When we reached the cluster of weathered houses, five children ran towards us shouting "Belanda". About a dozen huts with roofs shaped like arks dotted a steep clearing bordering a narrow, winding river course. In front of it, agricultural patchwork and haze-covered mountains spread out. After we had walked for a while towards our rustic dwelling for the night, I held a child on each hand, beaming at me. "Belanda", my travelling companion Emre and I learned, means "Dutch", but more than 60 years after the end of the Dutch colonial period, it is used for anyone who comes across as somehow Western. Every time we reached a village, we had a gaggle of happy children in tow, calling us Dutchmen - sometimes for half an hour or more before turning around and heading home. Domingus, our mamasan guide, led the way. Led by the little man with the big, crooked teeth, a small horse hauled our equipment: sugar and cigarettes as a gift for the adults, sweets for the children and instant noodles plus water for us. The well-groomed steed and its rider had been working together for over 17 years, the taciturn horse whisperer finally revealed to us.

The trek had begun in Mamasa. Simple buildings stood in contrast to the elaborately carved banua suras (the traditional Mamasan houses) of the rural outskirts in this bustling, flower-filled town. Here, we were told, the boat hull-like roofs were less curved, but thicker and shorter than the famous, heavily curved ones at our destination, Tana Toraja. The banua sura were painted yellow, red, black and sometimes blue, and the front and back of each house were decorated with buffalo horns. The deeper we went into the mountains, the more the colour of the houses faded, the less complex the carvings became. But the curved roofs and the buffalo horns remained. We spent the first night in a banua sura near Mamasa - and were abruptly confronted with reality. Thick quilts served as mattresses, thin synthetic blankets were supposed to keep us warm. In the middle of the night, Emre and I shivered and covered ourselves with the "mattresses". For dinner we had noodle soup with pieces of spicy pork from our own slaughterhouse swimming in it. Emre threw up at night. Dogs howled and mosquitoes buzzed past my ear.

We were up at six, enjoying sweet tea and omelette for breakfast. Assuring our smiling hosts that we had slept wonderfully, we set off - uphill past rice fields, through hot jungle and cooler coffee and cocoa plantations. After a few hours, we reached a pass: below us, the green, hazy Mamasa valley spread out in one direction, in the other we could make out the dark ridges behind which lay the highlands of Tana Toraja. The path led down again. Once again we passed through coffee and cocoa plantations, but also untamed nature. The grass grew to shoulder height and almost overgrew the trail. Rain slowly set in, with thick drops. Our guide picked huge leaves, which we used as umbrellas. When the sun came out again, we reached the village in the clearing and the five nice children who greeted us with "Belanda". As we approached our homestay, children flocked from everywhere. They took us by the hand and led us to the "pools" fed by the river where they raised goldfish. Then they showed us the toilet, a bamboo perch above the river. And the shower, a small shack next door. Before it got dark, I went to take a shower, the children always in my wake. They watched as I tried to wash without taking off my sarong.

In the evening we sat in our wooden hut, lit by a storm lantern, and drank sweet and sour palm wine with Domingus, our guide, and the smiling couple who owned the "house". Then to bed on the same quilt mattresses as the night before, but with warmer blankets. We slept well. The next morning we set off again, down through rice fields, past small chapels on ridges and through villages of small wooden shacks on stilts. After a few hours, we crossed a river over a bamboo bridge, the border to Tana Toraja. Immediately we had the feeling that everything was a little more prosperous. The traditional houses, called tongkonan here, were larger, with bigger roofs that stretched higher into the sky. Some had thatched roofs, others were covered with wooden shingles and still others with corrugated iron. The roads widened, so that first motorbikes and later cars passed us. Gradually we returned to a more modern world. The first town was Ponding. It was on a dusty road, and we slept in a nondescript inn with proper, if worn-out, beds. The following day, early in the morning, we drove by jeep to Bittuang and then on to Rantepao, in the heart of Tana Toraja. This majestic region is surrounded by steep rice terraces, ancient villages with elaborate tongkonans and rocks hung with funerary shrines. We were again on a comfortable and spectacular tourist trail, but missed the hinterland of Mamasa, where every village had welcomed us like old friends.