Chapter 5: The Aftermath of Pasola – Reflecting on Tradition
Edisi Indonesia: Setelah Pasola
The Pasola celebration had come to an end, but the echoes of galloping hooves and the clash of wooden spears still lingered in the air. The village of Sumba was slowly returning to its rhythm, but for Arya, the festival left a lasting imprint on his mind. The pride, intensity, and lessons learned were too vivid to fade easily.
Walking alongside Merapu, his loyal black horse, Arya made his way through the village. The sun hung low on the horizon, casting a warm glow over the thatched roofs and fields. His thoughts drifted to the events of Pasola—how the festival wasn’t just a spectacle, but a living testament of their connection to the Marapu spirits. It was a reflection of their courage, unity, and their ancient way of life.
“I wonder, Merapu, how much longer we’ll be able to keep this tradition alive,” Arya mused aloud, his hand gently brushing the horse’s sleek mane.
Merapu let out a soft whinny, as if in agreement, his hooves making rhythmic sounds against the dry earth.
Later that day, Arya found himself sitting beneath the sacred banyan tree in the center of the village. The old tree, with its sprawling roots and thick canopy, had witnessed countless Pasola celebrations. Arya leaned against the trunk, closing his eyes, letting the cool shade offer him some peace.
Suddenly, an older villager approached. It was Raga, one of the village elders, his face lined with years of wisdom.
"You seem deep in thought, Arya," Raga said, settling down beside him.
Arya nodded, gazing up at the tree branches. "I’ve been thinking about the future of Pasola, Pak Raga. It feels like every year, it becomes harder to hold onto. The world outside our island changes so fast, and I wonder if we can keep our traditions alive."
Raga chuckled softly, a sound filled with both amusement and understanding. "Ah, you young ones always worry about the future. But Pasola is more than just a festival, Arya. It’s in our blood, our breath, and in the way we live every day."
Arya frowned, looking out at the villagers who continued their daily tasks—some planting rice in the fields, others weaving intricate ikat patterns. "But what if one day... things change too much?"
Raga sighed, resting his hands on his knees. "Change is inevitable, but traditions like Pasola are carried in the heart. As long as we honor our land, our ancestors, and each other, Pasola will live on. It’s not just in the wooden spears we throw, but in the way we tend to our rice fields, how we respect the spirits, and how we stand by each other as a community."
Arya listened intently, the elder’s words resonating deeply with him. The festival might be over, but its values—courage, unity, respect—were still woven into their daily lives. The essence of Pasola didn’t fade with the end of the celebration; it remained in every action, every moment.
He looked down at Merapu, who had been grazing quietly nearby. The horse lifted his head, meeting Arya’s gaze with a calm but steady presence, as if echoing Raga’s wisdom.
"Perhaps you’re right, Pak Raga," Arya said, smiling faintly. "As long as we remember the spirit of Pasola, it’ll always be with us."
Raga nodded, placing a hand on Arya’s shoulder. "Exactly. Tradition isn’t just about grand gestures, Arya. It’s about how we live, day by day, with honor and connection to our roots."
As the sun set behind the distant hills, Arya felt a newfound sense of peace. The future might be uncertain, but as long as the people of Sumba carried the spirit of Pasola in their hearts, the festival—and everything it stood for—would endure.
Pasola Trails
Prologue: Pasola Celebration: Following Marapu's Steps
Chapter 1: The Vibrant Pasola Festival
Chapter 2: Bonds of Brotherhood
Chapter 3: The Challenges of Pasola
Chapter 5: The Aftermath of Pasola – Reflecting on Traditionils
Epilogue: The Everlasting Spirit of Pasola
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