Faces of Sulawesi
Sulawesi is one of Indonesia’s largest islands, and one of its least visited. In the highlands of Tana Toraja, in the island’s south, the Torajan people have built one of the most distinctive cultures in the world—one in which death is not an ending but a long, elaborate transition. The deceased are kept at home for weeks, months, sometimes years while families save for the funeral ceremonies that will properly send them on their way. I came to Sulawesi to learn more about their traditions and to see them up close. I left reflecting on my own perspective on death, struck by how two cultures on opposite sides of the world can approach the same inevitable moment differently.
In Sulawesi, I was frequently the most unusual thing people had seen that day. At the harbor in Makassar, in the rural villages on the road to Toraja, even just walking down the street—my selfies now live on the phones of more people from this island than my friends in DC. Children followed me through the streets. Strangers invited me into their homes. It turns out curiosity goes both ways. It was a funny surprise; I’ve never been the novelty before.
A few things you’ll notice in these portraits:
Traditional Ceremonial Dress
Several portraits feature traditional South Sulawesi ceremonial attire including elaborate gold jewelry, woven textiles, and ornate crowns that vary by region and occasion. In Tana Toraja, ceremonial dress is closely tied to significant life events, particularly funerals, where both performers and guests dress to honor the deceased.
The Rambu Solo
In Tana Toraja, a funeral is not a quiet affair. The Rambu Solo is an elaborate multi-day ceremony in which a family sends their deceased on to Puya (heaven) with music, processions, hundreds of guests, and the ritual sacrifice of many buffaloes. Families save for years, sometimes decades, to hold a ceremony worthy of their loved one. Several of the portraits in this series were taken at one. Read more about my experience at a Rambu Solo →
Tongkonan Houses
The tongkonan is the traditional ancestral house of the Torajan people, recognizable by its dramatic boat-shaped roofs. But they are not just houses; in Torajan culture, the tongkonan is the physical embodiment of family lineage and ancestral identity. For significant ceremonies like the Rambu Solo, temporary tongkonan structures are built specifically to house guests, then dismantled when the ceremony ends.
Betel Nut
Across much of Southeast Asia, chewing the betel nut is as common for the older generation as a cup of coffee. It is a mild stimulant chewed for its energizing effects. In Tana Toraja, you’ll spot its signature immediately: lips and teeth stained deep red, a small pod being rolled between the fingers.
I found this woman crouched at the jungle’s edge in the highlands of Tana Toraja. She was just a few feet away from the crowd of tourists that had gathered to watch the Ma’nene ceremony: a Torajan ritual where a family unwraps, cleans, and re-dresses the decayed body of a deceased relative.
This lady didn’t seem to be there for any particular reason, there was no familial connection as far as I could tell. She seemingly had no role to play. She was simply present, squatting barefoot on a pink mat, rolling a betel nut pod between her weathered hands.
When she looked up and saw my camera, she grinned without hesitation and then popped one of the seeds into her mouth. Her teeth were stained deep red, likely from decades of chewing it. Even though the remains of another was being exhumed just a few feet away, this woman was just going about her morning.
I spotted this young woman while at Ke’te’ Kesu’, one of Tana Toraja’s most storied traditional villages. She was dressed in full ceremonial attire: a hand-woven red cloth draped and belted in gold, and a red headband stamped with a gold face. Salim, my guide, helped me ask if she would allow me to take her portrait, to which she agreed quietly. She seemed a little shy, but she was stunning in that outfit.
Red is Tana Toraja’s most ceremonial color, and she wore it barefoot on the cobblestones. Salim and I didn’t ask why she was in full dress, but looking back, I really wish we had, because she was the only person there dressed traditionally.
Behind her, the tongkonan houses stood in a row, their facades carved from top to bottom in geometric patterns that have remained unchanged for generations. The houses face each other across an open courtyard, a layout that has defined Torajan village life for centuries. In Tana Toraja, even the houses tell you where you are.
I found this gentleman sitting within one of the temporary tongkonan structures, built just for the funeral I was attending. He was dressed in black, his sleeves embroidered with a band of red, orange, and gold textile. Around him, about 500 guests had gathered for the Rambu Solo of Berta Bira, a 95-year-old noblewoman who had died two years prior.
He noticed me taking photos of the crowd but didn’t seem particularly interested. His gaze kept returning to the courtyard below. The Master of Ceremony’s (MC) voice crackling over the loudspeaker, and to the buffalo standing in the center, calm and entirely unaware of what was coming.
A few feet away, another older man sat cross-legged on the woven mat, a cigarette burning between his fingers. He also had bare feet in the tongkonan house, a respectful requirement for all guests. He was dressed in black like everyone else, but the patterned shirt and gold watch added some personality to his attire. A bucket of discarded cigarette butts sat nearby; he was far from the only one smoking.
Throughout the day, women dressed in purple moved through the ceremony grounds delivering coffee and food to the guests. This was one of the small, constant acts of hospitality that ran underneath the spectacle of the Rambu Solo. This man had his coffee cup near his bare feet, alternating between a smoke and a sip.
He wasn’t paying attention to me and was not performing for anyone. He sat in profile, just exhaling slowly, watching the courtyard.
When this man moved through the ceremony grounds, everything shifted. He gripped a tombok (a ceremonial spear) and moved with rhythmic precision, kicking each heel up while bouncing on bare feet. His headdress was extraordinary: wide curved strips of silver metal sweeping outward from either side, shaped like the horns of a buffalo — the animal that, in Torajan belief, carries the spirit of the deceased to the afterlife.
The sounds coming from his microphone were unlike anything I’d heard: a loud scream followed by sharp, high-pitched bursts that sounded almost like a laugh. His cheeks were puffed out, and at one point he spat onto the ground; betel nut, Salim told me, though I had assumed it was chewing tobacco.
This portrait was taken in a quieter moment, between performances. Standing still, he looked like exactly what he was: the man in charge of escorting Berta Bira on her way.
Right behind the scream-laughing band leader, there were three other men walking steadily behind playing instruments. As a group, they moved through the circular space striking their heavy bronze gongs, with centers raised into a dome. The sound cut through the noise of the MC on the loudspeaker, who was simultaneously shouting out the names of family members in attendance.
This man was one of the band members: wearing a red striped shirt, feathered headdress, and holding the mallet in his hand. He was serious and seemed focused at the task at hand.
Visible behind him, dressed in a long black robe and wearing a peci (the black velvet cap that is Indonesia’s national headwear for men), was an elderly man who led the procession of out-of-town family members, some of whom had traveled from other Indonesian islands. As a group, they all walked towards Berta’s casket. It was the one moment of the day that felt less like a spectacle and more like a goodbye.
Just outside the gates of the Rambu Solo, the noise and the crowds faded. Salim had to pull me out of my daze to point out the rice paddies stretching across the hillside to our left: vast, green, and shockingly peaceful for something just minutes from the ceremony grounds.
As we stood there, this elderly lady walked past us on the dirt path. She was barefoot, had a towering bamboo basket strapped to her back, and wore a conical hat shading her face. She looked relatively close to Berta’s age, yet here she was, simply going about her day.
When Salim asked if she would allow a photo, she made clear she expected something in return. He obliged and provided a few Rupiah. I found myself wondering what her Rambu Solo would look like, and how many buffaloes would be sacrificed in her name — the Torajan measure of a life well lived.
I only spent one day in Makassar, the capital city of South Sulawesi before traveling to Tana Toraja. Early in the morning, I took a Grab (Indonesia’s version of Uber) to Paotere Harbor, one of the last working traditional harbors in Indonesia.
I had my camera strapped to me and as literally the only tourist around, I got a lot of attention. This man was doing some work on his boat when I wandered down the pier. He must have noticed me, so he hospitably grabbed a bunch of bananas and offered me one. I thanked him and ate it.
When I asked if I could take his portrait, he straightened up, squared his shoulders, and went completely serious, as if the camera demanded a posed version of himself rather than the candid one holding out bananas. But I preferred this one.
Just down the pier from the fisherman, a crew of workers was unloading heavy sacks of cement onto one of the large traditional wooden cargo boats docked at Paotere. They hauled the bags on their bare shoulders across the dock in the morning heat, some drenched in sweat, most covered in dust.
This man, looking exhausted, had stopped for a short break when I ran into him. His entire body — hand, face, shirt — were all coated in a fine layer of white cement dust. But most startlingly, his eyes were bloodshot from it.
He agreed to a portrait without hesitation, and just after this first picture, one of his coworkers in a green shirt wandered over and started pulling at his eyes to make them open more. By the end we were all laughing. He kept his thumbs up throughout, the universal sign that it’s all good, even when you are covered head to toe in cement dust.
On the long drive back from Tana Toraja to Makassar, Salim made our lunch stop at a restaurant that had just opened. Situated right across from the water, it was called Pesona Bahari, or “Charm of the Sea” in English. I was literally the only customer. Salim and our driver, Panchu didn’t join me. Like all of the other meals (except when I explicitly asked for their company), they simply found me at a table, ordered for me, and left me to be.
This young woman was the only server, dressed in full traditional South Sulawesi ceremonial attire: a green top over a pink woven sarong, an elaborate gold floral necklace, and a gold crown. She brought me a whole fish, a fresh juice, and quietly made sure I had everything I needed.
I wasn’t sure if the outfit was a daily uniform or a special occasion for the restaurant’s early days, but either way, it was a beautiful outfit. I asked if I could take her portrait before I left, and she smiled and agreed. Then, we took a picture together, as well.
Sulawesi is where Indonesia reveals its most unexpected self.