Have you ever stumbled upon a piece of history so deeply rooted in tradition, yet nearly forgotten? Welcome to Sumba, where ancient dance, culture, and the whispers of ancestors still linger in the air, waiting to be rediscovered.

This story takes you on an unforgettable journey alongside Elliot, a curious traveler determined to learn the Tari Wulla—a dance that embodies the spirit of Sumba. But as he soon discovers, it’s not just about the moves, it’s about feeling the soul of the island itself. Intrigued yet? Let’s dive in!

 

The Lost Dance of Sumba

Whispers of the Forgotten Dance

The dry wind of Sumba carried the scent of burning wood and damp earth as the sun hovered low over the horizon. The land stretched endlessly, golden fields swaying under the quiet breath of dusk. A small group of foreigners trudged through the narrow dirt path leading to a village hidden behind clusters of lontar trees.

Elliot Carter adjusted the strap of his bag, eyes scanning the surroundings with eager curiosity. His boots kicked up dust as he stepped onto the wooden bridge crossing a shallow stream. Beside him, a fellow traveler, Sophie Bennet, wiped sweat from her forehead.

“This place is unreal,” Sophie murmured, gazing at the village ahead. “It’s like time forgot about it.”

Elliot barely heard her. His focus was set on the gathering of villagers at the entrance, their expressions unreadable.

An old man stood at the center. Ratu Wono. His long, white hair was tied back, his dark skin weathered by time, and his sharp eyes watching them with quiet intensity. A wooden staff rested in his hand, its carvings intricate, whispering of a past untold.

Elliot stepped forward. “Aku Elliot. Aku datang karena ingin belajar tentang Tari Wulla.” His Indonesian was clumsy but sincere.

Ratu Wono studied him for a long moment, then spoke. “Kenapa kamu ingin belajar sesuatu yang bahkan anak-anak kami sudah melupakannya?”

The words hit Elliot like a sharp gust of wind. He had anticipated hesitation, but not this—a sorrow laced with quiet bitterness.

Sophie shifted uncomfortably beside him. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea…”

Before Elliot could respond, a woman stepped forward from the group. Mara Lii. Young but hardened by experience, her sharp cheekbones and piercing gaze made her presence impossible to ignore. She crossed her arms, looking Elliot up and down.

“Kamu pikir ini cuma tarian?” she scoffed. “Ini bukan pertunjukan buat orang luar.”

“I don’t want a performance,” Elliot replied firmly. “Aku ingin belajar.”

Mara Lii narrowed her eyes, but Ratu Wono raised a hand to silence her. The air between them grew thick with unspoken words. Finally, the old man sighed.

“Dulu, Tari Wulla adalah napas kehidupan di desa ini,” Ratu Wono murmured. “Kami menari bukan untuk dilihat, tapi untuk mengingat. Tapi sekarang, bahkan darah kami sendiri tak lagi peduli.”

A flicker of something unreadable passed over Mara Lii’s face, but she said nothing.

Elliot hesitated before speaking. “Kalau begitu, kenapa tidak diajarkan lagi? Kalau tradisi ini penting, harusnya dibiarkan hidup.”

The villagers exchanged glances, some frowning, others deep in thought.

“Kamu bicara seolah kamu mengerti,” Mara Lii akhirnya berkata. “Tapi kamu tidak tahu beban yang harus kami tanggung.”

Elliot exhaled slowly. He had read about this dance, about its ties to the Wulla Poddu festival, about its spiritual significance—but reading was different from understanding.

“Kalau begitu, ajari aku,” he said simply. “Biarkan aku merasakan sendiri.”

Silence. The sun had dipped lower now, casting long shadows on the dry ground.

Ratu Wono studied Elliot again, this time as if weighing something heavier than just his words. Then, he nodded.

“Baik,” he said. “Kamu punya tiga hari.”

Mara Lii let out a sharp laugh. “Dia tidak akan bertahan sehari.”

Elliot smirked. “Kita lihat saja.”

The wind picked up, rustling the palm leaves above them. Somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of drums echoed—a whisper of something long forgotten, waiting to be awakened.

 

The Trial of the Ancestors

The morning air in Sumba carried a dry chill, the sky washed in pale orange as the first light of dawn stretched over the endless savannah. The villagers had gathered in the open courtyard, their silent gazes resting on Elliot as he stood barefoot on the packed earth.

Mara Lii leaned against a wooden pillar, arms crossed. “Kamu yakin masih mau lanjut?” she asked, her tone laced with amusement.

Elliot rolled his shoulders. “Aku tidak datang sejauh ini untuk menyerah.”

Ratu Wono stepped forward, his staff tapping lightly against the ground. “Baiklah. Kita mulai.”

A young boy approached, carrying a woven basket filled with blackened coconut shells and dried leaves. The elders encircled them, their presence heavy with expectation.

Ratu Wono lifted a handful of dried leaves and let them fall, the wind scattering them across the ground. “Tari Wulla bukan hanya gerakan. Ini adalah perwujudan dari siklus hidup. Kamu harus memahami maknanya sebelum tubuhmu bisa mengikutinya.”

He gestured for Elliot to follow him to the center of the courtyard. The others, including Sophie, stepped back, giving them space.

“The first step,” Ratu Wono said, his voice low but firm, “Manu Kapada. Gerakan ini melambangkan pertempuran ayam jantan.”

He raised his arms, elbows bent, fingers spread like talons. His feet moved swiftly, mimicking the rhythm of a cockfight—agile, aggressive, precise. Dust swirled around his ankles as he shifted from one stance to another, each movement exuding both elegance and power.

Elliot swallowed hard. He had expected difficulty, but this was something else.

“Sekarang kamu,” Ratu Wono ordered.

Elliot took a deep breath and tried to mimic the movements. His stance was too rigid, his feet too slow. The moment he tried to jump forward like Ratu Wono, he stumbled, nearly falling face-first into the dirt. Laughter rippled through the crowd.

Mara Lii shook her head. “Aku bilang apa? Kamu tidak akan bertahan sehari.”

Gritting his teeth, Elliot pushed himself up. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Lagi.”

Ratu Wono nodded approvingly.

Again, Elliot tried. And again, he failed. His balance was off, his body not yet understanding the controlled wildness required for the dance. By midday, his legs ached, his breath came in short gasps, and his clothes clung to his skin, damp with sweat.

Mara Lii approached, crouching in front of him. “Kamu bisa berhenti sekarang, tahu? Tidak ada yang akan menyalahkanmu.”

Elliot met her gaze, determination burning in his eyes. “Tidak.”

Mara Lii tilted her head. “Kenapa? Ini bukan budaya kamu. Tidak ada yang memaksamu melakukan ini.”

He exhaled, glancing at the villagers watching him. “Karena aku tahu bagaimana rasanya melihat sesuatu yang berharga perlahan menghilang.”

For the first time, Mara Lii’s expression softened. But only for a moment. She stood, brushing the dust off her hands. “Kalau begitu, buktikan.”

By the time the sun dipped behind the hills, Elliot had improved—not much, but enough. He no longer fell with every step, his movements less stiff, more controlled.

But Ratu Wono was far from satisfied. “Besok, kamu harus lebih baik. Tari Wulla bukan sekadar tentang menghafal gerakan, tapi tentang memahami roh di dalamnya.”

Elliot only nodded, too exhausted to argue.

As the villagers began dispersing, Sophie approached him, handing him a bottle of water. “You’re insane,” she muttered.

Elliot chuckled, wincing as he stretched his sore legs. “Aku tahu.”

Mara Lii lingered at the edge of the courtyard, watching him. The skepticism in her eyes hadn’t completely vanished, but there was something new—something that resembled the faintest sliver of respect.

And though Elliot’s body screamed in protest, he knew one thing for certain.

Tomorrow, he would dance again.

 

When the Spirits Speak

The night air was thick with the scent of burning wood and damp earth. Somewhere in the distance, a lone katala bird called out—a sound the villagers believed to be the voice of ancestors watching over them.

Elliot sat on the worn wooden steps outside the hut given to him, rolling his aching shoulders. His body felt like it had been trampled by wild horses, every muscle protesting with each breath. But still, he smiled. He was getting closer.

A soft crunch of footsteps on dry grass made him look up.

Mara Lii stood a few feet away, arms crossed. “Kamu tahu,” she said, tilting her head, “kebanyakan orang akan menyerah setelah hari pertama.”

Elliot smirked. “Aku bukan kebanyakan orang.”

Mara Lii huffed a laugh, then walked past him, sitting on the step beside him. The two sat in silence, watching the village settle into the night.

“Dulu,” Mara Lii began, voice quieter than usual, “ayahku bilang kalau Tari Wulla adalah suara para leluhur. Setiap gerakan mengandung doa, setiap langkah punya cerita.” She exhaled deeply. “Tapi aku tidak pernah percaya itu.”

Elliot glanced at her. “Kenapa?”

She shrugged. “Aku tumbuh melihat orang-orang meninggalkannya. Orang tuaku mencoba mengajarkan Tari Wulla padaku, tapi apa gunanya kalau dunia sudah tidak peduli lagi? Aku pikir, mungkin leluhur juga sudah berhenti mendengarkan.”

Elliot was silent for a moment before speaking. “Tapi kamu masih ada di sini. Kamu masih peduli.”

Mara Lii didn’t respond. Instead, she stood abruptly, brushing the dust off her hands. “Besok kita mulai sebelum matahari terbit. Kamu ingin belajar? Baik. Aku sendiri yang akan mengajarimu.”

Elliot raised a brow. “Kamu yakin?”

She smirked. “Aku hanya ingin lihat apakah kamu bisa bertahan.”

Before dawn, the air was crisp, and mist clung to the tall grass like a veil. The village was still asleep when Elliot met Mara Lii at the clearing. Unlike the previous days, there were no spectators—only the two of them and the earth beneath their feet.

She paced around him, assessing him with sharp eyes. “Kamu sudah tahu dasar-dasarnya. Sekarang, waktunya memahami.”

Elliot exhaled, grounding his stance. “Baik.”

Mara Lii stepped forward. “Kita mulai dengan Rambu Manu.”

She lifted her arms, fingers poised in a delicate yet controlled shape. Her body swayed, slow and mournful, as if grief itself carried her movements. The way her feet barely touched the ground made it seem as though she was gliding, lost between the present and something much older.

Elliot watched, captivated.

“This is the song of those who are gone,” Mara Lii murmured, eyes distant. “Tari Wulla tidak hanya tentang pertarungan, tapi juga kehilangan.”

Elliot followed her movements, this time letting himself feel instead of simply moving. His muscles protested, but something inside him clicked—this wasn’t just a dance. This was a conversation with the past.

For the first time, Mara Lii didn’t correct him. She simply watched, her expression unreadable.

The wind picked up, rustling the trees around them. And in that quiet moment, it almost felt as though something unseen danced with them—something ancient, something waiting.

The spirits, perhaps, were beginning to listen.

 

The Dance That Found Its Way Home

The days leading up to the evening of the festival were heavy with expectation. Elliot could feel the weight of the village’s history pressing on his shoulders with every movement. His body, though sore and tired, had begun to memorize the rhythm of the Tari Wulla—the battle, the mourning, the connection to the ancestors. But more than that, he could feel the spirit of the dance, the voice that had once echoed through these lands, now returning.

The village was alive with preparations. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meat and the low hum of drums in the distance. Despite his exhaustion, Elliot’s heart raced with a strange excitement. He was no longer just a foreigner; he had become part of something much larger than himself.

As dusk fell, the villagers gathered in the clearing, their faces lit by the flickering torches. There was no fanfare, no formal invitation. The dance, like the ancestors’ whispers, needed no applause.

Ratu Wono stood at the center of the gathering, his staff held firmly in his hand. His eyes, however, held something else—a quiet pride. He glanced at Mara Lii, then at Elliot, and gave a single nod.

The crowd fell silent as the drums began. The beat was slow, steady—a heartbeat that reverberated through the earth itself.

Mara Lii stepped forward, her face serene, her movements poised. She raised her arms, fingers splayed in the gesture of mourning, her body swaying as if caught between worlds. Elliot stood behind her, his stance firm, his breath steady.

“Remember,” Mara Lii whispered, her voice barely audible over the drums. “The dance is not for us. It is for them.”

Elliot nodded, his heart thumping louder than the drums. He wasn’t sure who she meant—the ancestors, the spirits, or something even older—but in that moment, it didn’t matter. The dance had become their shared language, their connection.

Mara Lii began the movements of Rambu Manu once again, and this time, Elliot followed with a newfound grace. He wasn’t just imitating anymore; he was feeling. His body had stopped resisting, and the flow of the dance, the sorrow, the strength, all began to make sense. Each step felt like a prayer, each gesture an offering to those who had come before.

The villagers watched in silence, their gazes filled with something deeper than curiosity. For the first time, the younger generation was not mocking, not indifferent. They were listening.

Elliot’s arms moved like the wind, like the quiet murmurs of the earth itself. The steps felt effortless, natural, as if he had always known them. And as the dance continued, the village around them seemed to fade—there was only the rhythm, the ancestors, and the land.

As the last beat of the drum echoed into the night, the dance came to an end. Mara Lii lowered her arms, her breath heavy but steady. Elliot stood, chest rising and falling, sweat dripping down his brow, but there was a lightness in his chest—a sense of peace he hadn’t expected.

Ratu Wono stepped forward, his gaze steady. “You have learned what many could not.”

Mara Lii nodded. “Not just the steps, but the spirit behind them.”

The villagers slowly began to approach, some nodding in quiet acknowledgment, others offering smiles that were rare but meaningful. Even the children, who had once ignored the dance, now circled them, mimicking the movements with innocence and joy.

Elliot caught Sophie’s eye in the crowd, her face beaming with pride.

And for the first time, Elliot understood. The Tari Wulla was not just a dance; it was a way of remembering, of honoring, and of connecting.

As the night unfolded, the torches flickering like stars, the dance continued in whispers among the villagers. It was no longer a forgotten tradition. It had found its way home.

 

And just like that, the dance returned—not just to Elliot, but to the very heart of Sumba. The Tari Wulla wasn’t just a performance; it was a resurrection of something far deeper.

From struggling to keep up with the steps to understanding the sacred connection of every movement, Elliot’s journey proves one thing: some traditions don’t fade—they wait for the right moment to come back to life. So next time you find yourself in Sumba, remember: the spirit of the dance is out there, whispering through the trees, waiting for you to hear it.