My cozy little calang-fornia

I just moved back down the West Coast of Aceh. Driving down the tsunami affected coast is such an awing experience. Imagining the way that those waves completely reshaped the landscape of the coastline, the rebuilding, the stories of initial response, and now the confusion about the future; not to mention the stunning beauty, the cliffs, the beaches, the construction out at sea that used to be villages, the islands, and so on…

We drove down bumpy dusty roads in an NGO shuttle and I finally got to my home in Calang. I live right on the beach but since the town was completely wiped out, after two years there has not been enough time for complete reconstruction/restoration. So I live right on the beach in simple pods and housing, with barbed wire fencing all around it. It’s my cozy little concentration camp in paradise. It’s paradise because it feels almost like a summer camp and right out the back gate is the most amazing bay with perfect waves, views of islands, and the most amazing sunsets wading slowly into the Indian Ocean every evening just around Maghrib—when the minarets sound off and signaling the end of swimming and bodysurfing on a beach that I often have all to myself.

Sinabung Jaya Part III

I was set to leave Berastagi and head back to Aceh. On the left is our family fruit stand. Sad to leave but the first thing I needed to do was get back on the sinabung jaya back to Medan to catch the evening bus for Banda Aceh. I gave myself three hours for a trip that usually takes two. On a crowded Sunday afternoon and some unexpected flooding, the traffic was really bad on the direct two lane road that winds back and forth down the volcano. I got in the front seat snug between two batak guys speaking their local language. These guys are notorious even as migrants in Jakarta as extremely aggressive drivers.

I was worried I was not going to make the bus I was chasing back to Aceh. Sitting in traffic, the two guys I was squeezed in between, yelling in my ear, decided to just go for it. We took off into the other lane into oncoming traffic and both of them with their heads out of the car yelling for motorcycles to move out of the way. As the cars got too close we squeezed back into our lane and waited for the next opportunity. Everyone honking. We must have zoomed pass several police men and I was starting to worry whether I would make it down the mountain in one piece. I had more reason to worry.

We passed the major holdup of the flooding and then we really began flying. From the video you can see the man hanging onto the dashboard and the extreme concentration (and aggression?) on the drivers expression.

We were starting to get close to Medan and picking up speed when suddenly there was a big explosion in the van. The five women crammed into the backseat started screaming and yelling “stop shooting” or “somebody has been shot.” Tension grew as we slowed down a bit but as the bang returned as a sputter the driver looked over me to his friend, “it’s just the muffler,” and he began flooring the gas petal again. We drove on godspeed with what sounded like firecrackers exploding in the back. But it was just the muffler. The traffic had held us up and I was beginning to worry about making my bus. I was somewhat torn about the reckless speeding because I didn't want to spend a night in Medan. Just then, my friend Taufik called me and asked me to check my ticket. Our bus had apparently left the night before because we had the wrong date on our tickets.

To make things worse, a lazy motorcyclist started crossing the road in front of us. To avoid us he had to veer quickly off the road but there was an oncoming motorcycle next to us. They smashed into each other. Debris shattered everywhere as we crunched over plastic/glass and other motorcycle parts. I was really worried about the people. I hope they are ok but I will never know because the driver quickly made the decision that it was not our fault and without skipping a beat we zoomed into Medan.

I rushed to the bus station and as the bus was pulling out they said they had room for the three of us who had been given the wrong dates and got safely on the bus. I was still somewhat in shock but I cuddled cozily into my spot on the sleeper bus and I was on my way back (home) to Aceh.

I finally got back to Banda Aceh at 5 in the morning. Although the AC was blasting on the bus the night before, and I tossed and turned through the night, I woke up refreshed. I got in a becak—local public transportation (unique and innovative sidecars attached to motorcycles). The becak had some lights attached to the car and as the driver took me home I noticed that the harder he gassed the brighter the lights would shine. I asked him how he put the electrical system together. “It’s attached to the engine. I can’t gas too hard though, because too much energy would shatter the light bulbs…”

Sinabung Jaya Part II

In Keling we walked through the village and stopped at the tea shop. Teh Telur is the most popular drink and I said I’d have one too. Teh telur, literally “egg tea” is exactly it means. They make tea and dump the raw yellow yolk of an egg into the tea and mix it up. It’s thick and with so much added sugar in it, it is an intense drink. That afternoon we went to the fields.

Sinabung Volcano was in the distance and we walk towards it through fields of cabbage, broccoli, carrots, cauliflower, and other vegetables planted in this lush region. Down some cliffs below some people planted rice and there were also fish ponds to add to dinners and to the economy. The system of ownership is as complex and inter-related as the familial ties and I realized this as Sakti kept insisting that the carrots grown over there are “our” lands. We picked some chives and squash for dinner and also took some oranges with us for the walk back. On the way back we walked on the road and stopped by my “Bapak tua,” Sakti’s father’s grave. I remember the last time I was here his wife Nande wailed and wailed when we visited the grave. He was an incredible man and left his imprints on many people. I remember the crying was contagious and almost magical as everyone became extremely emotional remembering him at the place he was put to rest.

We paid our respects and walked on, stopping for lunch at the side of the road. This was one of my “uncles” stops that sell cigarettes, coffee/tea, and also the famous Babi Guling of the region—Barbequed pork. It was refreshing to see the meat because in Aceh even the handling of swine is strictly prohibited. The Bataks laughed about the Acehnese when I told them about the stories of pig-hunting in Aceh. Pigs are an uncontrollable pest to crops in Aceh, and people hunt them but refuse to eat the meet that the Bataks value so much. “The Acehnese don’t know what their missing,” Sakti said.

Continuing back walking on the road we heard some very unique and strange music coming from the house. “You know what their doing?” I shook my head. I looked in and saw an old woman dancing. “They are raising the spirits. Somebody has died and that woman is consulting her husband and other ancestors and loved ones.”

It was Sunday morning and women were on their way home from Church. Sakti continued. “We are all Christians up here in the mountains but we still very much believe in our traditions, customs, and the belief of our ancestors. They are separate types of beliefs, the traditional view and the christian view, but I also believe in both, both in their separate ways.”

To be continued…

Sinabung Jaya, Part 1

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…