The island of Sulawesi is such a bizarre shape that it looks as though it was designed by an imaginative child. Conventional geological theory, though, likes to suggest that some genuinely weird tectonic action has been going on for millions of years to create this beautiful, remote and varied paradise.

So...after no fewer than four flights, we finally arrived in Sulawesi, from Borneo, via Java. We had one night in the not unpleasant southern Sulawesi town of Makassar where we proceeded to have a few beers (and a few more) and put the world to rights before embarking on the overnight bus up to Rantapao, the most convenient town from which to explore the central province of Tana Toraja, the cultural highlight of the island.

Needless to say, the bus journey was uncomfortable and rather disorientating but we arrived bang in the middle of town, uncommon for Indonesia as most buses seem to end up in the arse-end of nowhere, instead of a convenient bus station. Having settled in a charming guesthouse which unfortunately turned out to be run by a total crook, we headed into the hills on a wild goose chase, searching for funeral ceremonies.

Tana Toraja is a stunning setting for a bizarre local tradition. Every summer, during July and August, the villages hold funeral ceremonies for those who died in the previous year. These ceremonies go on for days and disparate relatives travel back from all over Indonesia to take part. And tourists love them, because they involve singing, dancing, chanting, processions......and SACRIFICE! Oh yes! Not to say that I am a bloodthirsty obsessive....but apparently I asked the guide over a dozen times to take us to a funeral ceremony where I would definitely see blood.

Water buffalo, pigs and chickens are led by the dozen to the funeral festival's central arena, surrounded by over a thousand spectators (all family), who are all getting drunk on strong rice wine. The atmosphere is frantic. Drumming provides a constant rhythm in the background, with occasional traditional dancing in the middle moving with the music. High pitched shrieks and wails blast over a loud speaker.

As we walked in, we were given a friendly welcome by the locals, as our guide presented our gift to the family (a 10 carton multi-pack of cigarettes). Unspecified parts of animal carcass littered the grassy ground, although I had no problem identifying a full set of pig guts under a stilted building, indicating that the sacrifices had started on day one of the funeral (yesterday), but we were hopeful of more today.

Not any old Tom, d*** or Harry can slaughter a water buffalo. These animals can cost up to $20,000 each, and a big funeral can see more than half a dozen bite the dust. So the local animal slaughterer can be a busy man in funeral season. A huge water buffalo was brought to the middle of the arena, and a loud speaker voice announced which relatives had paid for the beast. A man with a calm look, and a small knife stepped up. People crowded round, but kept a respectful distance of 6 or so feet, as the knife man did his work. Approaching the animal, which suspected nothing, he brought up his blade to its throat, and with a purposeful gesture made a 4-5 inch slice. Startled, the animal jerked back, and staggered, and the crowd also took a collective step away. Bright red blood gushed from the wound with astonishing volume. The life of the animal was being pumped out in pints before out very eyes, and I felt a sense of unreality about the whole situation. It fell to its knees, its legs twitching, and a huge pool of red forming on the grass. Five minutes later, the water buffalo was dead. The tourists were in awe at what they'd just seen.

Then the butchers moved in. With almost Teutonic efficiency, a team of three machete-wielding professionals skinned, carved and dissected the animal, distributing the pieces of meat, in keeping with an established hierarchy, to family members attending the occasion. In less than an hour, all that remained of one ton of water buffalo was its head, forlornly plonked on the grass, perhaps wondering where its body had gone. An amazing and powerful spectacle.

Fortunately, for the blood thirsty amongst us, there was more. It was time for the pigs! And these beasties, unlike the water buffalo, had a good idea about what was about to happen, and squealed horrifically, as they were led around the arena, accompanied by further announcements relating to the identity of donors. Then our guide led us to a small area just outside, where men with long bladed knives approached the bound animals, and powerfully stabbed then behind the front left leg, in the heart, amid frantic swine screams. I was grotesquely fixated as the wriggling animals struggled against their bonds, whilst spurts of blood jetted out.

Within minutes the animals were being butchered and cooked, and everyone, tourists included, was offered fresh pork.

There were other things I could talk about, but I was so captivated by the sacrifices that I'll say no more, other than remark on the Tana Torajans' obsession with death. Graves litter the countryside - they are hacked into rocks (cave graves); the bones of the deceased lie in open pig-shaped coffins, hanging from cliff faces; babies' corpses are carefully placed in sacred trees. When we left, it felt as though we were entering normality again.