Indonesian Bus Ride from Hell in which someone actually died

The title really says it all, "Indonesian Bus Ride from Hell in which someone actually died" I mean, what more do you need to know? It describes a particular bus ride in Sumatra in the early 1990's.

Transcript

Episode 1
Indonesian bus ride from hell in which someone actually died.

I’m going to call this podcast “Going down the road with Randy”.

Going down the road was, quite literally, what we were doing on an almost daily basis and going down the road is the topic of this podcast, which is recollections of traveling around the world in the early 90’s in no particular order. But the name also fits in the metaphorical sense that life itself is going down a road. In any case, I like it and it’s my podcast so that’s what I’m gonna call it, so there. Also, this one was really hard. (Maybe because it’s the first one, or maybe just because writing a podcast is hard, or maybe because it is quite long.) It bears bearing in mind that while I have a lot of ideas, I have been known to lack in the motivation department, so if anyone hears this podcast and likes it, let me know and I might produce faster. I do have a wealth of material. I’ve never had “fans” before, so that’d be kinda weird.

I dedicate this first episode to a couple of my friends and co-workers – you know who you are, C and K - and hopefully this will be just under an hour for your ride home. I’m thinking future pod casts will be more like 30 minutes, but we’ll see.

An important detail to remember is that these travel tales all occurred in the early 1990’s, a.k.a. the dark ages long before wifi, before the internet was anything anyone was aware of, and cell phones were only used by millionaire stock brokers. People wrote letters. Ok? We made expensive, “long-distance” phone calls. Anyone remember those?

This particular tale occurred in November of 1991. I am describing our last couple of weeks in Sumatra, an island in northern Indonesia. 

Our path to Indonesia had taken us via a one-way ticket to Australia from Los Angeles with long stopovers in Hawaii (for 2 weeks) and New Zealand (for 3 months, which was the longest visa we could get). Our general goal while we were traveling was to stay in a country for the longest possible time. In Australia we actually got a 3 month extension to the 6 month visa that they gave us on entry, which, I might add, is not easy to do and that endeavor may rate a podcast of its own at some point.

Anyway, at the time of this particular adventure we had already been in Indonesia for about six weeks and only had about 2 weeks left on our 2 month visa.

(We were awarded a 2 month (60 days to be precise) visitor visa upon arrival in Indonesia on September 25th by showing that we carried $1000 in cash or traveler’s checks on our person. The only other way to get a 2 month visa is to have a ticket out of the country upon arrival, but when we flew into Indonesia we had no real idea of our final itinerary and had little chance of following one if we did have it. I cashed in a hundred bucks for almost 200,000 Indonesian rupiah – 2,000 to the dollar! I felt rich.)

Part of the point of this podcast is the first of a long-planned series of responses to folks who said to me, “Man, you’re so lucky to have travelled to all those places!” And I respond, “Ummmn, no. I can assure you, luck had absolutely nothing to do with it. I didn’t win the lottery. I wasn’t a trust fund baby. It was cold, hard work and saving, and ultimately, a whole lot of credit card debt!” No, it wasn’t luck and it usually wasn’t very much fun when it was happening.” Not really. Maybe in a Zen kind of way. (I mean, is Zen fun?) Like, how much suffering can you endure before you burst into tears? (Which actually happened on one Indonesian bus ride, so…) 

The other point of these podcasts is that often there is no point and they are more of a linear travelogue with hopefully witty commentary and insights on the meaning of life along the way.

A lot of our style of traveling involved get up before dawn to catch a godforsaken public bus on an interminable journey to the next best place to be. It also invariably involved alcohol and/or whatever other mind-numbing condiments and concoctions we could get our hands on as we weren’t very accomplished at Zen Buddhism.

I might also point out the single eternal truth of traveling is that you can spend a lot of money and go fast or spend a little and go slow. We really only flew once within Indonesia*. For those of you who are hearing this there is a written asterisk here - (*The asterisk will be the subject of another story which means there were, in fact, two flights in Indonesia, but one was moot time-wise and didn’t really count due to extenuating circumstances all of which to say it is another story – perhaps the next one?)

In any case, after selling the trusty VW camper van that we had driven across quite literally half of the continent, and ultimately overstaying our welcome in Australia, we got the cheapest flight out of Darwin, Northern Territories, Australia to the island of Timor, Indonesia. The flight is only like an hour, maybe a bit more, and we landed in southeast Asia for the very first time.  Let me tell you, in 1991 there were not a whole lot of foreigners dropping into Nusa Tenggara – which is what the string of islands stretching east from Java 600 miles or so towards Papua New Guinea is called. (They are also known as the Lesser Sunda islands.) Maybe a dozen travelers a week, likely half that.

Additionally, there was some political unrest when we landed in Kupang, West Timor because at the time East Timor was fighting for independence against Indonesia’s brutal occupation. I know my parents endured several weeks of uncertainty as we were out of touch from the day we landed until arriving in Bali a few weeks later, and, anyway, that’s another daggone story. See why I need a podcast?

We had plenty of adventures as we made our way westward across Nusa Tenggara through Bali to Jakarta and I expect to tell a few of them as we continue this series, but for now I’m going to skip ahead and say it took us about six weeks to get to Jakarta.

Our one Indonesian airline trip (aside from the other one that I said before did not count) took us from Jakarta to Padang on the west coast of the island of Sumatra flying Garuda Airlines, the flagship airline of Indonesia. 

I will try but it will be difficult to convey the absolute sheer beauty and the unique culture of this part of northern and western Sumatra since I struggle with verbal descriptions of landscape. I will do my best and hopefully, one day, I’’ll learn how to actually do it. From Pedang, Sumatra our aim was to explore the area of Western Sumatra near the village of Bukittinggi and Lake Manninjau, an area inhabited by the Minangkabau people. 

After Bukittinggi we planned to cross the island of Sumatra from west to east, going to Lake Toba with the aim of exiting Indonesia by boat from Medan, Indonesia to Penang, Malaysia (after a quick jungle side trip to an orangutan preserve) and on somewhere near the last possible day that we were legally allowed to be in the country. By the way, feel free to follow along on a map!

The Minangkabau are the largest matrilineal society in the world, with property, family name and land passing down from mother to daughter. Religious and political affairs are the responsibility of men, although some women also play important roles in these areas.

One of the things they do is stage a bullfight in which two bulls actually fight each other. This occurs on a muddy field with lots of folks standing around intent on wagering on the contest. 

My journal entry for Saturday November 9th, 1991 reads:

“Soon we come to the bullfight arena – a large, muddy field with stone walls on two sides. We pay our 500 Rp (25 cents) entry fee and quickly realize that our fears that this is a “staged for tourists only” event were unfounded. This is obviously a big local attraction. Crowds are milling about and there are 4 large water buffalo staked out by ropes attached to rings through their noses. There is obvious betting but I decide to watch a fight or two before becoming vested in the outcome.

A couple of guys rope off an area of the field, two sides by the stone wall and two sides by ropes. The two bovine combatants are led into the center and then they are at it, heads butting together, twisting for position and being egged on by their handlers. The bulls start half-heartedly pushing each other around but it is not long before they start getting pissed off and began snorting and really pushing in anger. Suddenly, one bull backs off and runs away and the other takes off in hot pursuit and there is a bit of excitement as they meet at the apex of the stone walls.

This is great! No blood, no guts, just two bulls shoving each other around until one has had enough and runs away to live another day. Phil and I make our way across the field to where the betting is going on.

I put 5000 Rp (2 bucks) on a bull and they lead two off to fight, but apparently they are best buddies or something because they don’t want to fight so all bets are off! I gotta say, I like the way they conduct their bullfights. We mill about the soggy field keeping a sharp eye out for the occasional random wild bull careening about.

Two reserve bulls are led onto the field and I try to bet on the second one but no one will take my money (I guess I picked the right one, eh?!)

The fight isn’t even as good as the first and the one bull quickly chases the other right over the stone fence! This is great fun!

But that’s it and the crowd start to disperse and the busses start leaving. We ask around the buses but none are taking us until this one with two people on stops and picks us up. It turns out to be occupied by a rich Italian jewelry importer/exporter who has chartered it for the day and has stopped to offer us a lift for free. What luck!

He takes us back to Bukittinggi and drops us off. I never even got his name, but we did thank him profusely. We go to the Three Tables for a beer and then go up to the Mona Lisa for some fantastic Chinese food for dinner. We have some more beers and the go back to the Sri Kandi (the hotel where we were staying) and read a bit before going to sleep.”

I will, from here on out alternately paraphrase and freestyle my journal entries from almost 30 years ago.

On Sunday the 10th, “a lazy day in the rain – sad really now that my trusty pen has died”. (I must note a distinct change in here from what appears to a blue ball point to some kind of black maybe gel-type pen.) “We have a late breakfast at Ling Ling Coffee Shop and I ponder how every restaurant here calls itself a “coffee shop” and thus alerts the tourist that there is western food served there.

Afterwards we wander down to the Panorama Park and have a gander at the local “Grand Canyon” which is quite nice, really. The most interesting bit was exploring the caves that were built by the Japanese – with “local (slave) labor” of course – during the war. A surprisingly large and intricate array of parallel tunnels with many side vents and alternate entrances. We walk up to the museum through intermittent rain and learn that to enter the museum (and pay) we must go past a zoo of which the Lonely Planet (guidebook) states “the best thing you could do for the animals would be to shoot them”. We don’t wish to see or support that so we return to the Sri Kandi to read and write.”

Monday November 11th Journal reads:

“We have another breakfast at the conveniently-located-and-not-so-bad-actually-pretty-darn-good Ling Ling’s and since it is such a rare nice sunny day for this time of year my traveling companion and I have decided to rent a motorbike for our explorations. Phil and Karen are leery of motorcycles and opt instead for the local public buses and thereby probably save a good days’ budget. We change money and pick up the bike at 11 and get the rest of the day for 10,000 rupiah – a mere 5 bucks, but also the price of two nights lodging!

We zoom off on our adventure stopping for gas and directions outside of Bukittinggi on our way to Batu Sangkar and stop every few kilometers for more directions. We stop at a majestic overlook with an excellent panoramic view of the Harau Valley area. This is the “Yosemite Valley of Indonesia” and I’m told it has since been developed into an off-the-beaten-track rock climbing area.

We don’t stop for long in Batu Sangkar but go the extra 4 km to Pagaruyung where we visit the reconstructed palace of the sultan, a quite impressive house in the distinctive traditional architecture. We honk at Phil and Karen coming in and pass them again coming out. We’re ahead! We continue on our way to Balimbing to see nearly 300 year-old traditional houses that people actually still live in. We are constantly stopping and asking for directions because the last directions we got were so shitty and the roads keep getting smaller and smaller. On the outskirts of Balimbing we stop at a roadside shop to drink tea and inadvertently collect a crowd of curious local people. It is the same old, smile, nod, try to communicate, smile, drink, drink, smile. Repeat. I’m pretty sure this is what we’re traveling for, as awkward and frustrating as it is much of the time.

We continue slowly through the village to the house with the sign on it and go in for a look. A long, single room with smaller bedrooms partitioned off. They ask us to spend the night but we decline and instead leave a donation and are off again on our motorcycle down the very picturesque road to the village where the road intersects the Padang Panjang – Solok road on the shores of Lake Singkarak. We feel so free! Turn left, turn right, it doesn’t matter! (Well, no, actually, it does matter, because we have to turn right to get our asses back to Bukittinggi.)

There is a beautiful river flowing out of the lake which turns a waterwheel for irrigation of the nearby rice paddies. We have some water at the crossroads and eyeing the clouds to the north – towards Padang Panjang where we must return – we try to get there as soon as we can. Alas, it is only a few kilometers and we are hit with the downpour and are instantly drenched. This is not your momma’s rain, and I’m not talking bad about your mother but this was a tropical monsoonal rain of the first order. It is like someone is pouring an infinite bucket of water over your head. We power on to Padang Panjang where we stop for shelter and hot tea and hope this will soon blow over. The rain is amazingly persistent and as it is getting late and Bukkittinggi is only 19 kilometers away we decide to go for it, only now our motorcycle has other thoughts and won’t start – it is wet. We wait a half hour or so to dry it out and it finally – miraculously – starts.

We motor slowly up the road against what appears to be a waterfall until we get about 3 kilometers out of the valley around Pradang Panjang and the rain stops! It is only raining down there! But now we have 16 bone-chilling kilometers back to Bukittinggi where we gladly return the motorbike and run back to the hotel to strip off sopping clothes and jump into bed with the blanket up to our chins to thaw out.” (Note: There is no such thing as a hot shower or a heater. Once you are cold you wait until the sun comes out.)

Tuesday, November 12th

We sleep in and pack to catch the bus to Lake Meningau at 1 which we reach about 2 ½ hours later. The village, what we can see of it, it gorgeous, perched as it is on the shores of the lake. We check in to Palantha Guest House (5000 Rp / $2.50) and have lunch across the road at its “coffee house”.

Afterwards Greta and I go down to the local hot springs for a bath. (One perk of traveling within the so-called “ring of fire” is that you are usually not far from a geothermal hot pool of some kind or another.) However, only I am allowed in since it is filled with men. It is fantastically warm (and I am still cold from yesterday) and has a nice sandy bottom. I feel bad for Greta but, selfish bastard that I apparently am, I do not let the feeling detract from my enjoyment of the lovely warm bath.  I mean, what the hell am I supposed to do, change the fucking world right here and now? I’m not gonna argue and fuss and honestly Greta didn’t either, but she was not a happy camper. Greta, to her credit and for better or worse, did not make a big deal because it could have quite possibly become ugly and it was just daggone easier to abide by local social norms being the foreigners that we were. Sometimes traveling is ugly that way too, though it always seems to be the women who pay the price.

Our plans are that if the weather holds we will stay until Thursday and then head out to Lake Toba but when we go to book for Thursday we learn a bridge is out or something and we can’t go until Friday. (Apparently it only takes a day to repair a bridge around here, which causes one to wonder what the hell kinda bridge are we talking about?)

Wednesday, November 13

We indulge in another late sleep in and have breakfast and then we rent bicycles for the rest of the day for 2000 / a buck. (Cheaper than a motorcycle but then again I’m pedaling and it’s not exactly flat.) We are blessed with a beautiful day in Western Sumatra and we pedal through lush verdant (and mostly flat!) rice paddies to the other side of Lake Menningjau. The people here are very open and friendly and it seems we talk to everybody on our 28 kilometers circumnavigation of the lake. My journal reads, “We come back and go into the small village to see the funny black monkey.” I have no idea what that means but I did not then, and do not now have any special love for monkeys. (Note to 30 year-old self: “Take better fucking notes asshole, I have no clue what that means!”) And, pardon my French, perhaps I should have warned listeners that that might happen. I strive always to find better words.

Thursday, November 14th

We sleep in again and prepare ourselves for the unknown journey ahead. We lounge around the hostel in the afternoon as the thunderstorm builds and we wait for the bus to Bukittinggi. When we get there we check back into the Sri Kandi but the rooms are not as nice as the ones before, almost like the proprietors knew where we were going and that we would only be back for a night.

Friday November 15th

This is the day of what I call the quintessential Indonesian bus ride which is the heart of this story, so pay attention damnit. The journal entry for the day of embarkation reads:

We have to get up early – by 7 a.m. – to catch our bus to Prapat at 7:30. Is this to be another Indonesian bus journey from hell, we wonder?  The first inkling of a problem is that the “proper” bus has broken down. (Well, of course it has, since we had only just bought the tickets, right? Nothing was said about it then, eh?) Instead, they offer us a mini bus (bemo)which will take 4 plus 2 others. The folks on our minivan (bemo) were the already-referenced-without-introduction Phil and Karen (a Welsh couple) whom we met on September 25th on our flight into Timor, West Timor, Indonesia from Darwin, Northern Australia. From there for the last six weeks we had travelled the length of the Indonesian archipelago with them. The final couple, who were also already referenced without introduction, Bridgette and Rob (an English couple) and they kept us laughing with their humor and horror stories of travels in India (Which was on our immediate itinerary after Thailand and maybe Viet Nam.) We had all been on bus rides throughout Indonesia that were too many to count, too varied in length and too much to endure. I am convinced that in the very center of hell is a bus ride in Indonesia that just never ends and just goes on and on and on. Anyway, all of this history and the intestinal fortitude of our party would help sustain us for what lay ahead. I’m going to call this podcast episode “Just another Indonesian bus ride. (But on this one someone actually died”.) 

I truly apologize because I have absolutely nothing but shadowy recollections of the six folks in the other van, which, in light of forthcoming events, was probably just as well.

We bargain the price down from the normal 20,000 rupees (10 bucks) to 16,500 rupees (you do the math, but less than 20 bucks) and go for it. We stop by and pick up Rob and Brigette and we’re off on our way only a half hour behind schedule at 8 o’clock. Schedule? It’s cute to think that there was a schedule. The bus seems to be quite comfortable for the six of us and we’re feeling good tooling through some very green mountainous and “jungle-y” countryside in cloudy and wet but not currently raining conditions.

After a while we come to the equator, which is a painted white line on the road and I think there was a sign. We stop for obligatory photos and a few dozen back and forth jumps across the line on the pavement. “The equator, oh my yes, I’ve crossed it dozens of times! Dozens, really?! Yes. No, seriously dude, I counted”

And then we’re off again, back in the northern hemisphere for the first time since last October 13th, some 13 months or so ago.

That’s when things start to happen. As they always do. The Indonesian bus ride twilight zone. No. It couldn’t possibly be just another, routine, grueling 13 hour bus ride through the mountains and jungles of northern Sumatra. No, of course not. It invariably happens several hours into an Indonesian bus ride in the middle of nowhere and the ending is not foretold. Surprise!

In this episode, police pull over our minivan and have a chat with the drivers. Remember we are two minibuses, each with 6 people. Some of the drivers start crying, bursting into sobbing tears. We all look at each other – what the hell is up? This can’t be good.

Well, as it happens, our minivan driver’s son has been killed this morning in an accident just up the road. Killed. Dead. One of the cops squeezes onto our bus. We are to go to the next village. To the hospital.

On the way we pass the scene of the crash. One very smashed bemo and a bigger truck on its roof. It looks very ugly. The accident looks fresh and there is blood on the road. It looks like it was at least partially head-on. I had often wondered how many Indonesian bus rides you have to take before the odds overtake you and I began re-calculating my odds now.

The driver (wait, our driver, who is still driving, oh my god why is he still driving!) states very matter-of-factly and in near perfect English, “This is where my son died.” I mean, it just took the wind out of us. We sat in the van taking turns staring at each other, but no one could think of a thing to say.

So far our driver has not shown any emotion and we can’t help but wonder when he is going to blow. We stop at a phone in the next village where he makes a call and the other drivers take us down to an evil looking and smelling hot spring. We are summoned back and continue on our way.

Eventually we get to the hospital, a very drab looking building that no one in their right mind would want to be sick in. Outside is the ambulance -a white bemo with no lifesaving equipment of any kind inside but a red cross painted on the side. What IS inside is the body of his son. More of a hearse than an ambulance at this point. (Was this the hospital or the morgue? I have no way of knowing.) 

After inspecting the body it is decided that they will take it to their village. Off we go again, three minibuses (bemos) now – 2 carrying 12 tourists to Prapat and 1 taking a boy home.

It takes a couple of hours to reach the village (I know it is selfish but I am thankful it is on our way. What the fuck is wrong with me? I mean, all things being equal, it’s better they’re going our way, right? Hey, I’d go any which way (Like I had a choice) but I already had doubts about where and how this particular journey was going to end. Finally, we arrive and pull off at a non-descript group of houses where we all pile in for tea, which looks a lot like water. Then they unload the body.

A huge crowd of people had materialized (from where?) and were all jostling for a look. A cursory one for the body and then a more sustained stare at the twelve white tourists drinking tea in the middle of the whole thing.

They carry the body right in front of us into the next house and bring back the empty stretcher and some very bloody sheets and load it into the ambulance / hearse and it drives off. 

Then a wailing commences from the house next door. An ungodly shrieking not meant for mortal ears and we abandon any pretended desire for tea and retreat to a shelter across the road almost out of earshot, but not quite. All I can say is “primal”. Absolutely primal. It seemed like we were stuck in time while we were there. When I remember this bus ride I always hear those wails.

Our original driver, the father of the deceased young man, will stay here (of course!) so while we wait for a replacement driver we go into “town” for lunch. It is now almost 5 p.m. and we still have at least 7 hours to Prapat. However, we are soon on our way again shaking our heads at what a small, brief world we live in and hoping in the back of our mind that our bemo wasn’t next.

We drive and soon it gets dark, as it often does at the end of the damn day in these latitudes. I doze off. When I wake it is foggy and rainy and dark and we are just creeping up a really creepy dark mountain road and if it was the eastern US you’d say you were hearing banjoes. Did I mention it was creepy and dark?

We are apparently way past Sibolga and there are perhaps 5 hours to go. (Had I only dozed for 2 hours? It seemed like more.)

We stop for dinner at some lonely little restaurant and make the fateful decision to start drinking as in the old saying, “When the going gets tough, the tough start drinking.” Plus, the sun had definitely gone way past the yardarm and we just wanted a drink damnit.

When we leave, the fog has lifted some but the rain has increased so we make sure to pack some supplies of beer for the road ahead. Our driver takes the lead of our two bemo caravan and we’re off. We drive and drive and we finally realize that the other van in not behind us. (How long? How the hell do I know, I was about half drunk at this point, I mean…I was leaving it in these supposedly professional drivers’ hands to be able to stay together. I mean…I’m just sayin’ was I supposed to be keeping track of that because, ahem, I wasn’t.)

We stop at a really lonely and pathetic truck stop to wait for them to catch up. Our driver, Herman, promptly falls asleep as it is now like 10 pm. (In retrospect, he showed his professionalism here by quickly using the opportunity to sleep, a better option for a driver than the other option. Which was drinking.) Now, the rest of use hunker down under the shed in the truck stop and commence to drinking heavily. It just seemed like our best option we had at the time. Our ultimate plan, if we had one, is that intoxicated us will be able to keep tired Herman awake to drive.

Much to the dismay of the few remaining patrons we bought all of their beer – all 7 whole bottles (1 liter bottles of Bintang beer), plus a bottle of the local firewater, a medicinal concoction they called Kamput which may have been made from bananas, but I’m not entirely sure on that. It was a good 20% alcohol. Eventually a car stops to tell us that the other bus has broken down somewhere behind us and we have to go back.

It’s only a few kilometers and we find that they have stopped in a much larger “truck stop”. Now, just to be clear, when I say truck stop I am talking about a shelter of some sort on a wide spot in the road, maybe with or without walls made of bamboo and palm thatch. They have a problem with the fan belt, I’m not sure if it is loose or broken and truthfully I am, at this point, too drunk to really care.

Besides, two of the six on this van have jumped onto a truck going to Prapat for 5000 rupees and are way ahead of us. (Yeah, it’s a thing.) One of the six has simply walked off somewhere into the foggy dark jungle, probably drunk. The other three have resigned themselves to sleeping in their minibus and resuming when and if repairs were made. I take a look at it but they don’t have a correctly sized belt, so wishing them luck, we decide to press on alone.

First, we pee. It is worth mentioning that the toilet was rushing with water underneath (presumably from the recent, and continuing rains.) The toilet itself resembles a horse racing starting gate with four little half walls and four half doors. This design concept seems to be common here in northern Sumatra which makes peeing in private, especially for the ladies, something of a chore. As soon as a white person steps in to pee a crowd of locals, usually children crowd in to peer over the walls at the spectacle.

On we go, into the blackness fortified with more beer and cracking open the Kamput we are talking and laughing loudly. We do not want Herman to fall asleep on us in the rain and on these twisting roads. It is now past midnight and he has been driving since we left this morning at 7. He claims he is not tired and we drive on into the next day.

Saturday, November 16th

So, singing and laughing we finally pull into some god-forsaken village which was supposed to be only two hours from Prapat. (What had we just experienced, some kind of strange reverse worm hole?  It was now 3 am.

We stop at a restaurant that is amazingly still open! We get some water – we have plenty of alcohol but, must hydrate. Relieving our pent-up bladders was a great adventure. (Why is it that relieving bodily functions almost always leads to a mostly unwanted cultural exchange?) It is pitch black and there are three very large pigs on the opposite side of a very flimsy bamboo fence / deck thing. Honestly in our current state of sleep deprivation and drunkedness in the absolute blackness it is hard to tell what we were standing on but we were keenly aware of the pigs below who are clearly excited by our pissing on them. Hunh? Wonder what got them all excited? We can’t see a thing but we can hear the pigs and I keep wondering if the structure we are on will collapse into them, ah well, I must just be drunk, right? In any case it seemed hilarious at the time, in our state. (Actually this reminds me of another story involving pigs and defecation.)

We forbid Herman to continue driving as we are far too intoxicated to keep him awake and we all go back and pass out in the mini bus to the best of our abilities.

All I remember is barfing in the street (I’m pretty certain that was before we crashed in the van) and the next thing I know we are pulling into Prapat at half past 7 just under 24 hours after we left for what was supposed to be a 13 hour bus ride. In my ever-increasing experience, this was pretty typical for Indonesia, a least it was in the early 90’s.

We feel like death and as there is no way in hell that we will go on to Medan today so we decide to hang around until the first ferry to Samosir Island on the other side of Lake Toba. The boat leaves at 0930.

Everyone else goes to breakfast while I keep watch over the baggage and simultaneously try to sleep in the van. Grata brings me back a delicious ham and egg sandwich and chips and as I contentedly munch away as Herman drives us all down to the dock.

And, here we go again, the ferry fare (ferry fare? Ferry fare. Depending on spelling and context that could mean almost anything.) Anyway, our ferry boat fare was supposed to be included in our bus fare but this really annoying guy with a hairy mole who works for the bus company makes up some lame excuse for not buying our ticket which earns him a well-deserved tongue-lashing from the tag-teaming and somewhat excitable Bridgette and Rob. At this point I could care less and we pay the extra I-don’t-even-know-how-much-but-less-than-a-dollar ferry ticket. To this day I am certain that Rob and Bridgette think less of me as a traveler after capitulating so easily but I feel you gotta pick your battles and I just wasn’t up for this particular one.

The ferry chugs across picturesque Lake Toba, which is actually the water-filled caldera of a hopefully-long-dormant volcano, and 45 minutes later we get off and go up the hill to the Mafir Guest House which offers a nice, big room with a comfy bed for 5000 rupees ($2.50) and count me in! I’m out like a light. I remember dropping off some dirty laundry and then waking up at 4:30 that afternoon.

Sunday, November 17

I am still tired when the alarm goes off at 9 but we must get the 11 o’clock boat to Prapat so we can catch a bus to Medan today and still arrive in daylight. (a.k.a. traveling logistics) So, we pack up and have a quick breakfast and rush off to get the ferry which we almost miss because Greta is bargaining for weavings. Again. What are we gonna do with all these weavings? Anyway the boat is caught on time and then we endure the hot, cramped 4 hour ride to Medan (3500 Rp, you figure out the dollars this time, 1 =2000) It is hot and cramped but it is cheap and we arrive before 5 pm in what my journal entry describes as “reasonable condition”. On the way here we had passed the first rubber tree plantations I had yet seen. They stretched for miles.

In Medan, we are immediately surrounded by the usual horde of screaming bemo and taxi drivers all clamoring to rip us off for a ride into town. My advice to the intrepid traveler in a similar situation is to retreat into your inner self and wait it out. It won’t be long, trust me, their patience is, always, less than yours and if you do not engage they will swarm the next unsuspecting target. (This is the mantra and it is always true for a patient budget traveler.)

It takes awhile but we eventually get one for 500 Rp / 25 cents (I know, why bother bargaining, but we feel it is important to others travelling behind us so that they are not preyed upon.) Our ride drops us off…somewhere.

We go to look at hotels and the closest one is 10,000 and has stinky mandi water, an automatic disqualification. 

A mandi, by the way, is the generic term for a large, usually concrete, basin of water in the bathroom which is used for all bathroom and bathing purposes and is ubiquitous across Indonesia. There is a plastic dipping container which you use to flush the squat toilet and to pour over yourself to bathe. There is no separate shower or bathing area, the water just runs out a drain in the floor of the bathroom, or mandi room, if you prefer. The water is room temperature or cooler. After six weeks in Indonesia we are unfazed by such things but I still remember those first few puzzled days when going to the bathroom. I mean, there were no instructions. No, “Oh, wait, let me google this.”

We end up splurging for a 15,000 hotel because there are still some limits to our personal hygiene - plus it includes breakfast and we’re only here for the night.

Monday, November 18th

Greta wakes in a foul mood and we begin the day with a nasty argument. This is a bit unfortunate as we have some housekeeping items to take care of - like booking tickets out of the country by the end of the week. Anyway, we spend the morning cruising around Medan by becak. A becak is a bicycle rickshaw, sometimes with the two person car in front of the driver (actually he’s both a pedaller and a driver) and sometimes behind. Tourist office, bank, post office, and then to the travel agent, the ubiquitous P.T Pacto, to book our boat to Penang, Malaysia. We have decided to leave on Friday. Boat all booked we get lunch and then go looking for the bus to Bukit Lawang – we’re going to see the orangutans!

Bukit Lawang is the jumping off point to the Bohorok Orangutan Station (Fun fact, orang is the Indonesian word for forest and utan means person so an orangutan is literally a person of the forest.) The Bohorok station is inside Gunung Leuser National Park and is a project of the world wildlife fund. The national park is 9000 square kilometers of tropical rainforest and jungle. At Bohorok they have been reintroducing captive orangutans back to the forest since 1973 using a three-stage process. First, quarantine and cage life, then first forest life where they live in the forest but are still offered food every day. In the third stage they are deemed ready for free forest life and they are set free deep inside the park. Visitors can watch the feedings during the second phase.

Getting to Bukit Lawang involves getting a public bus to Timur taxi station, then another bus to Binjai where we can catch a minibus to Bukit Lawang. The public buses are, of course, crowded as hell and we don’t make it any better when we get on with our giant backpacks. They basically kick us off the bus before we get to the Timur taxi station so we find another to take us to Binjai. Once there we pile into the minibus to Bukit Lawang and sweat until the bus finally starts rolling.

Oh, but it doesn’t roll for long! The right rear tire has a leak a hundred yards down the road. They change it for one of the baldest tires I have ever seen – it looks like a big, black condom wrapped around a steel rim. We make it to the next village where we stop and get the tire fixed at one of the many little roadside tire repair places that say “Vulcanizing!” They take the condom tire off and put the newly-repaired tire back on. It looks like it is going to be another typical Indonesian bus ride. This premonition is confirmed when the newly-repaired tire blows out a few kilometers down the road. The condom tire is pressed back into service and off we go again wondering what next. I’m expecting a massive blowout at any second. I have no backrest on my seat and I am squashed in a small seat with three other people. Miraculously the tire doesn’t explode, but it does rain. I just look out the window and enjoy the scenery which consists of alternating rubber tree and palm oil plantations.

We arrive in Bukit Lawang just after five. We have just enough time to get our permits for tomorrows’ orangutan feeding and sort out a place to stay in this beautiful, delightfully cheap, and mellow village on the edge of the jungle. 

The village is built along both sides of the Bahorok River, a lively mountain stream engorged with monsoon rains. (Side note: A flash flood hit Bukit Lawang on November 2, 2003. November is monsoon time. Described by witnesses as a tidal wave, the water was approximately 20 meters (over 60 feet) high, as it came crashing down the hills, wiping out everything in its path. The disaster, which was the result of illegal logging, destroyed the local tourist resorts and had a devastating impact to the local tourism industry. Around 400 houses, 3 mosques, 8 bridges, 280 kiosks and food stalls, 35 inns and guest houses were destroyed by the flood, and 239 people (5 of them tourists) were killed and around 1,400 locals lost their homes. After eight months of rebuilding, Bukit Lawang was re-opened again in July 2004.)

We finally settle on a place called the Wisma Bukit Lawang Indah where we enjoy a large room for 2500 Rp – a buck and a quarter! We unpack in the middle of a huge sudden rainstorm.

Tuesday, November 19th

We get up early to see the morning orangutan feeding at 8. I can see that we will have at least one roll of film with nothing but orangutans on it. (Remember, this is 1991, there are no digital cameras. We are using slide film and when it is exposed we send a load back to the US where we will get them all developed when we get back. I think it cost us almost 500 bucks to get our film developed. I’m proud of a picture that I took of a female orangutan and her baby has been published in my Dad’s biochemistry textbook since the first edition. Check out Garrett and Grisham Biochemistry.) 

The orangutans are amazing! We are led to a little platform in the jungle and as we stand around the station employees deposit mashed bananas and milk on the platform and the orangutans come swinging though the trees to get it. The intent is to keep their diet bland and somewhat sparse to encourage the orangutans to forage on their own. One guy spends his time eating the bananas and milk and throwing it up and eating it again. He quite obviously has an eating disorder that he needs to work through. We see a weird bee carrying a leaf and hear the calls of hornbills and gibbons.

Phil and Karen say they are moving upstream to the Jungle Inn. It would be nice to be up closer to the park and the feedings, but I honestly can’t be bothered to move, weird, hunh? I mean, that’s literally all we do is move at a moment’s notice. I guess given a choice sometimes it’s nice to settle for a few days. We eat breakfast at Yusman’s to have those yummy potato cakes again and then we want to catch the video at 1 and the afternoon feeding at 3. We were bad last night and forgot to take our malaria pills. I hate those damn things - making my hair fall out.

We take a little nap and then go see the video at 1 – Greta’s not feeling well. The video is quite interesting but makes me sad. Apparently, there are 4 orangutans in the zoo in Bukittinggi that they refuse to surrender for rehabilitation – shitheads. We go for the afternoon feeding but only one shows up. The station folks say this is good and it means they are out foraging on their own.

We book a jungle trek with the park service tomorrow. There are only 10,000 orangutans in the wild and 2,000 of them are here. We get dinner and make it an early night so we’ll be fresh for trekking tomorrow. Maybe we’ll see a tiger! (if we do, will the tiger see us too?) Hrmmm.

Wednesday, November 20th

We wake early, Great is still not feeling well and decides not to go trekking. I meet up with Phil and Karen and we have a quick breakfast and the scurry up the trail. The feeding this morning is dominated by large and wild male who intimidated all the others. He chased one guy who got so scared he fell out of his tree and rolled down the hill!

We meet Adi Suharto, our nature guide. We enter the jungle and along the way he pointed out various plants, wild ginger, mahogany trees, etc. We walk along ridgetops until the late morning and then drop down to a stream in a deep narrow canyon for lunch of nasi goreng. (Fried rice with fried egg. This was wrapped in braided palm leaves.) Phil went swimming but I did not because I had watched two leeches come near me while we were eating lunch. Afterwards we went swinging Tarzan-like through vines. We climb out of the canyon to the ridge again then we descend again and made the choice to continue down the main river which we would then have to cross twice rather than continue to go up and down. Halfway down the river we see long-tailed macaques and a small black squirrel. And, of course, it rains. We reach the river and run across while being swept downstream. A short while later we do it again and then we are back at the station where we check each other for leeches.

I went back and Great was still not feeling well. I joined her for a short nap. I got up and had a mandi, then dinner.  Tomorrow we plan to tube the river.

Thursday, November 21st

We get up for the morning feeding. It’s a good one. We counted four females with children. Lots of activity. Afterwards we had breakfast at the Jungle Inn and then rented some tubes and the four of us went flying down the river in them. What a blast! It was in the middle of the monsoon season so there was a lot of fast water. Karen fell off of her tube once and everyone chickened out on the final set of rapids so I did it by myself. Greta said once was enough for her so I carried her tube up and turned it in. Phil, Karen, and I went for another run and this time, at the top, I drove the little ferry canoe thing across the river. What fun! Even more fun was me flipping over backwards on my tube this time. It wasn’t as much fun bouncing off rocks in the river trying to get back in my tube, but still, I wish we could go on the 2 hour trip downriver. Unfortunately, we have to get back and pack up and get the minivan to Binjai which we do after a final lunch at Yasmin’s. Then we pack ourselves and like a dozen others into the bus – it’s quite amazing what these things can hold. 2 hours later we are in Binjai and we get on the public bus to Medan and the shitheads charge us extra for our backpacks because they can.

In Medan, we get an expensive taxi back to the Deli Raya for 4000 Rp (2 bucks) and I get to talk to the dispatcher on the radio! Taxi cost almost as much as our hotel room for a night in Bukit Lawang.

Friday, November 22nd

We are up early and meet Rambo, the radical, Chinese-hating becak driver we ran into last night who takes us down to P.T Pacto where, of course, we wait hours for the bus which finally shows up and takes us to the port. It is a nice bus though and there does seem to be an actual, capable-looking boat at the dock so this might not be so bad. Takes about an hour and half to check in, go through immigration and general waiting around until we board the sleek and shiny craft which will carry us across the Straits of Malacca from Sumatra, Indonesia to Penang, Malaysia. The fare was 6700 Rp, less than 4 bucks!

It is quite posh and comfortable inside and we get seats up front by the bar and settle in to watch the karaoke and music videos. The boat is fast but the bar is misleading as it doesn’t actually serve beer or any real food other than snacks. The front of the boat is bouncing around like a wild horse and Great and Karen head aft seeking calmer conditions leaving Phil and I to watch the packs and the two videos, “Renegades” and “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom” by ourselves.

A mere four and a half hours later we disembark at the port of Penang, go through immigration and we get a three month visa for Malaysia which actually is one of the few places that we do not intend use that amount of time. For some unknown reason the immigration authorities only gave Phil and Karen two months. Undoubtedly it is some backhanded reflection on the past centuries of British colonial rule here. 

Penang is a bustling little metropolis and I splurge and buy a USA Today and a Time magazine. Cal Ripken got World Series MVP, Magic Johnson has AIDS, and the daggone Redskins are 11-0!