Death in the afternoon
Blog: I don't wash my hair - 19 October 2009
By: Odd Duck
Sulawesi is not a particularly popular vacation destination back home, but if you've been there, you've heard of Tana Toraja, and if you've heard of Tana Toraja, you've heard about their funeral ceremonies. Stunning landscape, cascading rice paddies, yes, but all as a backdrop to the week-long events that secure the safe passage of their loved ones to the afterlife.
I recalled my experiences trekking in Tana Toraja here, however I did not mention the funeral ceremonies. These ceremonies involve the sacrifice of large numbers of animals, most importantly buffalo. If you know me at all, you are probably thinking, "Well, of course she didn't mention the funeral ceremonies! Carolyn couldn't make it through a rerun of Miami Vice without shielding her eyes from the bloodshed -- she would have to be an idiot of elephantine proportions to attempt to bear witness to the slaughter of a buffalo!" You would be right in thinking this: I am, in fact, an idiot of elephantine proportions.
Yes, I went to a funeral ceremony. I'm not going to write about the details because I don't want to. Attending was a mistake. However, not only did I attend, I recorded the first few minutes of event. I considered beforehand posting a warning at the top of a post with photographs of the ceremony; as soon as I snapped the first shot, though, I knew that was not an option. I considered posting the photos in a public album with a link for any curious reader more intrepid than I. But I'm not going to do that either.
In photographing the ceremony, I was recalling a moment in a movie I found entirely disturbing, The Bridge, a documentary about people who commit suicide by jumping off the Golden Gate. For a year, the film makers recorded a particularly popular spot for jumpers, capturing 24 of the 26 suicides that occurred during those 12 months. In one instance, the film shows a man photographing the bridge when he comes across a girl about to jump; rather than intervene, he begins photographing her as well. In the interview, he talks about the degree of separation he felt when he looked at her through his camera, the delay in his realization that he was not simply photographing a woman about to kill herself, but was also personally bearing witness to a woman about to kill herself. When this realization set it, he put down the camera and pulled her back over the railing.
I had hoped the camera would provide a similar disconnect for me. Now that hope seems incredibly stupid. It was a horrific event. It was made more personally horrific for me by the fact that I attempted to record it. I don't know if I would feel differently had I not snapped those first shots, but in addition to deleting the photos of the event itself, I am also deleting the shots I took beforehand of the buffalo waiting to die, the spectators, and the village.
The only shot I am keeping is the one of my shoes.
I recalled my experiences trekking in Tana Toraja here, however I did not mention the funeral ceremonies. These ceremonies involve the sacrifice of large numbers of animals, most importantly buffalo. If you know me at all, you are probably thinking, "Well, of course she didn't mention the funeral ceremonies! Carolyn couldn't make it through a rerun of Miami Vice without shielding her eyes from the bloodshed -- she would have to be an idiot of elephantine proportions to attempt to bear witness to the slaughter of a buffalo!" You would be right in thinking this: I am, in fact, an idiot of elephantine proportions.
Yes, I went to a funeral ceremony. I'm not going to write about the details because I don't want to. Attending was a mistake. However, not only did I attend, I recorded the first few minutes of event. I considered beforehand posting a warning at the top of a post with photographs of the ceremony; as soon as I snapped the first shot, though, I knew that was not an option. I considered posting the photos in a public album with a link for any curious reader more intrepid than I. But I'm not going to do that either.
In photographing the ceremony, I was recalling a moment in a movie I found entirely disturbing, The Bridge, a documentary about people who commit suicide by jumping off the Golden Gate. For a year, the film makers recorded a particularly popular spot for jumpers, capturing 24 of the 26 suicides that occurred during those 12 months. In one instance, the film shows a man photographing the bridge when he comes across a girl about to jump; rather than intervene, he begins photographing her as well. In the interview, he talks about the degree of separation he felt when he looked at her through his camera, the delay in his realization that he was not simply photographing a woman about to kill herself, but was also personally bearing witness to a woman about to kill herself. When this realization set it, he put down the camera and pulled her back over the railing.
I had hoped the camera would provide a similar disconnect for me. Now that hope seems incredibly stupid. It was a horrific event. It was made more personally horrific for me by the fact that I attempted to record it. I don't know if I would feel differently had I not snapped those first shots, but in addition to deleting the photos of the event itself, I am also deleting the shots I took beforehand of the buffalo waiting to die, the spectators, and the village.
The only shot I am keeping is the one of my shoes.
Comment on the original post at I don't wash my hair
The article above originally appeared on I don't wash my hair; we selected it for our BlogSherpa program. We sign up the best travel bloggers we can find and publish their articles on lonelyplanet.com. Good for us, good for them – our bloggers gain new readers and make a bit of cash. Want to know more or be a part of BlogSherpa? Visit the BlogSherpa page on lplabs.com
