IT COULD be said the people of Torajaland live for death. High in the rugged central mountains of the spastic swastika-shaped island of Sulawesi (formerly The Celebes), one of the few truly primitive funeral rituals to survive the 20th century has become a compelling, if slightly macabre, drawcard for travellers of a certain tenacity.
It is a bone-crushing, 330-kilometre, nine-hour road journey over some of the foulest roads in creation from the Sulawesi capital of Ujung Pandang (formerly Makassar) to the ancient villages of Makale, Rantepaeo, Kete and Palawa in the high, lush, isolatedTana Toraja region. Known traditionally as The Land of Heavenly Kings, the place where animists believe their forefathers descended from heaven some 20 generations ago, this remote kingdom of rarefied air and vivid green textures is the second most visitedarea of Indonesia after Bali - despite the arduous passage and the availability of only a small number of bungalows and basic hotel rooms.
Torajans treat the passing of their loved ones with an unsettling combination of solemnity and celebration. The Feast of the Dead ritual is an elaborate, strangely moving spectacle, which unites the inhabitants of an almost cosmic world in weeks, months and even years of extraordinary behaviour.
According to the tenets of Aluk Todolo, the ancient Torajan religion which survived the coming of both Christianity and Islam, death frees the soul to join its ancestors in the eternal afterlife, far beyond the southern horizon. If the proper rites are conducted, earthly goods can accompany their owner to the afterlife and he may continue his existence in the same manner as in his beloved Toraja. (Who was that fool who said you can't take it with you?) This view of death has given Torajans a common purpose. A lifetime of wealth is spent on staging a lavish ceremony which, in the case of important citizens, can require the sacrificial slaughter of up to 200 buffalo and 1,000 pigs. Before the arrival of the spoilsport Dutch colonizers, fresh human heads were employed in the ritual. Villagers suspected of witchcraft had their hands thrust into steaming pitch. If their fingers burned they were found guilty of sorcery and sold to a nearby village for beheading. Today, the large number of human skulls scattered all over Torajaland attest to this grisly practice.
Because a man's worth and standing are determined by his funeral, as many as 10,000 people are likely to attend a major week-long ceremony. The most popular aspect, with both residents and tourists, is the slaughter of buffalo by master swordsmen. As each mighty beast falls, children rush forward with bamboo tubes to collect the warm blood gushing from the severed jugular vein.
The cost can be enormous. When Chief Datutiki passed away, well over US$100,000 (HK$780,000) was spent assuring his prosperous passage to the hereafter. Many of the sacrificed buffalo were the rare white-spotted variety, each worth around US$3,000. For a remote native civilisation, this level of expenditure is quite astonishing and younger academics are beginning to question the wisdom of it all.
A body may be kept in state for up to two years, while relatives, friends and dignitaries from all over Sulawesi, Indonesia and the world are summoned. Offerings are carefully monitored and any skinflints become social outcasts liable to receive meagre offerings upon their own demise. Such a prospect is too terrible to even contemplate, so gifts are generous in the extreme, particularly as they must be strictly reciprocated by other family members.
