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Kristina Banne has been dead for almost nine years but her oldest son still tenderly applies her favourite musk-pink face powder.

“All pretty now,” Bartolomeus Bunga murmurs, readjusting the metal-rimmed spectacles on her crumbling nose.

He lifts her mummified corpse out of the coffin and smiles for family portraits. “Nenek (grandmother),” Kristina’s young granddaughter says softly, touching the brightly coloured batik skirt the matriarch has just been changed into.

We are at a mountaintop cemetery in the village of Pangala in North Toraja, a regency of South Sulawesi in Indonesia, witnessing ma’nene, a ritual to pay homage to ancestors, which takes place after the rice harvest in August.

The corpses are removed from their tombs, groomed and dressed in new outfits. They smell mildewy but the odour is not foul. Some wear sunglasses and jeans, others delicately beaded white satin dresses and bejewelled earrings.

A young man places a lit cigarette in the mouth of his dead relative. It’s surreal to watch a cadaver “smoke”, its mottled leathery face riddled with holes.

A few years back at a ma’nene ritual, Bartolomeus took his mother for a spin on his scooter.

“Doing ma’nene is my way of repaying my mother’s love,” he tells us. “I am carrying my mother just like she carried me when I was a baby.”

A gold cross glints around Bartolomeus’ neck. Most Torajans identify as Christians and Kristina had been very active in the church. Bartolomeus tears up when he talks about her. “She was very friendly, she never raised her voice to any of her children, she was very caring to her grandchildren.”

Kristina died from diabetes when she was about 65. The first year after her funeral Bartolomeus missed her terribly. “But after the first ma’nene it was as if I had actually met her.”

Now Bartolomeus, a rice farmer, looks forward to seeing the deceased members of his family every year.

“It’s like when you come home for Christmas, it’s that feeling of joy meeting someone you haven’t seen for a long time. A lot of people would consider a graveyard a scary place. Here it is just like your parents’ home. There is no feeling of being scared.”

It may seem strange to the outside world but Torajans are completely at home among the dead. Death is far less definitive here than in other cultures, more a crossing from one place to another than the bitter end.

It is not uncommon for people to remain in their families’ homes for years after they die. Indeed, it is not until the funeral that a person is considered dead. Until then, they are referred to as to’makula – a sick person.

“Toraja people believe the spirit of the dead lives among us, the living, looking out for us, blessing us,” says Eric Crystal Rante Allo, the head of the Torajan branch of AMAN (customary law community alliance of Indonesia).

“That’s why, before the ritual of the burial is performed, they are called to’makula, or just sick, not yet dead. Toraja’s people highly respect their dead.”

The long road to the afterlife

We are in the mountainous regency of Tana Torajah inching up serpentine, pot-holed roads past cliffs with tombs carved into the rocks. In some parts of Toraja, these tombs are guarded by wooden effigies of the dead person called tau tau.

The other side of the road plunges treacherously into valleys of terraced rice paddies. A buffalo picks its way alongside waterlogged fields with a white egret on its shoulders. The landscape is dotted with the distinctive buffalo-horn shaped roofs of the traditional houses of the nobility, known as tongkonan, and rice barns.

Sangalla village is in a clearing fringed by verdant jungle. It is here that Alfrida Tottong Tikupadang, who died five years ago, lives with her family. Seven-year-old Meike is the closest to her grandmother.

“I’m going to school, Oma,” she shouts every morning on her way out the door. Three weeks ago Alfrida’s husband, Yohanes Pantun Lantong, died of Parkinson’s disease.

The couple now lie in coffins side by side, reunited in a small room. The walls are covered in red material and decorated with a beaded sun motif and two traditional daggers.

“We will occasionally bring in food and say, ‘Oma, Opa, here is food’,” says Yulius Lantong, the couple’s fourth child. “The feeling of loss is not there yet because I can still see them.”

It was true love that delayed the funeral of Alfrida.

“When my father was still alive he said, ‘Don’t bury my wife too soon’,” Yulius says. “It’s possible he wanted them to die together.”

We hesitate about entering the red room but Yulius waves us in.

“Dad is very happy to have a lot of people in the house. He was active in promoting tourism in the area. My mother’s body was photographed many times by tourists and bule (white people).”

The door to the parents’ room is plastered with an Astroboy sticker from the Japanese children’s manga series. Inside it is peaceful and smells of sandalwood. Little Meike peers into the coffins, unperturbed. Alfrida’s glasses are cloudy and her face has decayed. Her wizened hands grasp a crucifix. But her husband looks like a wax model, even his eyelashes intact.

In the old days, the bodies were wiped with tea and embalmed using a mixture of herbs. Today a family member injects three litres of formaldehyde.

“If we didn’t we wouldn’t be able to sit here relaxing like this,” says Yulius. “You can see for yourself that three weeks after my father died you can’t smell anything.”

The extended family has recently met and decided the funeral will be held in January. The social status of the deceased determines the scale and grandeur of the ceremony. Alfrida was a member of royalty and the red, white and gold hieroglyphs carved into their elaborate coffins dictate that a minimum of 12 buffalo must be slaughtered.

“If we can afford more we will slaughter more,” Yulius says.

For centuries the Toraja were virtually cut off from the rest of the world. Their traditional religion, Aluk To’dolo, a combination of ancestor cult, myth and animal sacrifice, was handed down by word of mouth. The Toraja believed that their ancestors descended from the heavens. After a funeral, they would return to the realm of souls in the sky, known as Puya.

In 1913 Dutch missionaries founded schools in Toraja and most of the population converted to Protestantism or Roman Catholicism. However, despite practising Christianity, contemporary Toraja death rites, including the slaughter of buffalo, continue to be strongly influenced by the old religion.

“The old rituals are not dying out, they have been integrated into Christianity,” says Eric Crystal Rante Allo, the expert on customary law.

Religious syncretism is common throughout Indonesia. In Java, many adhere to a tradition known as kejawen, which combines animistic, Islamic, Buddhist and Hindu beliefs. It was precisely these animist beliefs the Indonesian government sought to stamp out in the 1960s by officially recognising only Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism and Christianity. But the Toraja argued their religion was no different from Balinese Hinduism and, in 1970, Aluk To’dolo was recognised as a form of Hinduism. In truth, there is a stark difference.

“In Hindu they cremate their dead but, for the Toraja, only the worst sinner, only them, their bodies will be burned down,” Eric says.

A lavish celebration

In North Toraja’s capital, Rantepao, we attend the first day of the lavish three-day funeral of Yustina Pabarrungan, a retired school teacher from a noble family. One thousand guests have come from as far away as Papua, Indonesia’s easternmost province, to celebrate the passing of her soul into the afterlife.

The most coveted gifts are water buffalo, a currency more valuable than money in Toraja. Fourteen are to be slaughtered over the next three days and the meat distributed among the guests.

One relative has gifted the most prized buffalo in all of Toraja, a predominantly white species with pink skin and unnerving china-blue eyes, known as salepo. We are told a top salepo is worth as much as the Toyota Avanza we are being ferried around in.

“The whiter the hide and the bluer the eyes the more valuable,” explains Lisa, a Torajan local. “They are very sensitive. They have to be cared for very carefully to make sure they don’t get mosquito bites and you have to feed them a special sort of grass. Otherwise the price goes down.”

In Ring of Fire, Bali-based anthropologist Lawrence Blair writes of a “zombie tradition” among the Toraja, where warriors had to die in their own village circle if their souls were to return to the heavens.

“Should they die beyond the (village circle), then their shamans, the stories went, could quicken their corpses for long enough for them to walk home under their own steam, even without their heads.”

We consult Toraja customary law expert Eric Crystal Rante Allo, who agrees that once there were people who possessed that magical ability.

“They could bring the body back to life, they could make a slaughtered buffalo walk again, they could stand on knives stuck to a standing bamboo. But with Christianity they slowly diminished and now they have completely gone. No more exist.”

We'll meet again

At this year’s ma’nene ritual, Bartolomeus Bunga is greeting three of his family members. His father, Amba Kaso, who fought for Indonesia’s independence, died eight months ago. Also removed from the sky-blue family tomb is his brother Lukas Banne, who still clutches his Nokia mobile phone.

Secreto de amor letra. Am I gonna be the one?

His widow, Sarlota Banne, a dignified woman with reddened eyes, brushes the debris off his face with a paint brush and changes him into a new white T-shirt bearing the marketing slogan Malaysia Truly Asia.

It’s a personal touch: Lukas worked for nine years as a heavy machine operator in Malaysia. Sarlota talks to him about their daughter.

Iti fitter trade theory book in hindi pdf. “I feel relieved after doing this,” she says. “I will talk as if he is still alive.”

Sarlota prays for a long life so she can meet her husband many more times during ma’nene rituals.

“Other religions you see someone from a distance, you see someone’s tomb,” she says. “Here it is closer. You get to actually meet the person.”