I wrote this journal entry a few days before leaving Sumatra for Singapore. I was at the end of two days beside Lake Maninjau, a crater lake not far from the town of Bukit Tinggi. I had been in Sumatra three weeks. It was April 2004. Usually I keep journal entries to myself, but perhaps someone may find some grain of value in this humbly-offered reflection.
I've just had breakfast (honey and lemon pancake, coffee) and am now in a hammock tied to palms by the lake under a blue and white sky. Wanted to take a while to list events or thoughts that have happened in Sumatra, for the last 3+ weeks have been valuable and helpful personally--and I hope will prove so in my long-term growth. Perhaps recording the following will help toward this goal:
- The heat and loneliness of Medan.
- The ruins of Bukit Lawang village - living with the devastated, even in a widow's empty home, where I could breathe in the cruel twists of fate as well as see something of resurrection. [Up to 1/4 of the village was killed by a November flood.]
- Scared to death by the hands of an orangutan, which chased and caught me on a steep slope. Complete fear.
- A night in the jungle--rain, great food, fellowship with five other travelers and four guides and cooks, and fireflies. Steep hills covered in thick jungle sandwiched by the river. There was so much water--rain, a river, waterfalls, mist. The jungle sounds were not tame. Memories of Snellville [early childhood home outside Atlanta] were sparked by a jungle filled with fireflies. Yet I felt so remote, like I had left everything behind and might be able to pick up only what I wanted to keep when I returned. HOPE via being so far away in such spartan conditions. Hope through remoteness.
- Flora, the 18-year-old Batak student from Kabenjahe who showed me how ugly my spirit could be. Being taught a painful lesson about myself by this neighbor on the bus to Berastagi. She was a Christian and a very dedicated one at that. She indirectly showed me some of the characteristics I have allowed to dull or be buried that I wish were sharp or exposed.
- Hiking alone to the hissing crater of Mount Sibayak and reading some Thomas Merton on the volcanic rim as dark clouds rose and then loomed, forcing me to scurry a thousand feet down to the hot springs.
- Forgetting my bathing suit at the hot springs--waiting two hours for a van to fill up the next morning to go back and retrieve it. A challenge to be patient, both with my own mistakes and their consequences (which take time to work through) and with time in general.
- Routine. Each morning at Raymond's cafe in Berstagi; a regular breakfast engagement by the lake in Toba. Finding a place in the midst of constant change where a small routine can develop (friendships made, names learned, a degree of rest found). Knowing (a little) and being known (a little). Rotua's father died last year of tetanus contracted via a rusty knife. This was very hard for her and she still cries sometimes. One week healthy, the next week dead. At the Bamboo Cafe Roy doesn't drink or smoke, is 31 years old, is looking for a wife of good character, and keeps a Bible by his bed. Both he and Rotua know I am 30, call DC home now, that my parents live in Ukraine and my sister in Florida, that I'm writing about Asia. They know of the things I care about, the things I love.
- Riding 15km on the side grill of a bus, hanging on tightly as the bus rounded bends or pulling self flush when it drew close to trees. Risk. Happiness - not the "thrill" kind of happiness but the calm satisfaction of living in the present moment while not depending on this moment for the happiness itself. The inside seats are more comfortable and safer but they are not as educational. The side grill--hanging on or else--draws my awareness and my joy to the present moment.
- Watching the weather--the beauty of constant change--at Lakes Toba and Maninjau. Crater Lakes and their micro-climates mildly mesmerize me. Rain to the left, sun to the right; a storm for breakfast, drying clothes at noon. Accepting the unpredictable and finding pleasure in it. Sitting before nature and watching. listening, smelling, feeling.
- Limited email. I saved time, I focused my days differently, and I suspect I was more alive because I thought not about who might write me this day, etc. By a temporary severance of communication home, I felt free of an addiction. It is not bad to stay in touch, but neither is it healthy to let your happiness depend at all on what is in a computer's inbox. I let go of this mild addiction and was the better for it.
- Clear water and clear skies. Nature without massive pollution. The mountains look so close. So much can seem so beautiful...but it can be even more so when all is clear. Even one's soul.
- I've watched a lot of ants--almost as much as I've watched women (yeah, right)--in Sumatra. Fascinating. They are purposeful and serious little things. And, boy, can they carry a load.
- Rain. It is good to be rained on sometimes and soaked through by what the clouds release. The thundering makes it all the better.
- Renting a motorbike for a drive on Samosir Island. Sharing the narrow road and sharp turns with barreling buses. Sunny day but a wall of rain a kilometer away over the lake. And Roni, the young lady who asked if she could ride with me, sitting on the back. Unexpected companionship, risk, responsibility for another, trust, nature.
- The night with John's family in a small hamlet with a population of 35 men, women, and children. No electricity. Food was the chicken caught by John's daughter and killed in the kitchen where I read and wrote. An hour later we ate it. We ate with only our hands. The hard floor, dim light of a Coleman lantern. Simplicity. The fact that electricity orders our world (TV, work, up late, a/c) is a value neutral reality, but in a hamlet off the power grid one sees the "other" way of life--life without the culture of electricity. It is a culture based on the presence or absence of the sun. So, simplicity, change in perspective and lifestyle, another rhythm, a new intimacy. Here I experienced a different sort of night. And I felt different, connected to nature in a more elemental way...and not by choice but simply because I had no electricity.
- Hiking alone across Samosir Island (two days/one night). The path not clear and the weather moody. I finished with a limp that would stay for days--my body remembering and healing. In the Old Testament, we are told that Jacob walked with a limp that forever reminded him of his encounter with God. I do not seek scars and limps, but when they happen I tend to cherish them over time because they are me.
- The monkeys. Having hiked straight up for two hours (1500-2000 feet?) and sweating profusely, I began to be at ease as the trail leveled and entered a forest of Eucalyptus trees. And then I saw them: perhaps two dozen monkeys screaming on the trail ahead as they took to the trees. Fear. I suddenly felt very alone and vulnerable. Monkeys can be little more than hairy street thugs. Their screams were menacing and 48 eyes fell on me. I imagined an ambush, them pulling at my hair and backpack and pockets while I yelled and flailed. I pictured bites into my flesh, blood and rabies shots. But there was no way to proceed but through them and I was determined to meet the challenge bravely. I carried a stick as solid as a baton and moved forward, telling the monkeys who was boss. I preemptively took swings with my stick. I looked them in the eye, I had my shoulders back, and I passed to the other side. Fear was overcome, a challenge was met.
- Sumatran coffee. Each morning I had my cup, sometimes several. The bottom layer was solid white (condensed milk), the rest of the cup was solid black. I began these days by reading and writing but also by stirring the white and black into a unity. Sumatrans make coffee by pouring hot water into a mug of coffee grounds. Once stirred the grounds slowly settle back to the bottom. With a clear glass I would watch the slow falling of the grounds to the bottom, which could take many minutes and, really, never ended. Autumn leaves, snow flakes, Sumatran coffee grounds--such beauty in the movement of simple things. Movement directed toward settling, flavoring. Each morning my cup of coffee was a universe. It sat on a table in the jungle, in the mountains, and beside Lake Toba. It kept me company, it taught me, and it tasted fine.
- Hawila English Course. I did not plan to go to Siantar, but when a man named Marcus asked if I would spend a day or two with his young students, I decided to go. I offered my English-speaking tongue; they offered a hard bed, local food, and hospitality. It was a good exchange. We can make a schedule for our days and for our lives, but God forbid we always stick to it. Life is not made of stone but of living relationships and active awareness. And so should be our schedules.
- If 17 hours on a Sumatran bus is not a taste of hell, I do not know what is. But it is a profoundly human experience too--sticking to the ground, turning and rising and descending according to the shape and ruts of the earth under the wheels. The elderly and babies, couples and singles, sick and healthy. Wakefulness and sleep. The bus is a broken and rusty contraption but it manages to carry us forward through space and time. It is all we travelers have got. The bus...it is very much like our earth. And it reminded me why I am committed to staying off a plane this year, because the way we travel so deeply affects how we see a place.
- After four years I finally finished The Brother's Karamazov. Inside its pages are not only thoughtful words of a Russian but also a 2001 train ticket from Cairo to Luxor, some dust from Jenin Refugee Camp, a receipt from a grocery store in Washington, D.C. I finished it last night on Lake Maninjau. It is an accomplishment to complete a Russian novel. And it is a privilege to do so on the shore of Sumatran crater lake. At midnight I stripped off all my clothes and entered the crystal clear water to the light of a full moon. I did the breast stroke out for several minutes. The lake reaches a depth of more than 1200 feet. I was alone yet surrounded by a silent ring of hills, watched over by the moon, and held up by the water in a crater that once exploded with awesome fury. Utter simplicity, incredible liberty, astounding beauty.
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Comments: 17
Neat, too, about finally finishing The Bros. K. Only all those tickets in the book made it seem like it was truly slow going. Was it worthwhile?
Neat list. You're truly "living" more than most in this world...
love and light
KR - I tried to jerk away once the organutang caught me, but its grip was too solid. Within five seconds, maybe even three, it let me go though and I fell forward onto the ground. No harm done. As for The Brothers Karamazov, I love that book; it took so long because I reread so much of it before I ever got to the end. Lots of lines to underline, lots of food for thought.
Look forward to your next articles and books!
Jake and Mona - thank you.
I have done only a little traveling in my time, but I loved your emphasis on establishing daily routines and getting to know people in that context.
I have found that to be true in differenct parts of the world.
Also, flexibility, and being willing to be changed by the experience.
Some sage once distinguished travel from tourism by that difference, being changed by the experience.
I loved this.
( 13. I've watched a lot of ants--almost as much as I've watched women (yeah, right)--in Sumatra. Fascinating. They are purposeful and serious little things. And, boy, can they carry a load. )
....aint that the truth. Here's wishing all your loads be light,
Layne