Last weekend I had an opportunity to get out of Aceh. A friend of mine, Taufik, said he was taking the 10 hour bus to Medan from Banda Aceh and I have history/friends/family in the upper volcanic fertile lands in the mountains above Medan, so several hours before the bus was departing I decided to get out of Aceh for the weekend.
Off work and straight to the bus station. I got on the sleeper bus, struggled to sleep throughout the night but finally woke up in a bustling Medan. The light was barely beginning to show signs of the day but the city was already alive. I was mobbed by Bechak, cab drivers, and others gawking “mister, where you go” and grabbing me. Luckily my friend got us out of the bus station and we had a nice lontong breakfast. Curries and spices and these delicious rice cakes. I could feel the difference in atmosphere in Medan. I was not in Aceh anymore.
This region is the beginnings of my history of becoming a part of Indonesia. Long before I was born, my father first came to Indonesia and lived in a mountainous town and favorite scenic destination called Berastagi. I was practically imbedded into a family structure there, even before my existence.
Sakti, my adopted cousin, came down to Medan and after going to a very traditional Batak Karo wedding, we caught the Sinabung Jaya up into the mountains. Sinabung Jaya is a bus company and route that has not changed for decades. It is difficult to describe but basically it is a very colorful miniature version of a bus, with a distinct call of horns on the front, and very carefully restructured in the interior to seat an extreme over-capacity of passengers. They are notorious for their aggressive and borderline suicidal driving. I was stuffed in the back in a row that could probably seat five, but was filled with seven passengers, and having the longest legs of everyone I was stuffed in the middle—and crushed by the proximity of the row in front of me. The bus regularly stops and picks up passengers that wave them down from the side of the road. I wish I had a picture because at one stop, the bus was entirely overfilled, and twenty high school students hopped onto the roof of the bus. Up the mountain we went, overtaking every car in our path and taking the windy curves that made my stomach churn. The woman holding her baby in front of me had decided to rest her drooling baby on my lap, and the man next to me dozed off and decided to rest his head on my shoulder.
Finally, we arrived in Berastagi, and I had some trouble walking. I think I had strained my calf muscle from the bus-ride. It was a magnificent day; the air was cool in the mountains and to my left the Sibayak Volcano looked as if it had just blown its cap off and was still fuming. To my right the much younger and taller Sinabung Volcano was visible on this clear day.
Sakti and I met up with his eight year old son who is required to call me “Bapak Tua” (eldest father) because I am his adopted uncle and the eldest born. Three of us hopped on the motorbike, drove through the weekend fruit market and arrived in Keling—a small rural village.
To be continued…
Sakti, my adopted cousin, came down to 
Finally, we arrived in Berastagi, and I had some trouble walking. I think I had strained my calf muscle from the bus-ride. It was a magnificent day; the air was cool in the mountains and to my left the Sibayak Volcano looked as if it had just blown its cap off and was still fuming. To my right the much younger and taller Sinabung Volcano was visible on this clear day. 
Sakti and I met up with his eight year old son who is required to call me “Bapak Tua” (eldest father) because I am his adopted uncle and the eldest born. Three of us hopped on the motorbike, drove through the weekend fruit market and arrived in Keling—a small rural village. 
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