New Year in Tana Toraja
Actually, Tadley did manage to throw a good party. We were let in the pub despite not having collected the tickets, and while there was drunkenness, there was no fighting. We all hugged each other. John and I toasted the New Year with Lagavulin and there was a nice fireworks display outside. It didn’t rain. For the first time in many days, we could see the stars.
But I digress. I want to write about New Year’s Day 2006.
“Selamat tahun baru!”
This was a phrase I would hear often on this day. The woman who was first to greet me in this way carried a bible in her hand. Mass had just finished.
“It means a peaceful new year!”
She taught me and soon I was able to greet others before they did. Smiles and hugs were exchanged with complete strangers. Except that, in Tana Toraja, I didn’t feel like a stranger.
On this morning, the area appeared even more like a fantasy kingdom. For the first time in days, the sun had broken through and I set off for a walk, hoping to reach a village famous for its rock tombs, high up on the slopes of a mountain.
Flowers blossomed everywhere among the striking and beautifully decorated buildings. On this special day, it felt like I was walking through a fairytale land. And everyone smiled.
But the mountain went on. Higher and higher and then, around a bend on the winding road, I could see the summit ahead—as far away as ever.
I walked past a playing field from where kids shrieked and waved at me. A woman ran out of her house and called. We hugged and exchanged New Year wishes, then she asked whether I could stop by for a chat on my way back, so she could practice her English.
“Of course, I see you soon!” I smiled.
The road wound on, and still there was no end in sight. I began to wonder whether I would make it all the way to the top, when a rusty van pulled up beside me. I was more than happy to accept the ride, but I know that it is customary to contribute to fuel, and I only carried a measly 5000 rupiah in my pocket. The driver waved me on anyway. 5000 rupiah was about the same amount as the locals paid, so perhaps I shouldn’t feel so bad, but I was the only person sitting in the back. As the road deteriorated and the van scraped over exposed rocks and nearly slid backwards down the almost vertical, gravel-strewn slopes, I felt single-handedly responsible for the wear-and-tear imposed by the driver’s heartfelt obligation to offer a lift to a pudgy foreigner.
However, needn’t have worried. In the next village, a whole gaggle of people were waiting for the vehicle to drive them back to Rantepao. That seemed a good idea. Alas, I was out of money. So I thanked the driver, wished the new passengers a happy new year and climbed out.
I looked around me. We were still nowhere near the top of the mountain. But the scenery was fabulous. If only I had change for a bottle of water…
A trickling stream solved that particular problem. I was glad that I had not filled my waterbottle with Tuac (palm wine) which literally flooded the market that morning—I had certainly been tempted—and that I always carry chlorine tablets when travelling in the tropics.
Out here, despite the scattered villages, the land appeared rugged and wild.
I passed what might have been ancient graves, or just rocks. Bamboo and bush gave way to clustered houses with their distinctive rice barns, their roofs symbolising the horns of a buffalo.
Around the next bend, there would be jungle, or a slope fringed with rice terraces. But the top of the mountain was no closer.
Eventually, the houses thinned, and I walked mainly past smallholdings.
Taking a look at the sky, I decided to turn back. I had no idea how long it would take me to return to Rantepao after accepting that lift, and I had to get back in good time before dark.
I remembered the woman. Would I recognize her house?
It took about two hours walking through the exotic landscape before I came back to the road and recognized the scenery from before when I climbed on that van.
That was fortunate, because by now it was about four in the afternoon. What was more: dark clouds had begun to gather on the horizon. If I hurried, I might get back just before the monsoon broke.
Not far now. There was the playing field. If only…
The kids were like sentinels. They came running, shouting and waving. I waved back and wished the ground would open up and swallow me. Alas, there was no escape.
“Ah, there you are! Come in!”
Damn.
Normally, I don’t begrudge locals practicing their English, but when I emerged from the house thirty minutes later (most of which were filled with an awkward silence while I struggled with my twenty words of Bahasa, trying to say something nice to the woman’s mother and brother), I realised that I was half an hour too late.
It was about a forty-five minute walk back to town. And a quarter of an hour later, the sky opened.
About ten minutes after that, the by now well-paved road flooded and water seeped over my ankles and into my water-proof boots. Another five minutes and I stopped caring as I reached the outskirts of Rantepao. The rain, hammering down in big sheets, drowned out almost all sounds.
“Selamat tahun baru!” I bellowed from the top of my lungs to those who could hear, and grins flashed at me through the grey veil of water.
Denni