L is for Lake, Language, Laughter, Love, Loss, Long . . .

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The plane flies over islands outlined in turquoise rings and coasts over rolling, dark green hills into Medan City. Purchasing the $25 visa and clearing immigration takes longer than the hour-long flight.

I try learning basic Bahasa Indonesia without success. It's a little intimidating walking around the small, dingy airport without a clue of the local language. There are no obvious tourists besides myself, and hungry looking taxi drivers everywhere. One approaches and asks, “Where are you going?”

“Lake Toba,” I say.

He rips me off at 200,000 rupiah, but I also didn't feel like bargaining, arguing, or searching for another ride. On my return trip, I’m charged 65,000rp in a nice air-conditioned taxi with no bargaining involved. Going rate seems to be 65-75,000rp.

The Lizard King and Drinking Water: How to Reach Lake Toba

I’m led to a minibus and designated the passenger seat. A couple minutes later, I’m scooted in so the alternate driver can squeeze in, too. I greet them, “Selamat Pagi, Ban,” and they laugh because I’ve called them “brother.” After this exchange, they motion me to repeat the most perverse or poetic lines for all I know because they speak little to no English. (When I finally find a translator, I confirm that cusswords are often the earliest words to learn in a language after basic introductions.)

The engine roars to life, and the van charges down the streets of cluttered, dirty Medan. It’s one two-way lane, no divide, and congested roads. The driver haunches forward on the steering wheel with a devilish grin on his face. His pastime seems to be veering past slower cars to face oncoming traffic. Occasionally, he looks at me with his wall eyes and laughs maniacally. I look out the window for distractions and spot men grabbing moving minibuses and a little boy, around 5 years old, holding a red stick in his mouth like a cigarette.

Both drivers chain-smoke and, unlike menthol Marlboros or Newports back home, the cigarettes smell of smoky Tiger Balm. Their faces and bodies contort with vicious spasms as they hack out their lungs. I suspect emphysema if not something worse.

The drivers’ ages are ambiguous. Their skin and laughter is youthful, but when they get serious, they could pass for a decade more. As they swerve and avoid a head-on collision, I figure, They know the dimensions of the van pretty well. Must have a lot of experience, relax and nod off.

I’m shaken awake and pushed out of the vehicle by one of the drivers. “Ulur,” he says. (I translate “restroom,” but he actually meant “stretch”.) I don’t need the toilet, but I wash my hands anyway so I’ll be left alone. Instead, he waits outside and urges me to follow him past the bathroom (this sounds creepier than it actually was). We join a few guys standing beside a loosely built wire cage. My eyes adjust to the dark and finally see the two massive snakes with golden flecked scales tangled around one another.

“Ah-nah-condah,” the driver drags the first two syllables and whispers the last two quickly as he skips in a circle.

I look at the dead golden eyes, and one of them makes an imperceptible shift of its head. “They’re massive,” I say. The guys giggle at my response despite not understanding my words. I’m later told the snakes were likely boa constrictors because anacondas are native to South America.

Recently, the infamous “Lizard King” attempted to smuggle 95 boa constrictors from Malaysia to Indonesia. I wonder if airport security would have caught the guy at all if his suitcase hadn’t exploded on the conveyor belt.

I'd sum up the drivers as “mischievous and crude,” but not to the point of discomfort. They whistle at women, swinging their necks around the window frame as they drive, and sound like auctioneers when they yell out, “Shanta Toba, Toba, Tobaaaa!” They encourage me to yell with them, and we all laugh afterward.

The long-haired driver eyes my watch, or is it his wavering eye? Finally, he gestures that he wants to try it on. I hand it to him. His wrist is smaller than mine, and the design makes his wrist look more effeminate. He motions, half-joking half-serious, that I give him the watch, and I think, Why not? I’d planned on ditching my watch (cheap for Korean standards, but probably worth much more in Indonesia) for something less conspicuous anyway. I figure he’ll make better use of it than I ever could. He gives a huge grin, turns serious and lifts his thumb to me.

“Mantap,” he says with direct eye-contact. I raise my thumb and he flicks off of it similar to a high-five. He nods his approval and repeats in a serious tone, “Mantap.” (Good)

Our second stop is lunch. The wall-eyed driver tells me, “Makan” with an eating gesture.

The drivers disappear, and I’m left standing without a clue on customs. Nobody understands English (this isn’t a complaint, just observation). I watch for a bit and grab a bowl of rice, slowly so someone can slap it out of my hands if I’m not supposed to serve myself. Nobody uses silverware, so I copy and dig in, pinching the rice between my fingers. I receive more than a fair share of stares. As I look around I spot the drivers in the next open-wall building staring at me eat with grins plastered on their faces. Never have I felt more like an animal in a zoo.

I’m thirsty and grab a bowl of water. Later, I learn, this bowl’s for washing one’s hands, not drinking (fail!).

I return to the minibus where a guy sticks out his hand like he’s in a rush, “Tick-ET? Tick-ET!” Ticket? I never received any ticket, and a headline crops in my mind: Idiot Foreigner in God-Knows-Where, North Sumatra, Didn’t Ask For Receipt and Stranded For Days. Next, he rubs his thumb and index finger and demands, “Mon-EY? MON-ey!”

The drivers pop up out of nowhere. The one I gave the watch to yells at the ticket guy, shooing him away. The commotion attracts more people into selling me various items. Each time, the driver gives a negative nod to the sellers, motioning them to leave. I feel like I’ve gained a temporary ally in exchange for a watch. Then again, maybe they would’ve helped me out anyway.

The past few hours remind me of a scene in Shantaram where the main character, Lin, explains the stereotypical tourist trying to bargain down the equivalent of a few cents or bucks for accommodation or goods, blind to the invaluable loss of a potential local friend/ally/connection. I’m learning that there’s a time to bargain, and a time to take perspective. In the case of the taxi driver earlier, I should have bargained. I could have given more cash to the drivers of the minivan. Unfortunately, I suspect the money was lost to the middlemen.

After 5-6 hours on the bus, we arrive in Parapat. The winding road reveals an aerial view of Lake Toba. How do you describe or photograph a majestic setting that your eyes can’t fully take-in? I exit the vehicle and the drivers shake my hand rigorously, giving one last, wide display of gapped, crooked teeth..

Meeting Roman

I pay for the ferry to Samosir Island and wait beside a Frenchman and several guides, also known as “tourist hunters.” The first guide’s creepy stare makes me feel like dead meat at the butcher’s. I explain I’ve already booked at Tabo Cottages.

Next, a guide by the name of Roman, pronounced with a long roll of the “R,” approaches me saying he works for Tabo and can be of service if I need local help. I agree to let him guide me around the island figuring I can take his offer for a day and go on my own afterward.

On the ferry ride to Samosir Island, Roman mentions his education or lack thereof. He stopped school to provide for his family as the eldest son. Later, his mother sold their previous home so his younger siblings could receive an education. He shares enough to let me know that he really wants to be my guide, but wants to make money, too.

Everything is stated matter-of-factly. Along those lines, the three words Roman utters the most as I get to know him better are, “Whaaat? It’s trrrrrue!” followed by a light-hearted laugh. I don’t know if it’s his habit or if I have a permanent incredulous look on my face.

He doesn’t make me feel the infamous guilt-trip that travelers dread from hawkers or tour guides or anybody looking to make/scam money off of tourists. He’s just blunt. But, believe him or not, that’s your subjective decision.

When I see my cottage, I’m delighted. Not only is it spacious with an upgrade to jungle bathroom, there’s HOT WATER!

I miss a sense of “home.” It’s the small details. I take out all of my stuff and put clothes away in the closet, fold them on the shelves, and pile my books on the table. My belongings are scant in the spacious room, but I feel better. It feels like an oxymoron wanting to belong in a space while traveling.

Bucket List: Learn to Ride a Motorbike

When I meet Roman the next morning, we head straight to the motorbikes.

It’s so exhilarating. And, a little scary.

I get carried away by the cool wind that makes me speed up. I’m intimidated when squeezing between the edge of the pavement and oncoming vehicles, school kids and dogs everywhere, and then, I think about turning a curve and the bike no longer sways in the direction I want to go, and waver, wobble, the bike’s direction is no longer in my hands.

Roman respects my space and scoots on the back of the bike so that I drive on my own, and when I weave, he waits until it gets a bit too scary and grabs the handles so we don’t die.

The further we drive away from the cottages, the worse the roads get with cracked and uneven cement and sketchy wooden planks. When my hands tire from gripping the handles too hard, I switch spots with Roman who drives faster so we can actually make it to the Batak Traditional Dance.

While most tourists sit in little huts across from the performers, Roman guides me up a crooked ladder to sit in the shaded attic space alongside the Batak musicians. I look out at the other tourists who squint to avoid the morning glare of the sun. We finally climb back down to join the crowd to watch the performance.

The rhythm is hypnotic while the strange new melody makes you feel like a serpent swaying to a trumpeter’s tune. There’s something about Batak culture, from the first Horas to the local musicians that makes it one of the most melodic and lyrical places. As for the dance itself, I don't mean to be rude, but it drags on a bit and some of the dancers look bored.

Seven Tastes of Water

This next stop is a longer drive overlooking soft verdant squares surrounding the volcanic lake.

Scientists suspect that Lake Toba produced the largest volcanic eruption around the world some 69-77,000 years ago. So epic it may have even “affected the genetic inheritance of all humans today” and influenced worldwide temperatures.

Hidden within the mountains are seven fountains said to cure various maladies.

We sit and wait for people to wash themselves, their children and clothes in the pools of water that ripple over slippery stones. One woman wears a shirt that reads: I miss you and I hate you at which I chuckle because it seems so out of place.

Roman asks, “Why? You feel that way?”

I say, “I think many people have at one point or another. You?”

His bright demeanor becomes somber and he nods. He shares the story of a girl whom he loved and continues with candid retrospection on how he lost her.

I share a different story about missing someone and facing a hopeless circumstance. Roman seems surprised and appreciative at the exchange of stories. Then, I ask him what the back of the woman’s shirt, Aku Ciptaan Tunam, reads.

“It means Everyone Under God,” he explains. The majority of Lake Tabo consists of Christians, but like many countries there is a blend with traditional beliefs as well.

We try the water from the seven fountains (the first spring to the right tastes clean and delicious compared to the other fountains that have a metallic aftertaste—ew!).

Temple of the Seven Kings

At the top of this mountain sits a temple. Already sitting inside is a couple with their son and two other men who may or may not be related.

The rain begins gently, spitting in the soft breeze. Hoping to avoid the heavy rainfall, Roman asks if I mind waiting it out. I don’t, so we sit down next to the other visitors.

The mother’s teeth reveal dark red stains every time she grins. She chews betel leaves and spits out the remnants into a see-through plastic bag. Then, after a while, she offers some to me.

I ask Roman, “How permanent is the stain?” Besides Roman, the others don’t speak English.

He laughs and says, “It will last a day at most?”

I bite into the acrimonious leaf sprinkled with powder and red paste. It leaves a menthol aftertaste and slight numbness. I hope there wasn’t any cocaine on there, I think. The little boy laughs because he’s never seen a foreigner chew (it’s a woman’s treat because men have cigarettes, I’m told).

We’re invited to join in the ritual, so I shrug and agree. Handed a bundle of betel leaves, we create a lined procession to place a leaf on each statue. There are many statues besides the seven kings, so this takes a while. I copy, and when everyone returns to the central statue, saying prayers, I peek to make sure I’m not the only one with closed eyes.

After the prayers, we sit back down in a corner of the temple. The rain falls harder and the air grows cooler.

The woman tells a story, gesticulating with tight fists pounding at her chest then raising her hands to the sky as if making the rain shower down. She laughs and hugs one of the columns. She caresses the column again. A tear slips from her eye and runs down her cheek. She doesn’t wipe it. She smiles and looks at the tiled ground. I ask Roman to explain.

“She lost her house. They don't know what to do now, so they came here to pray.”

Another man speaks. He yells angrily, then stops to everyone’s hushed response, and then laughs from his belly. His fingers circle the air and ground. The time doesn’t pass. The rain falls and blows. I can’t understand a thing and let the melodies of different voices play in the air.

Roman talks of tsunamis and the decreasing magic men, shamans, who protect the people. He describes how one shaman saw a dragon in the sky (only they can see such creatures), a harbinger of some natural disaster to come. In a place like Indonesia that situates most of the Sunda Volcanic Arc, the shaman’s prediction isn’t too surprising.

With no watch, I’m not sure how many minutes or hours pass.

The rain continues its descent, and we agree to head out before it becomes too dark. The way is rough with slippery mud and wide pools of water requiring me to get off the bike while Roman pushes it around. Like most locals, he began riding a bike around eleven years of age. Now, at twenty-one, he’s been driving for a decade.

Back at Tabo Cottages, I go straight to the internet. How ironic, I think, to be sitting a few meters from one of the world’s most majestic lakes and crave the internet? A bit lame in some sense, but I can’t deny the craving. The manager, Janter Sidabutar, laughs at me waiting for the slow connection.

Nila Merah

The next morning after a delicious chocolate crepe and a fish that tastes like apples (Tabo Cottages is known for its tasty pastries), Roman brings out a trident with a rubber loop at the end, a fishing spear. At 10-12 feet, it’s double the height of most people and the rubber is strong enough to provide the velocity to spear a fish from a distance.

I’ve decided to hang out with him again as my experiences so far have been quite enriching.

The rocks against the lake are covered in slippery algae and beneath the water’s surface long strips of seaweed shift and sway.

I grew up fishing with my dad and friends. Rarely caught a fish, but always loved chatting next to a lake, perhaps drinking a beer, and laughing at the huge jumping fish that never took the bait. (It’s funny, the more I dive, the less inclined I feel toward fishing, but I hadn’t reached that point in this story.)

“What is she?” the gathering of tourist hunters asks Roman as we prepare to get in the water. Like most, he explains, “Korean.”

We take turns snorkeling for fish. And, when I’m out of the water, the locals teach me the local language.

They point to the lake and say, “Tau Toba Na U Li” and “Denau Toba Na U Li” switching from Bahasa Indonesia to Batak. Lake Toba is beautiful.

“Hahti Jin Ddah,” they say pointing to a waterfall that sits in the cascading mountains across the lake. The waterfall looks like a split in a broken heart, so the locals call it the beautiful heart of the mountain.

After one last snorkel, Roman comes out with a disappointed face. Then, he pulls out the trident with a nila merah (red fish) and laughs. Food for his family.

I’m invited to their small home a little down the road. Roman’s mother sings a beautiful Batak song and tells me she knows French and Italiano because many people visit from those regions. She proceeds to teach me Batak words and laughs heartily when I repeat after her. Roman's little sister studies while his younger brothers do what their mother asks and play the rest of the time.

When the meal is served, the music, talking, and laughing stop. The silence and extreme focus placed on the fish takes me by surprise. Roman later explains that it’s been a while since they’ve had fish. Nobody eats more than their fair share, and everyone scoops the last grain of rice with their fingers. We wash our hands in bowls and then everything continues as before. Roman’s mother insists that I return tomorrow for chicken. I feel rude dividing up more of their meal, but Roman insists it is ruder to refuse.

This evening, a torrential rainstorm screams and howls, throwing buckets of water all over the place. The electricity flickers on and off. I decide, instead of East toward Borobudur, I will travel West to Banda Aceh for diving.

Janter moves cushions away from the wet open spaces and jokes, “This is not normal! Your fault. It’s because you want to go to Banda Aceh.” I laugh, and he agrees to speak with his friend to help me purchase a ticket to my next destination because my credit card is not being accepted on the internet. His friend, Rapelta. G, later meets me at the airport and personally hands me the ticket.

Boasama

My second to last day, Roman helps me find presents for my parents. A gecko, chechak/bora spati for my father because I associate the ubiquitous creatures with my travels. And Buru Panortor, the Queen of Dancing for my mother to symbolize celebration. I’m pretty dubious that the packages will reach them (they do).

The remaining day is spent checking out the other side of Samosir Island and eating with Roman and his family. His youngest brother loves playing games while his sister continues her studies with determination. His mother is unbelievably generous and fills the house with her full-bodied laugh.

There are many groups of young children marching down the street instead of going to school. They're training for the profitable tourism industry. Their assignments include approaching as many foreigners as possible.

I haven't been hassled once, so Roman yells, “Hey! When I was your age, I had to speak to every foreigner. You aren’t doing your job!” And he points to me and laughs at my reaction. Some of the kids frown and one asks Roman, “She’s not a tourist. I thought she was from Jakarta!”

The questions begin, “Excuse me? Excuse me, Miss? Where are you from? What do you think of Toba?”

One girl slips and says, “Ma’am? Er, sorry, Miss!” I try hard not to laugh because so many of them are so shy that I don’t want them to misunderstand the laughter.

Later, I hang out with Roman and his other young friends. We take rounds shooting pool (another thing they begin at a very young age) and they beat me easily.

Afterward, I drink more tea and sugar (this stuff is so good!) while they drink some jungle juice (not for my taste buds) and we sing songs as they play the guitar or beat a rhythm on some drums. Roman teaches me the Batak song, Boasama and we practice about ten times in a row before moving onto other Batak songs, “Hotel California,” “Zombie,” and the usual English mix found in Southeast Asia.

Horas!

At a diagonal walk from the cottages sits an inconspicuous shaded café that looks like a home. Raja, the old man who usually sits on one of the benches gazing out. He can walk the entirety of the village without a cane for his clouded eyes. The respect he’s given feels equivalent to sitting around an Italian mob boss.

“Horas!” I say using the typical Batak introduction. The word is like a key. People may have a bland or altogether uninterested expression, but this word brightens their faces with genuine smiles and laughter. One that gets an even better response and laughter is, “Olo--! Olope!”

Raj and anybody sitting nearby responds, “Horas!”

“Teh dan gula,” we order tea with sugar. The hot tea is poured bit by bit into the accompanying white bowl to cool it down.

As Roman and I play Catur, more men enter the café and raise their eyebrows at our game. With every move of a knight, bishop, or pawn, the old men become more inquisitive. I win round one.

By round two, we’re surrounded by old men who are surprised that Roman is not winning because he’s one of the best players on the island.

In the third and last round, we’re pretty even. I yell at Roman, “Hey! I think I’m playing five people instead of one!” And he laughs uncontrollably. The men grin conspiratorially and laugh when he translates. In the end, one of the old men takes my side and helps me win the game with a checkmate.

“Ahhh!” Roman cries. “Ahhh!”

Yesterday, we were 3-2, so he insists on a rematch to avoid today's overwhelming defeat.

He makes sure I don’t miss the ferry from Samosir Island back to Parapat by accompanying me. On the ferry, we see some of his friends and they all say hello. One of them is an excellent guitar player who used to play in a Javanese band.

“Come back in one week?” he asks.

“No, sorry,” I answer.

“Come back next month!” he says.

“I probably won’t be back so soon,” I answer, “but someday I’ll be back.” We’re all ushered off the ferry.

“You’re not a tourist,” Roman says. "You're not like other Korean tourists that come to Toba."

“What is the word for friend, again?” I ask.

“Dongan,” he says.

“Dongan,” I repeat, "and brother?"

"Abang," he nods.

Roman and I try to squeeze in another game of chess (the boards are available in most cafés). Sadly, our game is interrupted because the taxi has filled up quickly. I hand him a bag, a present, and wave. I suspect he wouldn’t accept it and even might take it as insult if I let him look inside the bag before I leave. Tabo Cottages will pay him his bit for helping me out, and he never asked for money, not once.

Back to Medan Airport in an air-conditioned van, the return trip is entirely different from my previous trip. The cool air is nice. Everyone’s quiet. It’s peaceful, but gone also is the joking and laughter that I’d come to associate with Toba. I confess, I’m sad about leaving Toba and the relaxed jokes and laughter, but I’m also buzzing with adrenaline to reach my next destination (Pulau Weh: diary=547963).

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Photos

Batak Carvings
Clothing Hooks

Comments

[Glenn Duer]

I am always amazed at the way people seem to attach themselves to you and let you into their lives. I may be biased, but it seems to me that you have a magnetic grace in this regard. It allows you to get a real sense of the places you visit, rather than checking off sites in a tour book, the way it seems to me that most tourists do. Why is it that kindness is much more prevelant than rudeness? My guess is that you get back what you bring to the occasion. I am so glad that you left that stifling job and went on this journey.

[auspicious]

You're the best, Dad
Thanks for all your support on my endeavors.