The ferry to Sumatra was almost as haranguing as one which I had earlier caught, during my travels in Thailand. Although
it was more modernised, it had the added bonus of a television srceen, (which was quite inconveniently, or so I thought, in Malaysian, or Indonesian), it was even more crammed, to the point of being unable to move even a foot, once you had sat down. Asians have generally small bums, no its not that mine is too large, its just that they made the seats smaller and closer together on these ferries. The end result being you could fit more people on, but, if you exceed five foot two, you have major problems with leg room, which for me meant cramp for much of the seven hour journey. I boarded in Georgetown and only discovered sea-sickness once the boat was rocking so hard that one second you could see only sky, the other only sea. Being a great believer in psychology I managed to convince myself that sea-sickness was all in the head, although I had to try even harder to ignore the stench of vomit circulating in the cabin, and I consider it a mighty feat that I managed to sleep through much of the unpleasantness. Never have I been so relieved for a boat to reach its destination, in this case Medan, Sumatra.
Unfortunately, getting off the boat was not quite as easy as I had anticipated, "never think ahead of yourself in South-East Asia," I was to learn. Instead of having passport control when you get off the boat, Indonesians have somehow decided that customs officers should in fact board boats when they arrive in harbour, and then do the honours when passengers have to go past them to disembark. So first we had to wait half an hour for customs to arrive and board the boat and then there was an all consuming crush, as other passengers surged to be first in the queue. When you are travelling with a backpack, not far off your own size, you will find it quite difficult to get a hold of your luggage and push to the front of any queue. I resigned myself to a long wait and once again became appraising my patience. Finally, my passport was given the obligatory stamp, and with a disgruntled comment from another customs officer I was warned to be careful of everyone, I was too young to be travelling around Medan, and I now agree he was probably right. I have never seen such a disgusting city in all my life.
The only upside of Medan was, that at that time Indonesia was having major political problems and tourists had been warned to stay clear due to riots in Jakarta. There were few riots in Medan, but the resultant effect of the problems was Indonesian currency had dropped and I found it possible to live it up in a five star hotel for little more than a pound a night. In fact, for my whole stay in Sumatra, I cashed in a fifty pound sterling travellers cheque, and I became a millionaire, with something like 1.8 million Rupiahs. Being rich did not bring about the great feeling I expected it would, at least not in Indonesia, I expect I was far too paranoid to relax. Anyway, one night in Medan, was more than enough for me, and I found myself organising a minibus to Buckit Laweng, which is nearby Gunung
Leuser National Park, which is one of the largest in the world, and includes an Orang-utan Rehabilitation Centre, an area containing orang-utans, gibbons, monkeys, elephants, tigers and the elusive Sumatran rhinoceros.
The ride to Buckit Laweng, took, predictably, longer than it should have for the distance which was covered. However, as I was now learning to in Asia, I was just grateful to have arrived there at all. What I wasn't too grateful for, was the 3km walk I had to make, with my precious backpack, at the end of the road, when I had to get off the minibus and look for some accommodation, which I was not entirely convinced I would find at the end of the jungle path I was directed on to. The first thing I did, was to purchase a packet of cigarettes, having not ever being a smoker, I was beginning to find much comfort in the drag of a cigarette, especially when my much endured patience was called upon, time after time. Besides, I justified, a pack of twenty was at the time, less than ten pence sterling.
As I stumbled up this jungle path in darkness, with the pathetic light of my torch, I came across several places at which I could have made my bed for the night, however, me being me, I kept walking until the last place, which I was assured was the nearest to the Orangutan rehabilitation centre. Having reached yet another new country, where I could experience a different culture's food, I indulged myself in the local dish of gado-gado, and of course the local brew, Bintang beer. Whilst winding down in the evening, outside my room, I came across a rather strange young local, called Sal, who introduced himself then proceeded to tell me his history of stealing and theft. Raising my guard I listened in disbelief as he told me he had fled from the city and his life of crime, to become a jungle guide for Orangutans. Whether it was all true or not, I guess I will never know. I do know I was extremely careful which belongings I left where. I do remember erupting in fits of laughter after hearing his heavily accented expression, "It's F***ing broken, man." He had been referring to a hammock.
The next morning I set out with Sal and a couple of other backpackers, on a bit of a jungle trek to find some Orangutans. We initially passed the rehabilitation centre, where volunteers carry out the work necessary to be able to release young Orangutans back in to the wild. Human contact is kept as minimal as possible, in order to increase their chances of survival when released. We had not gone very far in to the jungle when we cam across, one of the centre's rangers sitting in a platform in the midst of dense trees. We were motioned to keep extremely still and crouched down to watch. The ranger sat quite calmly on his platform, holding out a banana to one of these magnificent red apes, which was approaching from a nearby tree, he did not look at the animal as he held out the token, apparently they interpret direct eye contact as a form of intimidation. Before long there were three other Orangutans directly surrounding the ranger on his podium, and they were all munching away contentedly by his side. I'm not sure how I would have felt, to have been closed in by these great apes, but I know I would never have been able to relax as confidently as that individual did. After a short time the food supply was exhausted and the red apes dispersed in to the jungle as rapidly as they had arrived.
We continued on with our jungle trek, and after trekking on for a considerable distance in the oppressive heat, we were finally rewarded. Out of no where, appeared a female of the species holding her baby and we all stood rooted to the spot in nervous fascination, as she continued to move towards us. We were all warned not to establish eye contact, or to make any sudden eye contact. When she was as close as two metres from us, hanging from the dense jungle undergrowth, she stopped her approach and regarded us carefully. We were being observed by a mother Orangutan and her baby, living in their natural jungle habitat, and it was a spectacular feeling, which I will never forget.
The next day, there were more thrills in store for me, however, this time of a different kind. I would have expected the most thrilling part of my day to have been white water tubing down the Bohorok river, however, I was once again wrong. It was the journey back upstream, hanging on to the roof a bus which gave me the white knuckles I had expected. Not that the white water tubing was not exhilarating, it just did not compete with sliding around the roof of a bus at speed, which may I add had not been converted for roof passengers. To top it all off the roads in Indonesia are a free for all and the way drivers negotiate corners, would make professional rally drivers proud. Why? I hear you ask, did I sit on the roof? Simply because our white water adventure had lasted for over four hours, and that was the last bus back, it was crammed full to bursting and people were already hanging on to doors and out of windows. Still, much to my surprise I arrived back in one piece, if not a tad under the weather because I was already suffering the effects of cavorting around in polluted water. Not that it was polluted when our tubing journey began, in fact it was crystal clear, but after a few hours travelling down river at speed, we began to pass through villages on either side of the river and the water became frothy, brown and unsanitary. No thanks either, to the water buffalo who were using the water to cool off in, as we floated past. The only other injury which I managed to sustain, was a rather delicate posterior, bruised and battered from bumping and srcaping over the rocks in the shallower parts of the river.
Once I had recovered from my activities I decided, once again, it was time to try my luck somewhere new, and I opted for the appeal of Lake Toba. A major deciding factor in this decision, was the altitude of my new location, which promised me a much needed, cooler climate. By this time I had begun to daydream about the harsh Scottish winter, (something which I have vowed I will never do again, after the recent one I experienced) and I was looking forward to a little coolness.
Lake Toba, is set in the middle of northern Sumatra, and occupies the caldera of a giant volcano that collapsed on itself after a massive eruption 100,000 years ago. I was planning to stay in Samosir, the wedge-shaped island in the middle of the lake, which was created by subsequent upheavals between 30,000 and 75,000 years ago. The journey to Lake Toba was somewhat of a nightmare, I know I should have expected no different, however, there were few roads to speak of, the bus got a flat tyre and I still had a dicky tummy. The ferry to the island was not such a great idea either, however, I was relieved upon my long awaited arrival, and I gladly fell in to a bed at the first backpackers lodge I came across.
The next day I was to learn, time is not something of an essence in Indonesia. In the pursuing few days, I perfected my morning routine which consisted of - waking up and ordering breakfast immediately, going back to bed for half an hour, showering and then hoping that breakfast would be ready, this usually took anything in the region of one to two hours, even if I only asked for a cup of tea. The rest of my meal times consisted of much the same procedure - so much so that while eating lunch I would study the options available for dinner. It was a nice relaxed atmosphere though, the natives were exceptionally friendly and daydreams were only interrupted by the infuriating, slow scuff-scuff, of the locals flip-flops, (since anyone who has been there will be able to tell you, Indonesians do not lift their feet when they walk.)
Occasionally, I get these crazy ideas and one day I thought it would be pretty cool to hire out a moped, as opposed to lazing around all day. So off I go, after my sixty second brief on how to ride on of these things, and before long I think I've inherited my fathers gift for all things motor-cyclic. As the island is fairly small, I set out on my tour of its perimeter and stop off at a few places along the way. Yes, and bought the obligatory wooden stuff, which you get persuaded in to, (have you ever seen my six foot magic stick - which breaks in to three, easy to carry pieces, just for the tourist?). The scenery was spectacular, the lake is surrounded by steep mountains, ridges and sandy, pine-sheltered beaches. The weather was just about perfect - or so I thought, until I reached the far side of the island and realised my arms were burning. No, I hadn't thought to bring any sunsrceen. I soldiered on regardless, visited some geothermal rocks and springs then decided I should stop at the post office for some stamps. Being at one of the busiest places on the island, I chose now to fall off my bike. I always did like being centre of attention, but believe me, it's not the same when your pride has taken a tumble. I hastily limped back on to the bike and took off as fast as I could, without looking back. Luckily, I wasn't hurt much, but I much prefer horses to bikes since that incident.
My time in Indonesia had passed quickly, and before I knew it I was headed back to the port of Medan, to catch my return ferry to Penang, or so I thought. As it turned out, all return bookings have to be reconfirmed three days before departure and my seat had been double booked. I was told that I may be able to get a seat once everyone else had boarded, so I resigned myself to another long wait. The departure lounge was reminiscent of a cattle mart and I held little hope of being seated. The ferry departed four hours late, so for something like six hours I sat on my luggage in vain, aside the mice and rats, which I was beginning to get accustomed to. The boat departed without me, and I booked myself on the next passage in a couple of days time. Meanwhile, I felt I deserved some special treatment, so I locked myself away from the grime of the city, in another flash five star hotel, which cost the equivalent price of a big mac in London.
During those two days in Medan I fell witness to one of the many riots sweeping trough the country at that time. Fortunately, I did not become entangled in to the rioting crowd, thanks to the quick thinking of an american tourist, who swept me off the streets before any harm could befall me. Before I knew it, I was safely, (well as safe as these ferries can be), seated on a boat, returning to Penang.
