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Beads of sweat caress my face as warm sunshine fills the small room. I see a lone buffalo outside the window, a rope threaded through a metal nose ring holds him in place. He can’t escape the heat. “It doesn't smell in here,” I say, hesitantly stepping forward. “Don’t bodies usually smell?” The scent I catch is reminiscent of sweet earthy woods, not of death. “Formaldehyde,” Meyske says, smiling. “A lot of formaldehyde.” Whispers of elaborate funerals and unique death rituals beckoned me to Tana Toraja, a region nestled in the highlands of Sulawesi, Indonesia. Here, I met Meyske, our Airbnb-host-turned-unofficial-guide. She is a native Torajan in her late twenties with long black hair, high cheekbones, and a smile that reaches her eyes. Today, we drive past bright green rice paddies to her family’s home to meet her deceased grandparents. Anywhere else in the world, this may be an odd activity for people that met only days prior. But here in Toraja, visits with the dead are an expected part of life. The couple lays side-by-side in the middle of the room. Her white dress stands out against the red walls, its silk puffed shoulders swallowing her frail body. The man beside her wears a simple black suit and crisp white collared shirt. His tie is the same shade of siren red as the walls. As I approach them, I recall Meyske’s instructions from earlier: “make sure to look at them when you speak. To us, they are not dead. They are only sick.” They look a shade past sick to me, but I oblige. “Thank you for having us,” I say, trying to make eye contact. A difficult task, I learn, when the person you are addressing no longer has eyes. “How are you?” Silence. “The sunshine is lovely today,” I continue, my tone feels overly cheery and I curse myself for reducing my small talk to the weather. They don’t respond, but I’m not offended. Mummies aren’t known for their conversational skills after all. Unlike Western society where death feels like a period at the end of a sentence, Torajans view it as an ellipsis; a gradual process simply leading to something else. “For us, dying isn’t the end of life. It’s part of the journey,” she explains. “Foreigners tell me they bury loved ones so quickly, but how do they have time to say goodbye!?” Western burial practices mystify her as much as Torajan intricacies perplex us. Waiting to bury the dead serves two purposes in Toraja. First, it provides space to grieve. Secondly, it gives the family time to fund a funeral, which is no small task. Not only must the family feed hundreds of guests during a 5-day procession, but the deceased must have several buffalo sacrificed in their honor. Torajans believe that buffalo spirits carry them to the afterlife, therefore a funeral cannot take place until a safe journey is ensured. The number of buffalo needed varies based on a person’s social status and class rank within the community. “They need twelve buffalo,” Meyske tells us as we circle the coffins. I’m not sure what number I expected. Two? Two hundred? Twelve seems reasonable. “My other grandfather was a village chief. He needed 24!” she adds, her words dripping with pride. With a single bull averaging $5,000 US dollars each - nearly three times an average Indonesian’s salary - it requires a lifetime to amass a collection. Since most people outlive buffalo, a complex system of trading, owing, and collecting ensues. If you bring a buffalo to a friend’s funeral, their family now owes your family one of greater value. Fortunately (or unfortunately for those in buffalo debt), an official record tracks who owes who, and exactly how much. While funds and buffalo are collected , the deceased are cared for in the family home. “We bring them three meals a day,” Meskye says, explaining what it’s like to live down the hall from her grandparent's bodies. “We take pictures together. We talk.” Caring for their relatives is not a burden, it is a welcome way to spend time together, even in death. “We take care of each other,” she smiles. “That is unconditional love.”