people everywhere can be ignorant about world affairs.) The young men on the street corner were wearing the black and white scarves that you typically see young, militant Middle Eastern men wearing (a Google search informs me that it might be a "keffiyeh.") They were shouting their protests and collecting money. One guy had his hood obscuring his face, and walked with hunched shoulders, filming everything on his phone. Of course I think they had a right to protest and raise money for their cause, but we didn't appreciate the look they had given themselves, as if they were trying to intimidate more than inspire. They weren't very scary - they were just a few guys in a small Indonesian town - but all the same, they were bit of an unsettling sight.

On Tuesday morning we got on our ferry to head for our guest house, Poya Lisa, which is on it's own little island in the Togean Islands group. It wasn't a tourist ferry: mostly it was other Indonesians heading to various islands and a lot of supplies. The gangplank up was a horribly steep, single plank which we somehow managed to climb up. Once the three hour journey began, the sun beat down on us, which felt nice at first, but after an hour or so, we found ourselves covering up in sarongs and just wishing we would arrive. We stopped at a sea-gypsy village (because apparently some of them are not totally nomadic anymore) and unloaded most of the supplies. Of course, none of the supplies were conveniently grouped together at the front of the boat, but scattered all around so that a long, tedious game of searching and delivering ensued for about half an hour while we continued to bake under the sun. (Remember what I said about the land of the illogical? That cultural relativity only goes so far when you're hot and sweating and just want to arrive at your destination.) But arrive we did on the gorgeous little island where Poya Lisa is found.

Poya Lisa has a kitchen and common area on a rocky island  only about three times bigger than the kitchen and dinning area itself. The 16? 17? or so bungalows were  connected by to it by a stretch of
sand that was just a narrow path during high tide. A handful of bungalows were on the beach and another handful were on a hill overlooking the sea for both beautiful sunrise and sunset views. Our bungalow had two beds, a squatter toilet and mandi (bucket shower), a couple of chairs on the porch and a regrettably not-so-comfortable hammock.

I really can't give a day by day account, because I don't remember. The general routine for the next five days consisted of eating breakfast around 8 AM, lounging around for a while, going snorkeling in the afternoon, coming back to wait around for dinner, enjoying a communal dinner with all the other Poya Lisa residents, and usually enjoying some card games or chatting for a few hours until we went to bed and repeated the whole thing again the next day. It was blissful and lazy and wonderful.

The Togean islands are stunningly beautiful and the waters have the most amazing light blue and turquoise hues. We went snorkeling on our first  full day and I was blown away by the clarity of the water. When we hopped of our little boat (propelled by an extremely loud and dodgy looking motor and driven by a wizened and very capable old man) I was shocked by how far down I could see. It just went on and on. I feel like I could see for 40 or 50 meters! I don't know if that's actually accurate, because it's hard to judge distance underwater (for me, anyway) but surely it was some of the

clearest water I've ever seen. We were swimming along a ledge where it went from shallow coral reef to a dramatic drop off and beams of sunlight pierced the cyan and cerulean water for what seemed like an impossibly long way down. I think I was just in awe the whole time. There were also a lot of fish and sea creatures to see. Maybe not as many as Raja Ampat, but then again, how do you beat Raja Ampat? You don't. But the clarity, the depth, the colour of the water, combined with all that we saw made it a very memorable experience. Diving is great, but sometimes I think snorkeling is just as good.

During that first-day snorkeling trip we got to know two Spanish girls who had come over on the boat with us, a Slovenian couple whom we liked a lot, and three British travelers. Two of them left the next day, so we never got to know them, but the other one, Max, had already been there for about a week and planned to stay another week, and he became one of our Poya Lisa friends.

The sense of community at Poya Lisa was great. I especially loved the communal dinners when everyone came together at the end of the day. The tables sat together in three groups and we usually self-segregated by language. There were so many French people there. Actually there are tons and tons and tons of French people everywhere in Southeast Asia. In Myanmar, ils sont partout, comme d'habitude. Nicole and I have a lot of evidence pointing to the distinct possibly that there aren't actually any French people left in France, because they are all in Southeast Asia! Anyway, the French table was always the largest. Next we had the Spanish table and the English + Others table, which were about equal in size. English + Others included American, English, Belgian, Slovenian, etc. Karlyn and Roberto showed up a day or two into our stay and we immediately started to hang out as a group. A little community formed quickly which included the two of us, Max, another English man named Tom,
Karlyn and Roberto, a Belgian girl named Analise, a Spanish man named Ceasar (proudly pronounced "Theasar,") the Slovenian couple, Mattaya and Tibor, and sometimes the Spanish girls (whose names I never really leared.) People came and went in the group, but we tended to stick together: during the day we snorkeled or hung out or tried - mostly unscessfully - to walk on the slack line someone had tied between two trees. At night we played cards and talked. Nicole and I taught Karlyn and Roberto "Crazy Eights" and our variation of it, "Crazy, Crazy Eights" in which the winner of a round gets to add a new rule. Max taught us a variation of Yatzee. The friendship among the group was easy and pleasant and very enjoyable. The other member of our little group was Sammy, the adorably awkward puppy whose owner was coming back for him in about a week. His feet were too big for his body and he was in a teething stage, which meant a lot of muzzle-grabbing:"No biting, Sammy!" Poor puppy didn't have any chew toys. We tried, with inconsistent success, to teach him fetch, so he would start to chew on sticks instead of us, or the tables.

The other great thing about Poya Lisa was the food. It was simple and delicious. As in Raja Ampat, we were back to a fairly strict fish-rice-vegetable diet. At breakfast we had a real treat: banana bread and fresh fruit every day! Lunch and dinner were always a variation on the same theme. The variety and tastiness was much better than in Raja Ampat, we got such nice things as tomato salad and the occasional vegetable curry. But once again, we were eating quite low-calorie meals. I began to really savour the available sauces: the saltiness of the soy sauce, the molasses-like sweetness of the kecap manis, the combination sweet and salty tang of the ketchup. The sauces became a very important part of each meal. Simple, good, tasty, communal meals. It all added to the simple, lazy, social pleasure that was Poya Lisa.

After nearly a week of lazing around and getting eight or more hours of sleep each night (how very luxurious!) we left on a public ferry headed back for Ampana. We killed time in Ampana before a crazy 24-hour travel blitz to our next destination, Labanbajo on the island of Flores. That, however, will be a different blog post.

Look at me! I actually finished up two blogs in as many days! Don't mind me if I congratulate myself and give myself a gold star. One more blog for Flores and Bali, and then we'll be in Myanmar. Any last things to say about Poya Lisa? Not really. I think I've covered the basics: terrific snorkelling, great company, lazy days, a nice relaxing time. Nicole and I have often said that we are spoiled when it comes to get beaches. We probably will never get such nice beach experiences once we're back in the US. It's ok, I suppose. We've got memories, pictures, and of course, blog posts.

SULAWESI (PART 3), IN WHICH WE SEE MORE GRAVES AND RIDE OUR MOTORBIKES TO A WATERFALL

So, I didn't make my goal of finishing up with Indonesia before leaving Myanmar. Because I'm writing this from a youth hostel in Bangkok. You think you're going to go back to the guesthouse and blog at the end of the day, as you should, and then you just feel so tired. And then you're lazy and check Facebook, and play Angry Birds for 10 minutes, and fall asleep. But you don't need to hear my excuses. Only thing to do is just continue on writing. And continue on I shall. I'm still not quite done with our time in Tana Toraja, in Central Sulawesi, so I'll just keep going from there. 

The last day with Yulius started with a drive to a village burial site with graves carved into a large rock face, similar to the day before, but on a larger scale. There were even more effigies here, whole rows of respected village higher-ups dressed in bright yellows and reds, as their clothing had recently been changed. We heard more about burial practices and shopped around for souvenirs a bit. Next, we headed to a "living tree,"

where, up until eight years ago, it was the practice to bury children who had not grown any teeth. At this age, if a child dies, Torajans believe the child needs to "return to mother"/"return to heaven" to grow more and be born again later. They are buried vertically in small slots on the side of a specially chosen tree, to aid their passage back to heaven. Eventually, the bark of the tree will grow over the coffin enclosure cut into it, and if the tree falls, it is left undisturbed. It seemed a bit eerie at first, but I think it's actually a very sweet and touching practice.

The last grave stop of the day was to a cave with "hanging graves." Graves are suspended and/or carefully placed in rock shelves of caves, the better to protect them from thieves. The coffins do fall down over time and the bones that spill out are placed in big piles with other skeletal odds and ends, giving the cave a look like a prehistoric burial site or a forensic goldmine of bones. I loved it. Yes, it was morbid and somber, but, treating the skulls and bones with proper respect in mind and heart (they were once living, breathing people after all,) it was fascinating to wander through that cave. Anthropology, both cultural and physical, is my secret passion. On the physical anthropology side of things, I love bones, skulls, forensics, paleoanthropology, all of it; I really enjoyed the chance to look at those bones, identify the arm bones from the leg bones, ponder the skulls, examine the sutures between skull plates (and thereby make a guess about age)... in general wonder about who I was looking at and what sort of life they had led. For my travel mates, it was, perhaps, a little too macabre; but for me it was really intriguing. 

After lunch that day, we embarked on another rice paddy trek on narrow, grassy paths by beautiful fields of green and very muddy water buffalo. Not too long into our trek it began to rain. We picked up the pace and got into an area covered by trees, but we were quickly getting soaked. With just a bit of time to spare, Yulius led us around to the back entrance of funeral arena. We ducked under the shelter of a wooden pavilion and right away a loud, lamenting soundtrack played through a loudspeaker system greeted us; that, and an overpowering smell of raw meat and blood. It was, after all, a typical funeral. 

Yulius knew the family holding the funeral. They were relatives from his father's side as it turned out. This funeral had a much different feel from the first one we visited. Whereas the first one was full of pomp, circumstance, ceremony, bright costumes, this one seemed rather low-key. I suspect the deceased was of a lower caste than the woman whose funeral we attended on our first day, and as a result, the whole thing was smaller in scale. As it was raining, many people had already left for the day, and things were winding down. A good number of family member still occupied a few pavilion sections and we were invited to have palm wine and buffalo satay with the family, which we humbly accepted. In the corner of the adjoining section, a huge haunch of buffalo leg sat by itself, reeking of rawness and laced with blood and fat. Blinders on, blinders on, just don't look over that way...  

I enjoyed that funeral because it was spontaneous and had a more down-to-earth feel than the first one. What I did not enjoy was the sight and smell of meat everywhere. It was so... gruesome. Hunks of raw meat passed hands casually, both inside and outside the cooking area; cuts of buffalo and pig sat idly on the ground or in the pavilion area; large pools of blood were all over the muddy ground. Somehow it was even more intense than the first funeral; I think it was the smells and stenches. This is where an understanding of what "cultural relativity" means is more than passing useful. 

After a visiting with our hosts for a respectful amount of time, and waiting for the rain to pass, we met up with our van again and headed back to the hotel. That was the end of our three days with Yulius, and those three days really contained some intense, fascinating, morbid, and truly memorable experiences. 

The next day  was our last in Tana Toraja. We rented three motorbikes and took off to explore Rantepao on our own. Our first stop was at the market where Matt bought a Torajan sword/machete thing. Wrapped in newspaper, Scott ended up carrying it strapped onto his backpack, which made for a comical sight. (That combined with the fact that he was just too tall for his motorbike; Southeast Asia is not designed for those well over 6 feet tall.) 

Matthew and Scott had been particularly looking forward to the motorbikes in Indonesia, not just riding them, but driving them, so they enjoyed themselves immensely. Nicole doesn't like driving motorbikes, so she was Matthew's passenger. I do like driving them, mostly because, well, they're fun, so I had one to myself. I only ride motorbikes on vacation and then I usually cruise along at a leisurely 30, 40 kmph (maybe 50 if I hit a nice, clear stretch of good road.) Matthew and Scott had other ideas, however. 50 kmph was usually our minimum and we sometimes pushed to 80. I had no choice but to keep up, and I'm glad to say I did so adeptly. (80 kmph on a highway is nothing of course, but on twisting and narrow, often potholed Indonesian roads, it's quite a different matter.) We didn't have much of a course, just took turns leading a winding exploration down different country roads. I had to have my visor down, otherwise the wind tended to try blow my helmet off, but I would have had it up to enjoy the beautiful green scenery we passed. I think the only way I handled the traffic, schoolchildren, and potholes along the roads was two years of having experienced Indonesian driving, not infrequently from the back of a motorbike myself. I'm not sure how Matthew and Scott handled it, but you know the sort of self-assuredness guys in their 20s have (which is why they're generally not allowed to rent a car.) But all in all, it was a ton of fun, and I'm glad we did it. (You know, it's funny, at home I don't like passing other cars when it means going into the oncoming traffic lane; I avoid it at all costs. In Indonesia on a motorbike, however, I blithely overtake other motorbikes, cars, vans and big, lumbering trucks and find myself following the philosophy of the road that has vehicles flowing like water into all available spaces in the current of traffic. When in Rome...)

We returned from our motorbike excursion around 2 PM, and left soon thereafter in the car we hired to take us north to the town of Tentena. The roads were slow-going and tumultuously mountainous. If it wasn't hairpin turn after hairpin turn, then it was giant, gaping potholes, uneven roads, or completely washed out segments. Apparently you can take a bus from Rantepao to Tentena, but I don't think I would dare. I'm really not sure how they do it. Not without delays and stomach-turning maneuvers, I think. 

We arrived at our hotel in Tentena at 1 AM, which wasn't so bad, all in all. (Part of travelling, whether it's in Indonesia, Myanmar, or anywhere, is spending hellishly long amounts of time sitting in vans and buses, watching the hours tick by as you slowly reach your destination. Freeways and interstates, such as we have in North America don't really exist, so even when you  feel like you're going along at a good pace, it's still takes a long time.)

On our last full day together as a group of four, we once again rented motorbikes and set off in search of a nearby waterfall and Poso Lake, which is one of the largest in Indonesia. We almost missed the turnoff for the watefall, but some locals, anticipating where we were going, flagged us down to point out the way. The waterfall turned out to be much more beautiful, and less crowded, than the one we visited near Makassar. There was no one else there save a handful of other tourists whom we had seen frequently in Tana Toraja and who had come to Tentena at the same time as us. The water was freezing cold, a shock to the system, but it also felt nice once you got acclimated to it. We found that we could duck under the waterfall itself, which was awesome. There wasn't much room, maybe a foot of depth behind the pummeling curtain of water, which made it feel cozy, cramped, and cold, all at the same time. And the rush of water was deafening of course! We hid out underneath the waterfall for a minute or two, enjoying this unexpectedly delightful discovery, and then ambled over other rocks and up to another section of the waterfall. It was an enchanting place and lots of fun, and felt all the more special because we were mostly alone there.

When we had had our fill of the waterfall, we tried an interesting experiment to see if we could fit all four of us on a motorbike. Turns out, we could! Of all things, Scott sat in the very front (still not sure where all of his limbs went,) Matthew drove, and Nicole and I sat on the back. We putted along at about, oh, 5/10 kmph down the road for a few meters and made an entire family turn their heads and bulge their eyes as we passed their house. Having successfully answered this pressing question of physics, we headed for the lake.

En route to Lake Poso I was Matthew's passenger (remember, only two motorbikes that day.) He was "coming in hot" (as he put it) with his philosophy of "if you treat it like a racecar, it is a racecar." Just as we were coming to the lake road, we hit a spot where we had to quickly slide between a pothole and pile of gravel, and... we just didn't make it. Down went the bike, with Matthew on top of it and me on top of him. I didn't really crush him though, because my hand had come out to brace the fall. We were both in a bit of shock: "Are you okay?" "Yes. Are you okay?" "Yes." And this being established we got the bike up and waited for Nicole and Scott. 

They later told me that they had never seen me looking quite so pissed off as when they pulled up and I asked Nicole if she wanted to take Matthew back (as I had been Scott's passenger beforehand.) Well, Matthew was definitely shaken up too, so we proceeded with more caution and made it to the lake with no problems. In the end, we were both fine: the most we suffered was a scrapped knee for me and a scrapped ankle for Matthew, for which I'm thankful. I still have a bit of a scar from that, about penny-sized. Just one more battle wound / parting present from Indonesia. (I'd like it known that I've never gotten into any accidents when driving myself or riding with other BBS teachers or other Indonesians; just 24-year old American males.) Still, at the end of the day, I get a story for my blog out of it and the chance to point to my knee and say, "That? Oh, that's from a motorbike accident," which, you know, is a tiny bit badass. (That, or just incredibly stupid; I'm not quite sure which.) The knee was only sore for about a week. It wouldn't have been a problem if it wasn't for having to use squatter toilets at our next guesthouse; my knee did not appreciate all that squatting! The other consequence is that I have now marked off all 20 items on our commemorative "I survived Jakarta / BBS" t-shirts which the expat staff made at the end of our two year contract. (We called it the EOC - End of Contract - Assessment.) Up to this point, I only had 19 out of 20. Now I get to check off  "fell off a motorbike" as well as "rode" and "drove."

Lake Poso was very nice, though not quite as charming as the waterfall. Still, nice for relaxing before heading back to the hotel. Rain clouds were gathering, so we knew we had to head back before the rain trapped us. We made it back in time and only got sort of wet.

So, that wraps up Tana Toraja and Tentena. At our next destination - the Togean Islands in the northern part of Sulawesi - we did almost nothing but laze around, so hopefully that will be a shorter blog.

As I said earlier, I'm in Bangkok at the moment. Nicole and I are spending two days with our new friend from Myanmar, Jenna, before departing northward for the Laos border. It was almost two years ago (October 2012) that I was in Thailand last, and this time it's... well, "same same but different." The sameness comes from the fact that we are once again spending two days in Bangkok before heading north to the town of Chiang Mai. The differences are... For one, I'm not a novice traveler anymore. October '12 seems like an age ago! Second of all, Chiang Mai is not the final destination this time, but just a stop on our way to northern Laos. Third, whereas last time we rushed between the major sights during our two days, this time we're taking it easy and seeing Bangkok from quite a different perspective. Nicole, Jenna and I went to the mall today. We wanted to exchange money and Nicole and Jenna were in pursuit of new notebooks. I ended up buying new Keens (sports sandals) because my old ones were truly worn out after 2 1/2 years (they got a superglue repair job at Inle Lake.) We bought gourmet popcorn and perused the other gourmet specialties. And now I'm relaxing with a beer and blogging. No rushing, no sightseeing, no particularly touristy activities. Walking around the mall today made me feel like I was having regular old weekend in Jakarta. I felt just like an expat again and not a backpacker. It was nice, actually. 

Tomorrow it's off to Chiang Mai, and hopefully across the Laos border into Huay Xai. That leaves me with quite a bit more blogging to do... But, with these lovely desktop computers with real keyboards at the hostel, perhaps I can even cover Togean Islands tomorrow. (Maybe... don't hold me to any promises!) 

SULAWESI (PART 2), IN WHICH WE DRINK PALM WINE FROM A BAMBOO SHOOT AND TRAMP THROUGH RICE PADDIES

We saw a lot during our first day in Tana Toraja, but it was just the beginning really. Day two with Yulius involved a trip to the local buffalo market first thing in the morning. We wandered around vendors vending typical market things: vegetables, chilies, eggs, rice in three different colours, toys, pens, purses, soap, etc. There was also the famous Torajan coffee for sale. They would grind the beans in front of you and then seal the plastic bag with a candle flame. (Cool!) We also stopped at a vendor with big, white plastic containers. These were different varieties of palm wine, which we had sampled for the first time the night before, with our traditional meal. We got to try samples poured out into thimble-sized cups. The Torajan palm wine isn't too strong, because it's only harvested from the trees and not distilled at all. (On a side note, I have it reliably from friends that when it is distilled, using dodgy-looking stills on the side of the road, such as they have in Flores, it can be very strong indeed.) We picked the one we liked best and they served it to us... in a bamboo shoot! The length of bamboo was about two feet tall and we all took turns carrying it and drinking from it. (Yes, at 10 in the morning. No judgement please!) We also all took turns clumsily spilling the palm wine on ourselves when the bamboo was almost empty. And not because we were feeling the effects of it, but because it's very awkward to drink out of an almost empty two-foot tall bamboo shoot. It's like when you're trying to finish a glass of something and all the ice falls on your nose.

The buffalo were on display in a small muddy field on the edge of the market. Torajan buffalo are always led by and kept on their nose rings, and they stood about for all to see. (They are kept on the nose rings to strengthen their necks for the buffalo fights at the funerals.) Albino buffaloes are especially prized, as are ones with long tails, for no other reason than the long tail symbolises longevity. And just to be clear, these buffaloes are being sold and bought for funerary purposes only. They don't work in the fields or anything, they're just cared for over the years until it comes their time to aid someone's great auntie into the afterlife. And how much will such a magnificent beast cost you? Conservatively, about 1,500 dollars. And if you're a big spender and need something extra special for the funeral you're attending, you can pay as much as 100,000 dollars. Yes, that is in USD. (At least that's what we heard from Yulius. He spoke very good English, so I don't think he misspoke, but still, it's such an awful lot of money. Our 2012 guidebook lists 80 million rupiah, or about 8,000 dollars, for a top-tier buffalo. But any way you cut it, 1,500 or 8,000 or 100,000 that's a significant chunk of cash.) 

On our way out of the market we also saw pigs for sale, some of them being tied up in the bamboo "frames." Even saw one, en frame, carried away on the back of a motorbike. Still just such a strange sight. We ended up leaving the bamboo palm wine flask/glass by the side of the road (because really, what are you supposed to do with it?) and drove off into the village-dotted hillside in search of adventure... or lunch.

First, we stopped to see some people shelling/shucking rice on the side of the road (not quite sure what word applies when it comes to rice.) A little boy there followed us for a while as we walked along. He was very cute, and there's a great picture of him trailing 6-foot-6 Scott and looking up in wonderment. We also stopped a Torajan burial rock. We were quite a ways from Rantepao by this time, just making our way up steep hills, around rice paddies, and though very small villages. The burial rock sort of came out of nowhere. The huge rock in question had spaces for coffins carved out of the rock - no easy feat, and in fact one that takes years. The hollows with the coffins are covered with small, square wooden doors, and in the case of some of the older or more prestigious graves, there are wooden effigies in the likeness of the deceased within standing vigil from small niches by the grave doors. Beside the huge burial rock was another little graveyard of sorts: this one of coffin-carrying litters.

(There are probably better words in the Torajan language that describe exactly the things we saw, but A: I don't know them, and B: neither do you.) We were informed by Yulius that on the way from a funeral to the burial spot, the coffin bearers will play with the coffin, having fun, goofing off, even rough-housing a bit. This seems like bizarre behaviour from a people who so carefully and devotedly attend to their dead, but the thought goes that it is the last chance for the deceased to have fun with their family.

We ate lunch at a restaurant with good food and a better view out over the sloping hills of rice paddies. After lunch we set out to do some trekking through the rice paddies. We went slowly because the path was narrow and slippery in parts, but overall it was a gentle trek. (Yulius seemed to think I needed help though because I slipped once. Well, that's what happens when it's slippery. He began to tell me where to put my feet and give me a hand down; later he did the same to Matthew. I appreciated the thoughtfulness, but sometimes I don't like being given a hand because it makes me less in control of my own balance.) It was a beautiful trek however, and there was frequent stopping for picture taking. Nicole and I both love the colour of vibrant rice paddies in the sunlight. It's called "rice-paddy-green" which is a very close cousin of "the-underside-of-leaves-when-you're-walking-through-a-deciduous-woods-on-a-sunny-day-green." We ended up meandering through some small villages and our way to the road. There were children around calling out "Bom bom!" which confused me until I figured they meant, "Bon bon!" or "Candy!" It's typical for tourists to give kids candy, and although it's a sweet gesture, I don't know how I feel about it because first of all, it's bad for the kids' teeth, and second, it teaches them to expect candy from every tourist, as if it's their right to be given candy all the time. We didn't have any "bon-bons" so we gave away a couple pens instead.

Yulius explained more about the Torajan culture as we went. He explained about how the dead are kept at home (and asked if we wanted to see a mummy, to which we politely declined) and told us again how rice is kept in the upper stories of the traditional Torajan buildings, accessed by a bamboo ladder with notches for foot holds. Both larger homes and smaller store buildings are passed down through the generations. Eventually we came out onto the main road, walked a while, and were then picked up by our driver again.

When we got back to town, it was decided that Matthew and Scott should experience their first Indonesian massage. The only masseuse in town was a fellow by the name of "Denis." Typically Denis comes to your hotel room to do the massage, but that just seemed creepy (right?) so we opted to go to him instead. They just had room for all four of us, but Nicole had to have her massage on someone's bed, which they had moved over. Midway through the massage she heard a crunching noise and opened an eye to see some kid - probably the usual occupant of the bed - eating a snack and staring down at her. The massage turned out to be a communal experience because they didn't have separate rooms, just an area of the family's living area curtained off. And for some weird reason, Scott got a female masseuse and I was stuck with Denis himself. It was an interesting experience, not quite like what you get in Jakarta, but one we could laugh about afterwards. Poor Matthew and Scott had no idea how it was supposed to work. Scott said he kept looking over at Matthew, who had started a few minutes before him to see what was going to happen next. 

That night we were invited to a pork barbecue to celebrate the national election, which was that very day. Yulius was a very enthusiastic supporter of choice #2 on the ballot, Joko Widowo (better known as Jokowi.) I got a picture of him holding up his left hand with the inked pinky finger that showed he voted, while he holds up a number two with his right hand. Even though I saw many campaign posters for both candidates (Prabowo and Jokowi) I only ever heard people give their verbal support for Jokowi. In Jakarta he was the popular candidate as well. (As it turned out, the election was very close so they had a recount. In the end, Jokowi ended up the victor.) The barbecue was delicious by the way. Fatty pork and palm wine was found in abundance. A great day followed by a great night!