Riding over rutted trails among the remaining concrete foundations of a city that used to exist is an eerie drift among forsaken tombstones. Twisted steel rebar poking from jagged brick ruins reach out like skeletal fingers toward the sky, beckoning for remembrance. A gasping scene of heartbreak watching ragged young orphan boys with filthy faces sniffing bags of glue brings the despair into focus. Gazing at this lingering disaster is a similar experience to visiting the S-21 Torture Museum in Cambodia. It causes the same sense of breathless horror.
Yet, again, the human spirit prevails. Among sun-bleached, frayed canvas tents flapping in the salty tropical breeze, splintering plywood shelters and makeshift noodle stands are being hammered into shape. Survivors too busy for pity are hauling wood, digging trenches or loading trucks with sacks of cement and homemade tools. And still workers laboring in the sticky heat stop to smile and wave, pitching familiar questions: “Mistah wahs you name?” What does one say to a humble people who’ve just lost what little they had and nearly everyone they loved? “Salamat siang, apa kabar?” (Good afternoon, how are you?) To relieve my discomfort, an elderly, crooked-tooth rickshaw driver pauses roadside and asks, “You have come to see tsunami?”
Knowing much can be spoken with just the eyes, I touch mine, then his. “No, I have come to see you.” In a moment’s locked gaze, I try to tell him that the world has not forgotten the tragedy he recalls every second. I can’t help but wonder what these tormented people dream of at night. Happy faces and steady smiles can’t change what they must relive when clenching their eyes. But with 200,000 still homeless and hungry, a world preoccupied with newer disasters may already be starting to forget.
Entire bridges and coastal roads disappeared in Northwest Sumatra, Indonesia
On to the West Coast Wasteland
September 28, 2005
Lamno, Aceh Province, Sumatra
Finding roads in places that no longer exist is difficult in Banda Aceh. The world as the natives knew it had ended, so the survivors were unsure of what was left even down the next stretch of beach, and most didn’t want to know. Trying to tell them how I needed to ride back along the devastated west coast of Aceh province was as difficult as explaining why. Their answer to everything was “Soo naam mee,” so I decided that it was best to proceed and check in with other survivors along the way. By all accounts, the single-lane highway on Sumatra’s northwest coast had been consumed by the tsunami, and the few remaining isolated villages were being supplied by airdrop. But learning the road to Lamno had been cleared was encouraging. Lamno, the site of the first major bridge collapse, is the last stop with relatively fresh food and supplies heading due south along the Indian Ocean. When I arrive and see how few buildings remain, a beat-down flophouse hostel seems like a welcome refuge at the end of the day. An optimistic native’s suggestion that if I rode the waterline at low tide I could connect to more intact roads on higher ground further down the coast provided the spark I needed.
There wasn’t much that could go wrong if I ran into solid jungle or an impassable sea, except that it would mean a time-consuming retreat to Banda Aceh. A UN relief worker had told me: “It takes five hours on the good road just to reach Lamno. That’s only the first 60 miles. Then comes the hard part, finding a way around washed-out bridges to reach the next organized city 150 miles south in Meulaboh.” But their five-hour ride had been in a convoy under military escort. Mine, including photo stops, took only about three, and most of this was on sporadically solid asphalt that ran from the mangled seaside and twisted back through delicious isolated coastal mountains in rebel territory. Without using his weapon, a BAM fighter along the way waved me aside, offering tea and rice cakes. So much for the rumors of Muslim guerrillas murdering civilians.
Investigating a variety of exaggerated tales with the locals eases my worries. Two German backpackers allegedly killed for violating curfew were actually accidentally shot by the military much further south. Tourism has been nonexistent since the fighting began, and the hikers had been camping in a combat zone when a jungle army patrol stumbled upon them sleeping in their tent. Failing to obey commands to exit with their hands up, they were presumed rebels and tense government soldiers promptly opened fire. The wounded woman survived but her husband did not. Still, hearsay panics the listeners.
There is plenty of fuel in Sumatra, but unfounded rumors of diminishing supplies cause city-block-long lines at gas stations. Yet as I’m a Westerner, attendants assume I’m an NGO worker and wave me to the front.
Wild tales of two unchaperoned young couples being whipped and caned by religious authorities also proved to be unfounded. The couples in question had actually been caught near a mosque illegally drinking beer, and as a lesson to others who would disregard Islamic law, they were unceremoniously paraded around the town square in the back of a pickup truck. Even though the rules governing male-female contact are strict, Muslim women in groups are always anxious to talk to me, displaying sweet, open personalities that defy their conservative dress.
While I’m on an after-dinner ride on the outskirts of Lamno, four young native women wearing traditional headscarves wave me over to warn of the 6:00 p.m. curfew outside of villages. After wordless gestures of firing invisible pistols and rifles, they were convincing enough that staying to chat with them seemed like a better idea. As our conversation progressed to the point where they agreed to be photographed, one woman in particular displayed a noticeable fondness for foreigners by standing closer than normal, wearing a longing smile. In a surprising violation of local custom, in front of the others she invited me to sleep at her house. For wandering motorcyclists, come-ons from local girls are common, but in the past, they’d always turned up in private, away from the prying eyes of gossiping townsfolk. Yet most of those flirtations had turned to sullen faces when they learned I would be back on the road at dawn. I’d learned to avoid them.
Still, this bright-eyed olive-skinned beauty skipping and laughing in the silvery moonlight was persistent. Placing clasped palms together next to her tilting head then touching two index fingers together while pointing to herself and then to me was a gesture too obvious to ignore.
There may have been another meaning, but earlier in the evening, when we’d looked at her digital images on the camera playback screen, she had pressed her very firm breasts against my arm — and as she’d been the only girl not wearing a headscarf, her gestures sure looked like a green light from here. But what may have been okay with her was likely to be reported by nosy neighbors and might earn her a public caning or worse. Yet, I knew that I’d replay this moment in my head for weeks to come.
Back in the mosquito-infested hotel room under the monotonous hum of the lopsided rotating ceiling fan, the bulk of the night was consumed pondering undergarment colors and the garden scent of a young woman’s hair. In the morning, I resisted a hormone-influenced urge to return — but I knew from experience that if you turn down a woman once, you will rarely be given a second chance (no matter how hard you beg).
After a cool water-bucket shower and four greasy fried eggs, I repacked my gear and proceeded to the knoll where the first major bridge had been yanked out to sea. Proving once again its mastery over man, aqua-tinted ocean waves continued to brush against remaining fragmented pillars. Standing there alone on the brim of a forbidding wasteland extending to the horizon, gazing across the gaping expanse was a sobering warning of what lay ahead.
Coastal Drift
September 30, 2005
Meulaboh, Aceh Province, Sumatra
In the summer of 1978, I was curious about sensational media reports of feuding Protestants and Catholics blowing each other up in Belfast and boarded a flight to Dublin to see for myself. Was the whole country at war and were Christians, and the Irish in particular, somehow more violent and dangerous than the rest of us? Backpacking through rich green farmlands and contemporary cities seemed like a good way to investigate.
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Spending a month hitchhiking cross-country doesn’t qualify anyone as an expert, but questioning the Irish who were kind enough to offer me a lift and sleeping with families in bed and breakfasts was a decent way to catch a glimpse into the minds and souls of the people. Despite sensationalist U.S. media reports, outside of certain sections of Belfast, I could only find working men and women quietly sharing their lives in white plaster cottages nestled in between sections of neat stone fences dividing emerald green pastures. Where was the alcoholism and the proverbial Irish temper?
It’s true the Irish love their Guinness and are better-than-average boxers, but while recording impromptu private interviews I could not find anyone who condoned sectarian violence. Instead, like a chorus of typical country folk, they all repeated a slogan hard to forget: “Aye, it ’tis, it ’tis that we are all God’s creatures.” Although the Northerner’s disagreements, and sometimes violent confrontations, involved more politics than church, the rest of the otherwise law-abiding Catholics and Protestants were being instigated by extremists. With an occupying British government stuck in the middle, violence was begetting violence.
Religious zealots killing each other is nothing new, but recently, the art of mass murder in the Islamic world has been refined with car and suicide bombings. Now, instead of bloodthirsty Christians, images of fanatical terrorist Muslims dominate the media. The struggle in Islam between Sunni and Shiite factions raging in Iraq exists on a much milder scale between moderates and fundamentalists here in Indonesia. It’s not a matter of the crazies being Christian or Muslim; it’s about ignorant people using religious doctrine out of context to justify extremism.
But if nine of the finest legal scholars in America cannot interpret the carefully worded U.S. Constitution unanimously, how could simple villagers understand difficult-to-read religious texts thousands of years old? No matter how clearly ideas are written, a clever person can manipulate them to rationalize their position. In the Bill of Rights, U.S. gun laws underscore this point.
Despite the stirred-up resentments, settlements of regional conflicts brokered by disinterested parties can succeed. Just this month, in Indonesia’s Aceh province, optimistic Finns negotiated hard with intransigent political leaders to soften government and rebel positions. Finally, thanks to the persistence of interested foreigners and an urgent need to recover from an enormous disaster, there is a chance for peace and a return to an Islamic law acceptable to all. With most of the international aid workers stationed in Sumatran cities, I’ve only seen dedicated foreign AMM members out spinning their tires in the mud. An aggressive Aceh Monitoring Mission has sent out a fleet of late-model four-wheel drives equipped with satellite communications and window stickers showing circled machine guns with lines drawn across them.
Their mission is to scour rural strongholds collecting weapons surrendered by rebels then trade them to military officials in exchange for reduced troop positions. The results have been astounding, as everyone I’ve encountered insists the program is way ahead of schedule. If there is a silver lining to the tsunami disaster, it is that it has brought sworn enemies together for the good of all citizens.
Today is a new day, and even the cobalt sky is clear as a radiating mid-latitude sun holds monsoon rains at bay and soggy trails firm up enough to ride. Except for AMM personnel, I have not seen any other Westerners. Foreign relief workers in larger cities coordinate from a distance, but it’s the silent surviving mothers, fathers and children that provide the grinding labor necessary to reconstruct their lives. Scattered down the coast, surviving villagers stoop in the heat replanting flooded rice paddies while others hand-cut timber to build new fishing boats. None are idle or complaining — crisis has brought peace to Indonesia, though they have a long road back.
Bottled water is everywhere, but my stash of bananas and canned fish paste ran out yesterday. At a thatched-roof noodle stand, an old woman, flustered by having a customer, smiles while clearing a place to sit on sawed-off tree-stump chairs. Five dollars buys a scoop of cold rice and three shriveled chicken necks refried every day because there has been no one with enough money to buy them. If chewed long enough, fishy-smelling flesh cooked hard as plastic becomes stringy bits soft enough to swallow. I can only imagine what mealtimes are like for the locals.
Roads along fluffy, pale beaches were swept away, but as suggested by villagers, at low tide they connected to solid tarmac on higher ground. A Richter-scale nine-point-zero earthquake originally triggered the main tsunami, but sporadic aftershocks of fives and sixes have continued ever since. Reports of yesterday’s aftershocks are unnerving. With one eye on the water’s edge, I nervously scan the terrain for potential escape routes through shady palm tree groves to higher ground.
Once above sea level, the controlled slides over mud and sand give way to a euphoric glide through a pulsating jungle on multi-mile strips of asphalt rarely used anymore. But soaring beneath refreshing canopies of towering hardwoods also provokes sobering reflections. Each time I reach another fallen bridge which once connected villages across deltas, a ghastly reality strikes hard when I realize the reason for this blissful isolation is that those who once lived here have all perished. I shudder at the irony that it requires dreadful catastrophe to bring such peace.
Time
October 5, 2005
West Sumatra, Indonesia
Like sands running through an hourglass, my final days on a two-month Indonesian visa dissolve into final glances back. Just zigzagging the northern quarter of Sumatra has taken two weeks, with the islands of Java and Bali still left to ride. As time passes, it’s difficult to avoid resorting to schedules that take health issues into account. Joyful daytime jostles over uneven terrain can later lead to uncomfortable nights repositioning to relieve my ailing left kidney. Before I tackle the rest of the continent, South Africa represents the last Western country with reliable medical facilities for ultrasound treatment. The stones have got to go. Targeting a midwinter crossing of Sudan means I need to be in Cape Town by early November to bite the bullet and get treated.
Thus far, living in the moment, minus the anxiety of rushing, lets me avoid a strict itinerary — the plan-of-no-plan. Staring at a map too long leads down the slippery slope of scheduling fuel stops and overnights that deny exploring situations that might otherwise have turned into spontaneous adventures. If I’d paused first to consider the enormity of Borneo and Sumatra, I would never have appropriated the time. Yet, those experiences proved to be among the most unique in this journey, and who knew what lay ahead in Ethiopia.
Dodging the worst of monsoon season by traveling below the equator during early October, I am still on my follow-the-sun route around the earth. Because seasons reverse in the southern hemisphere, December becomes the beginning of summer and a continuing dry ride back to California. With any luck, the weather patterns will turn in my favor on my way through Africa.
Yet, no matter the season, at altitude everywhere in the tropics the world is always wet. Apart from scattered mountain villages, the bulk of Sumatra’s small population lives along the outer island perimeter. Two days crossing mist-cloaked mountains back to Medan was time well spent. Between traffic-congested coastal routes and the empty central highlands, steady precipitation turned from a drizzle to a mild downpour. But clinging moisture also settled the dust as I passed through darkened caverns of giant fanning ferns. Overhead, like furry, delicate lace, long, fluffy strands of mustard-colored moss dangled from massive tree limbs in chilly canyon breezes. These seldom traveled gravel tracks winding through green, scented forests didn’t register on the GPS, but the trails leading up and down through the fog kept me circling fresh-mowed hillsides in sweet isolation.
Pee stops were excuses to linger, savoring rhythmic winds stirring a labyrinth of creaking mahogany trees amidst the perfume of bright orange and purple flowers. Faint crashes on crackling leaves in the underbrush stirred my imagination — curious monke
ys or preliminaries for the charge of a wild boar?
Returning to Medan late meant departing for Dano Toba late. Under the glow of an emerging half moon, I missed the drama of steep hairpin photo-ops but reached the crater’s edge in time for a last ferry out to the mighty lake’s only island. At 50 miles long and 16 across, Dano Toba is the largest freshwater lake in Southeast Asia and Sumatra’s primary tourist attraction. Rising from the center, Samosir Island is the size of Singapore and dominates the landscape with storybook waterfalls and jagged peaks set against gray-clouded skies. A million years of geologic evolution has turned this collapsed volcano into a home for indigenous Christian Batak tribes and their ancient arts of fabric weaving and music. An easygoing people famous for love songs, they convey a mild nature with their look-you-in-the-eye greetings and lingering handshakes. Yet, among rows of charming waterfront hostels, I found only one other Western couple and no local travelers. There were reasons for others to stay off the road.
Strategically waiting for October’s eve of Ramadan, to prevent the economy from experiencing further decline, overnight Indonesian government officials cancelled fuel subsidies for its impoverished people. Islam’s holy month of prayers and fasting started at midnight with doubled gas prices. Traffic in the crowded seaside towns immediately dropped, with most Muslims wanting to remain home anyway.
During Ramadan, earthly pleasures like food and sex are restricted to evening hours, so restaurants remain closed until sunset, when families gather for prayer and feasts. Riding through quiet country neighborhoods provides a chance to peek into windows of slat wooden houses. Tables heaped with fried meats and steaming vegetables make me long for Ramadan to end. For now, bags of salty cashews and pints of chocolate milk will have to suffice until the cafés are back in business. Striking a bargain the previous night when no one was looking, a sympathetic cook had slipped me four fried eggs wrapped in newspaper. But a whole month of this?
One More Day Everywhere Page 33