TO-BA! TO-BA!

My guidebook says unless they’re coming from southern Sumatra, most travelers will enter Medan from the rest of Southeast Asia and put the city on their “worst places I’ve ever visited” list. The good news is that I WAS coming from southern Sumatra, and therefore I was quite happy and Medan seemed like a serious step up.

I flew into Medan on a Thursday, and fellow ETA John and I set out for Lake Toba the next morning. Not before, of course, attempting to exhaust Medan’s culinary possibilities (read, a couple food stands and one large grocery store). I’m constantly surprised by the products well-known brands sell in foreign countries that I’ve never even heard of in the US.

Lays brand “seaweed chips?” Hmm. Pringles sells “basil and garlic” and “salt and pepper” flavored chips here, as well as crab-flavored and:

Valuable lesson learned: just because it comes in pink doesn’t mean it tastes good.

Actually, we didn’t even come close to skimming the surface of Medan’s food offerings. Since a large number of Christians live there, you can find meats like pork and… yes, dog. They label the stands so as not to offend Muslims, though: B1 is dog and B2 means pork. Sadly, I only saw one of those stands as we drove past it quickly.

Getting to Lake Toba required a 30-minute becak ride (a motorbike with a sort of side car), four hours on a hot bus that doesn’t stop, and a 45-minute ferry ride from Parapat to the city on Samosir Island with what must be one of the coolest town names ever: Tuk Tuk. It’s pronounced “took-took.”

Toba is the largest lake in Southeast Asia; it was created by a volcanic eruption tens of thousands of years ago. Samosir Island, which is actually bigger than all of Singapore, sits in the middle of the lake. And it’s the 14^th deepest lake in the world.

“Danau Toba has been part of traveler folklore for decades. This grand, ocean-blue lake, found high up among Sumatra’s volcanic peaks, is where the amiable Batak people reside, largely untouched by the rest of the world. The secret of this almost mythical place was opened by the intrepid… Expect a chorus of ‘horas’ (‘welcome’) to greet you at every turn, as the locals quietly strum away the afternoon on their guitars while passing around a flagon of jungle juice—the locals are proud, debaucherous Christians who love a drink.”

One of my friends in Palembang told me an old legend about the area. Apparently, Lake Toba was once a beautiful lake with no island in the middle. There were many men who enjoyed fishing out in the clear, blue water. Once upon a time, a fish fell in love with one of the fisherman. She begged God to turn her into a woman so she could marry this man and spend her life with him on land.

God finally agreed to her plan, on one condition: that the (fish)woman nor her husband could ever mention that she had once been a fish. She agreed, and God turned her into a beautiful woman. The fisherman quickly fell in love with her and asked her to marry him. She told him how she’d spent years admiring him from under the water while he worked.

For years, they were very happy. The (fish)woman thought she was the luckiest (fish)woman in the whole world when she became pregnant with a son. Unfortunately, after the boy was born and started growing older, the husband and wife began arguing more and more. Soon, they couldn’t agree on a single thing, especially on how to raise their child.

One night, the fisherman got so upset he screamed, “What do you know?! You’re just a stupid fish! You’re not a real woman!”

God was angry that the fisherman had broken the promise. So he immediately turned the woman back into a fish and she lived the rest of her life in Lake Toba. As for the son, God decided he didn’t have to be a fish, but he couldn’t travel land freely like the rest of humankind. So God built Samosir, an island in the middle of the lake. The son spent the rest of his life there—stuck on that small piece of land and surrounded by the water where his (fish)mother swam.

Fortunately, there were no signs of (fish)women or scorned sons on our trip. Our hotel was unbelievable for the value—hot water and only $5 a night. And a pretty great view:

Good morning, Lake Toba.

Toba definitely gives you the feeling—appropriately, I suppose—that you’re at a lake; it’s no Bali. The air is cool enough at night that we didn’t even need an air conditioner.

Lake Toba has some of the most delicious pizza in all of Indonesia. Or maybe they just have real cheese. Either way, yum.

We rented a motorcycle and visited the Stone Chairs, which are more than 300 years old.

Rock solid justice

The king sat in the biggest chair, and the accused sat across the circle from him. The king and other prominent village men decided the sentence. If they chose death, the condemned man was beheaded.

This nice little boy volunteered to demonstrate.

Too bad we had to eat him.

First they “rubbed” out all the bad magic from the criminal, often stabbing or cutting him. Then they cut his head off. If the executioner wasn’t able to cut off the criminal’s head in a single chop, then he was beheaded. Quite a high-risk career, no? Then they rubbed the body with chili and garlic… and ate the criminal. The whole village would take a piece, believing they were made stronger by the man’s flesh and blood. The Bataks were cannibals well into the 1800s.

The tour guide we hired (for about $2) to lead us around the chairs and the Batak houses on the museum grounds showed us some traditional utensils, musical instruments, and wedding garb.

Batak houses have little doors.

He also pointed out the large masks and symbols adorning the houses. I thought it was interesting that he said they used to be magic until the Batak people discovered Christianity, and now they’re not magic anymore. He didn’t at all imply that the people were ever mistaken about magical powers, just that as the faith of the villagers evolved, so did the significance of their once-magical symbols.

We also tracked down the spot where Lonely Planet took their picture of Lake Toba. I was very excited about this. Although it’s obvious we either came on a very overcast day or there was some serious photo-editing going on.

My camera just couldn't decide what to focus on.

I know the feeling.

We still had the motorcycle for a few hours, so we decided to just drive around and explore the island a little. It certainly didn’t feel as big as it is. There were hardly any tourists on the island, and it was nice to just zoom around and look at the views. We came to one crossroads, and John said “left or right?” I picked left, and I’m glad I did, because we found one of my favorite parts of the whole weekend.

I’ve had a place in my heart for water buffalo since my freshman year at BSU when we read that horribly disturbing chapter from Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried where a soldier beats and kills a baby buffalo. Luckily, these buffaloes were much happier. Children were climbing all over them and were happy to let us join.

"Is it licking you?" "Yup."

They said, "Stand up!" I said, "Why not?"

John asked what the family what they used the buffalo for, and they said meat. I’ve never heard of anyone eating water buffalo… and I’m just not going to think about it.

John and Kate + 13

John is way better than I am at speaking Indonesian, which is both very helpful and a little annoying. He says communicating in Indonesian is like swinging a big club—you can say so many different things with the same words. English is more like a scalpel, which you can use to say exactly what you mean and in a number of different ways. That’s so true. And I’ve never been good at swinging clubs anyway.

I’m especially glad that I spent the weekend still on the island of Sumatra. I feel like so much of the traveling I do involves going somewhere else, which is nice. But island pride feels good.

Bye bye, Lake Toba.

Why I'm mad at all presidents

"That a famous [politician] has been cursed by a woman is a matter of complete indifference to a famous [politician]."
-Virginia Woolf, complete change in meaning by Katie Bostdorff

Ok, so I'm not really mad at all presidents. Really. But I’m not very happy with them right now...

1. Grr George Bush…

According to my friends in Palembang, GEORGE BUSH IS THE REASON I CANNOT SEE THE RAFFLESIA FLOWER.

Apparently, when he visited Indonesia three years ago, the Indonesian government constructed a private landing pad for him. My friends say they stripped away acres of wildlife in Java. Then, they say, the propellers from his helicopter somehow tampered with the delicate balance of nature and thousands of rafflesia could no longer bloom.

Yeah, ok. This sounds unlikely. I scoured the internet for any corroboration of their story, but, well… I found absolutely nothing.

Even if the story is true, would it actually be Bush’s fault? No. But I’ve been blaming a good portion of my problems over the last nine years on him, and I see no compelling reason to stop now.

In conclusion, "George Bush don’t like black people” or smelly flowers.

2. Grr Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono…

The President of Indonesia came to Palembang last week! A frenzy ensued. See this article. Or don't. You can get the point from the headline: "Police Detain Student Protestors and a Buffalo as Yudhoyono Arrives in Palembang." Oh, Palembang.

The Tuesday started like any other day. At 10 o’clock, though, my school’s headmistress got a call saying SBY would be stopping by IGM on his way out of town. Immediately, all classes were cancelled. Teachers threw themselves into a frenzy, handrolling hundreds of pieces of pempek and running from classroom to classroom with their jilbabs blowing in the air. Male students with longish hair (touching their ears) were given emergency haircuts behind the building. The school’s owners (the ominous “Foundation”) were called in.

We all lined the entrance to the school, ready to welcome our leader with open arms. 11 o’clock passed. We got another call saying that SBY couldn’t actually make it, but he was sending his son in his place.

12 o’clock passed.

1 o’clock passed. The pempek was starting to smell fishy.

We got another call saying that neither SBY or his son could make it, but they were sending a Representative.

Then we got another call. The President WAS going to come!

He didn’t come. The Representative came after all, and he said he only had time to pose for one picture in front of the school, and no, he could not shake any students’ hands. Three minutes later, he left.

“Oh, Miss Ketty,” one of the teachers said. “We are so disappointed.”

But don’t worry; pempek in Palembang does not go to waste. We devoured it all in a matter of minutes.

3. Grr Barack Obama…

Obama has officially announced that he’ll be visiting Jakarta in late March. And we got an email saying he doesn’t have time to visit with any Fulbright Scholars while he’s here. While this doesn’t exactly put the brakes on my initial plan of literally throwing my body in his path, that strategy was a long shot anyway and would probably have been met with unpleasant consequences.

As though the leader of the free world might have something better to do with his time than meet me.

Thom's Things on Motorbikes

Thom Stead is another Fulbright ETA here in Indonesia. There are three especially cool things about Thom:

1. He lives in Ohio (Cincinnati).

2. He went to college in Indiana (Earlham).

3. He has a sub-blog in his blog (http://semasemasemarang.blogspot.com) of Things on Motorbikes.

In Eat Pray Love, Elizabeth Gilbert calls the motorbike "the minivan of Indonesia." It's so true.

So I stole it to share with all of you. He said I could.

Things on Motorbikes #1:

These are obviously watermelons,

but I've also seen as many as five water-cooler-sized jugs

of water on a single motorbike, too.

Things on Motorbikes #2:

And they were all alive!

Things on Motorbikes #3:

I don't know what this guy's hauling,

but it sure is massive.

And a close-up.

Things on Motorbikes #4:

Hey, family, let's go get dessert. Everyone hop on the bike!

Things on Motorbikes #5:

(I took this one in Medan.)

When you need a goldfish on the go.

I'm too sexy for the gym.

Well, this is as good an excuse as any not to work out. I wouldn’t want to arouse any “sexual desires.”

Here’s an article from today’s Jakarta Post, forwarded to me by the lovely Andrea Reichert, with a warning for those headed to the gym or planning to celebrate the upcoming holiday. Yup, this is right in my hometown of Palembang.

I wonder if this will affect my students’ reactions to the Valentine’s Day lesson I already planned. Nothing says debauchery like candy conversation hearts.

-------

Indonesian Muslim Organization Cracks Down on Tight Gym Clothes and Valentine’s Day

Nurfika Osman

The head of the Indonesian Ulema Council (MUI) in Palembang, South Sumatra, has warned people, especially women, not to wear sexy and tight attire when they undertake aerobic exercise as it might arouse sexual desire.



Sodikun said that most aerobic clothing was not in line with Islamic cultural values the issue needed to be resolved. 



But leggings and tank tops are not the only sexual temptation at the gym, according to Sodikun. He warned that aerobics class moves could also spark sexual desire.



“Exercise is recommended to maintain physical fitness and health, but it must be conducted in accordance with our existing social norms and culture,” Sodikun said. “Aerobic exercise must also avoid the use of transparent suits as it does more harm than good.”



At the same time, the MUI in Pamekasan, East Java, called on the Muslim community to refrain from celebrating Valentine’s Day, stating that it was not a Muslim tradition.



The clerics issued the call because in past years certain segments of the population in Pamekasan had taken part in activities to celebrate the day.



“After all, Valentine’s Day is not an Islamic tradition,” said Lailurrahman, chairman of the MUI’s Pamekasan branch.



“Also, Valentine’s Day celebrations tend to be marked by frivolous, extravagant behavior or even improper activities,” he added.



He said that filling one’s life with love was actually in accordance with Allah’s commands. But Valentine’s Day, which falls on February 14, had pagan connotations, and therefore celebrating it would be a deviation from the Islamic faith, he said.



In Indonesia, the day is mainly observed among young people living in urban centers.



But Lailurrahman said that when one studied the origins of Valentine’s Day, it was obvious that it had nothing to do at all with Islam and Islamic cultural values. 



“So, it is only proper for the MUI to forbid Muslim youths from observing the day,” he said.

Monster mash

“Have you ever felt a man in your house?” my friend asked.

“Huh? I don’t think I understand what you mean.”

“I asked if you ever felt a man in your house. A spirit. Do you believe in spirits?” she continued.

I said no, I don’t really believe in spirits. But what do I know?

She started this discussion over dinner one night in a restaurant. When I asked why we didn’t have the conversation in my house earlier, she said she didn’t want to scare me.

“I have magic,” she said.

Ok, that’s a little strange, but it's really not so uncommon in Indonesia. The people here are very comfortable believing strongly in their Muslim faith and in the spirit world. There are all sorts of legends about ghosts and animal spirits. My friend says her animal spirit is the tiger.

“So… did you see a man in my house?” I asked.

“I see him every time I’m there,” she answered. “He is always watching you.”

“And he was watching me when we were sitting on the couch earlier?”

“He is always watching you when you’re in the house. But don’t worry. He’s a guardian spirit, not an evil one. And he really likes you, I can tell.”

“He likes me?”

“Mmhmm. He thinks you're nice.”

I’ll be honest… that’s kind of unnverving. Not so much that there’s a guardian watching over me, but that my friend swears she can see him and he’s always watching me.

Also, I’m slightly embarrassed about the number of times I’ve jumped around my living room listening to Rihanna under the guise of ‘cardio.’ I wonder if he’s disgusted by the number of manggis I can eat in rapid succession.

Indonesians think it’s very strange that I live alone. Most of them live in a house the same size as mine with as many as eight or ten people. They always ask if I’m afraid to be by myself. So far, I really haven’t been afraid at all. I’d much rather live alone than with a host family, except my Bahasa Indonesia skills would probably benefit from some more native speakers. The only time it’s frustrating is when beggars or salespeople come to my door and try to force their way in. I’ve perfected my passive-aggressive “Ok, nope! Can’t help! Thanks for coming over! Bye!” as I shut and lock the door.

My friend says there are many evil spirits in the area surrounding my neighborhood. That’s not shocking—if there is such a thing as evil spirits, I guarantee they’d love the road to my house. It’s a wet, dark forest. Luckily, my friend says my guardian spirit keeps them out of my house.

She says lots of people I know have magical powers, too. I asked her if I have a spirit animal.

“Do you feel like you have a spirit animal? Do you ever see magical beings?” she asked.

Well, no.

“You probably don’t.”

Hmph.

Doctor doctor, give me the news

Part 1: “It’s pronounced ‘appendicitis.’”

So, wow. I’m not sure if I’ve ever been less qualified to do something in my life.

I found myself standing in front of 200 ICU surgeons from the Palembang Hospital at 7am sharp, lecturing them on correct medical terms while they scribbled down notes. I wanted to say, “Perhaps you shouldn’t really listen to what I’m saying. After all, you routinely cut open bodies and sew them back up, and I try not to even make contact with my own fingernail clippings because they’re gross.”

As a rule, we’re not allowed to accept any other jobs during our 9-month contract in Indonesia, teaching English or otherwise. But I couldn’t refuse Gustina, one of my favorite teachers at IGM, since she’d been begging me for weeks to accompany her to the class she teaches at the hospital every week.

Luckily, the class pretty much runs itself. The surgeons take turns presenting cases they’ve worked on in the last week. Instead of explaining them in Indonesian like they normally would, they conduct all business in English on Fridays. And MY job was to correct all their mistakes. Very publically.

So after each presentation, I would clear my throat and sort of wobble my way to the front of the room. Then I would hold my page of notes up in front of me and say things like, “Um, actually, you ‘commit’ suicide, you don’t ‘get’ suicide. And you just ‘slip,’ not ‘got slipped.’ But, uh, everyone did a, uh, really great job today. You just keep on keeping people alive…”

I still can’t believe how often English words just blow my mind while I’m trying to explain them. One doctor used the word “reposition” incorrectly. “Reposition,” I explained, “means to move something again, usually just a little bit.” He nodded. “To move again?” I nodded. “So… to re-move. Remove is same as reposition.”

Hmm. No, it’s definitely not. But that’s weird.

All of the surgeries fell into one of two categories: motorcycle accidents and stab wounds. I feel like that pretty much sums up Palembang in my mind… crazy traffic and unbridled tempers.

Honestly, though, it was really shocking. Slide after slide after slide showed these terribly bloody, often fatal, photographs of crash victims. I complain a lot about not getting my international driver’s license before I came here, but seeing those pictures made me think that maybe it’s ok I’m not weaving my way through traffic every day. At least half of the people brought into the emergency room died from head trauma where they collided with another vehicle or “got slipped” on the road in the constant rain.

Another interesting point: the other IGM teacher Gustina and I were the only people in the room who weren’t medical professionals. And still, in each of the pictures where brains and other organs are splayed out across tables, any genitals or breasts were completely blocked out with bright, funky purple ovals. That is so trademark Indonesia.

Why do we “perform” surgeries?

“Flatus” is a word that has been haunting me in Indonesia, only in the vocabulary sense, I swear. They use it as a substitute for “fart” or “flatulence,” which, I mean, it is. But it is so odd to hear my students and teachers say, “I flatus often.” They also use the word “defecate” in a lot of uncomfortable ways.

One lesson I learned: doctors in Indonesia are really no different than children or teachers or ojek drivers in Indonesia. I entered the room to whispers of “bule,” and they all wanted to shake my hand and ask me if I like pempek. They offered me a paid position on the staff, but I politely declined.

A group of surgeons approached me after class and invited me to go with them on their weekly bike ride. Keep in mind I have a general distaste for physical activity. Still, I figured I had a good fifteen years on even the youngest surgeons. How bad could it be? I gave them my number.

Part 2: Tour de Palembang

Later in the day, I got this text: “Hi, Ketty! I pick up you at 5:30 for 70km on bike.”

Uhh. They expect me to ride 70 kilometers at 5:30am?

I groaned. Oh, well. I can do it one time. How bad can it be?

As it turns out, it can be kind of bad. I could have handled the distance had they not all wanted to prove how very ‘fit’ they all were. I explained that I’m grossly out of shape, but they insisted on off-roading.

In Indonesia, driving on paved highways can feel like off-roading in the US. You have no idea. There was simply no way to bike through the mud on the path they were following.

“So sorry, Miss Ketty,” they said. “We should not have tried to show off for you. We picked the wrong road, and our bikes do not work.”

One doctor broke his chain trying to pedal through it. They instructed me to carry my bike the next 10 kilometers. Carry doesn’t mean push. It means lift into the air and carry.

“With all due respect,” I began. “I am trying. It is early. I have had zero servings of caffeine, and I haven’t bitten anyone yet. That alone is a considerable feat. I cannot carry this men’s mountain bike 10 kilometers in any direction.”

Frustratingly, they delighted in my struggle. They took pictures while I cursed them under my uncaffeinated breath. Finally, after I fell over in the mud four times because my shoes were too heavy to left, they helped.

One of the doctors shouted, “Miss Katie! This is the test of your life!”

I considered that. If that off-roading path really was the test of my life, I apparently survive with the help of friends while I complain that life is ruining my shoes. Actually, it sounded pretty accurate to me. I finally emerged triumphant and exhausted on the other side.

Emotionally, I think I was pretty done at that point. I’ve never been a biker. Actually, I really enjoy it, just as a means of actual transportation, and usually with a stop for dessert somewhere in between.

“Hey, want to ride our bikes to Dairy Queen?”

I’m your gal.

On the infrequent occasions I subject my body to actual exercise, I prefer something that burns calories a little more efficiently. Still, I couldn’t help but enjoy the scenery. Sumatra is smelly, but it is smelly and beautiful. We passed palm trees and rice paddies and forests and piles of burning trash.

Then what always happens to me… happened to me. I started to get bored.

I sought distractions. I taught them all to say, “Katie is the queen of the road!” every time any time one of us passed another. That entertained me for a good half dozen miles before it backfired and became grating.

I tried to salvage a little respect with my one very basic bicycle talent: riding without hands. Note, surgeons do not think this is impressive and will begin yelling in unison for you to stop immediately, causing you to swerve embarrassingly.

I talked to the doctors about all the motorcycle accidents. They said crash victims account for a huge majority of the cases they see each day. One surgeon said, “Yeah, do not wear your helmet! It is money in my pocket!!” Grr.

Luckily, we stopped for a break at about 35 kilometers. A few of the doctors took me on a hunt for coconuts up in the trees. It’s times like that that I can’t help but be immeasurably happy. We just pulled to the side of the road and are hunting for coconuts up in the palm trees on the island where I live.

So it was while I was skipping along thinking grand romantic thoughts about traveling the world that I fell into a hole.

Indo has a way of pulling you back down whenever you’re up. Literally.

Ok, it wasn’t very deep, but it scared the s*** out of me.

“Do you teach those words you just said to your students?!” they all cackled and whooped.

But we found coconuts. You just hack off the bottom of the husk so it’ll sit without rolling and hack a big hole in the top. Then you drop in a straw and just drink the water. I mean, it’s no Diet Mountain Dew, but… oh come on, that’s awesome.

Then we dined on tempe (one of my favorites) and sat around taking pictures and laughing. I managed to actually forget we had another half of a bike ride to finish.

I started warming up. “I’m decently happy with my performance up to this point, and I don’t want to end up irrevocably bitter towards all of you…”

The poor fellow whose bike chain had broken back during the off-roading asked if I would mind very much if he took my bike the rest of the way and I could follow in the car that had joined up with us after the mud portion of the trip.

I happily accepted his offer and spent the rest of the trip cheering the others on and munching on rambutan. “Now YOU are the king of the road!” I would shout as they pedaled past us.

They were very happy and the head surgeon even offered me a ride home early.

“I’m sorry I suck and didn’t make it,” I said.

“Oh, Ketty,” he said. “Biking is not really about biking. You have given us life today. You have put the life into our wheels.”

Well, shucks.