Hogmanay Toraja Style
New Year’s is going to be boring here. Our former regular pub has changed management and the new regular has recently attracted a crowd of shady types, displaced from the ‘Fox’ when it lost its late licence. As if the possibility for skirmishes isn’t enough to put us, off, they charge entry for tonight, and it will be jam-packed.
I prefer instead to remember one of the best New Year’s parties I’ve ever had (apart from the one where the diving club held an impromptu ceilidh in the streets of St. Andrews at 3 am).
A year ago on this day, I climbed on a nightbus in Ampana—having returned from the Togean islands—and passed through a portal into a fantasy kingdom which bore no relation to the world around it.
I had arrived in Tana Toraja.
Or more accurately, in Rantepao, the local capital. And once I had settled in, I discovered that things were different here. There were people everywhere, but nobody stared. I wasn’t the only foreigner any more. And there were restaurants which served beer.
Over dinner, I instantly made new friends. Most of the people were smiling, there was an air of expectation. “New Year’s Eve,” one of my new buddies said, rubbing his hands. “Big party!”
Sadly, I don’t remember his name. My notes from that night are hazy, to say the least!
The party began long before midnight—with a motorcycle race.
The street that runs past the restaurant has a central division, which makes it vaguely look like a Roman chariot racing track, and it was put to good use by gangs of youths zooming past on their bikes at top speed. Mostly without lights.
“What if there’s oncoming traffic? Won’t the police—”
“No traffic, no police!” My friend flashed me a toothy grin.
My heart nearly stopped at the many near-collisions. Why don’t young people understand that they are mortal?
“Relax!” He clinked his beer bottle against mine and I followed him out to the street which was by now lined with people of all ages, many wearing party hats and blowing hooters.
This wasn’t like Palu at all.
Cases of beer were piled up on the curb. I found a chair along with some of my friend’s relatives. He introduced me. “My father is Muslim, I’m Christian—went to mission school—and my uncle over there is Animalist. Traditional religion. But we are all first Torajan!”
I could believe that. There was no sense of religious tension here.
The scooter race finished shortly before midnight. I have no idea who had won, or whether it mattered, but from what I could see, all participants emerged unscathed. Scooters were exchanged for bottles and we danced in the streets. Everyone hugged everyone.
Selamat tahun baru!
Tags: SE Asia, Travel, Tag Index
Denni