Life in Tana Toraja is a world away from the beehive of Jakarta, or even of Makassar, with at 1.7 million is a “small city” by comparison. Rantepao has a population of about 20,000, by contrast, and is set in an emerald jewel with rice paddies for facets in the bowl between mountains. Arranged around it, like beads on long strings, are traditional villages in which the centuries echo and hope for the future is growing.

Life here centers around agriculture, and animals. The vast majority of people in the villages plant rice and other vegetables and keep chickens, pigs, or maybe a water buffalo if they are lucky. Many of them still live in traditional houses, built on stilts that are shaped like boats and oriented north to south. Across from each house is a rice barn that only the women, traditionally, have access to.

Economically speaking, life is very hard. According to our friend Nichola, the average middle class family makes between 300-400,000,000 Rupiah a month, 3-400 USD. He says he makes a bit less than that. The “lower class” folks in the villages make more like $100 USD a month. Having 5-10 children in a household is normal. So a decent income is $4800 USD a year. One full sized black water buffalo costs $1000 USD. A piglet to raise yourself costs $50 USD.

As Nichola is talking it occurs to me that for our journey, to buy just our travel insurance with American Express, or World Nomads, or anyone else about half of the annual income of a family in one of these villages.

Rice is the backbone of village life.

The paddies spill down the mountain sides like silver and green waterfalls.

• Men bend their backs in yellow fields cutting the stalks with sharp curved knives.
• Women carry big baskets, with a strap around their foreheads, to be tied into bundles and laid to dry in the equatorial sun in front of their barns.
• Children beat the sheaves over baskets, knocking the grains off before further drying.

“We don’t export the rice,” Nichola explains, “It is only for feeding the villages, and sometimes for selling in the market for rich families to buy. My parents are farmers, we have rice fields, we all work. It is hard work, but it is good work. It is the work we have.”

Today is election day and tents are set up in each village.

We stop to visit with Nichola’s friends in one, they chat about how the voting is going and who is most likely to win. Nichola has explained to us that he and his family are voting for candidate number two, who is the incumbent governor.

“He is a patient man, he likes Muslims and he likes Christians. Both are okay. Here, in Tana Toroja we are strongly Christian and since he has been in power, it is very peace. Before him, there was much fighting between the Muslims at us. We not like the Muslims because they are many terrorists. There was much fighting and bombing in Indonesia before, but now, with this governor, we are safe. The other candidate, he little bit radical Muslim. This is not good for us in Tana Toroja.”

He shows the children how they vote, by secret ballot, punching a hole in the face of the candidate that they want to vote for with what looks a lot like my Dad’s old ice pick. “Not everyone can read, so we vote by… how do you say it? Poking!”

Those who have voted dip their finger in indigo ink so they can’t vote twice. The votes are counted on site when the polls close and reports made to the district. As we are eating dinner, high in the mountains, the report comes on the evening news: Candidate Two has won. Our guide is all smiles. “This is good! Four more years of good and peace.”

At moments like these I’m always stretched between dichotomous impressions:

The first being, how very alike we all are, across cultures, religions and politics. At the end of the day, what we most want is a roof over head, food on the table, an education for our kids and enough in our bank account or rice barn to carry us through hard times. We vote for the guy we think can deliver peace and prosperity and we work hard at the work we have.

The second being, that to the little child who looks way up at my very tall husband with just a little fear in his eyes and to the kids who giggle and demand pictures with my funny looking kids, that we must seem like space aliens, sometimes, imported from a world that some of these village children can’t imagine. Our lives are the stuff of TV to them, our journey, incomprehensible.

We’re ambassadors between worlds sometimes, and I never feel like we do the job justice.