This was the first day I can ever remember unfavorably anticipating a ride that included a 1400-meter descent. The big problem was that our path would be along the road that led to the third largest city in all of Indonesia. We'd thought to ourselves that some good fortune would smile upon us; at least it was a holiday and most of the traffic should be travelling in the opposite direction, from Medan to the cool holiday hill station of Brastagi. The day we'd discovered that a ride to the orangutan reserve along a quieter road was out of the question, at least unless we passed through Medan.
Our large scaled map represented a beautiful looking road from near Brastagi to the reserve, while the smaller scaled map mysteriously did not. When we stopped at the tourist information center we were advised that the road was no longer navigable and that we'd have to go to Medan. We were mistaken about the advantage of the traffic travelling in the opposite direction and much of the ride was way too scary too describe. Just thinking about it turns my stomach. The most frightening aspect was when cars, trucks and buses coming at us overtook slower vehicles without regard to our occupation of the oncoming lane.
We visited the road's shoulder frequently in order to avoid proving Newton's law about space and objects occupying the same. It is a pity that so much of my concentration was on the road and vehicles because the scenery (what little I saw) was of the green and jungly variety. At least the ride was effortless due to our loss of altitude. Swinging around a corner I nearly fell off my bicycle in shock of seeing ten bicycles and their lycra clad owners sitting by the side of the road. We stopped and had tea with a cycling club that had ridden up the nasty hill we were coasting down.
Benson, a middle aged Chinese father and cycling enthusiast and his son Wandi had formed the club and had taken the group for a holiday ride. They offered to escort us back to Medan, which we accepted gladly. It is often hard to match our pace with unburdened riders. Usually riders without packs are too slow descending and too fast on flats and up. Today was no exception to the mismatched cycling rule. One good thing about traveling in a pack is that you are more visible to motorists \--not that they showed us any more courtesy as a group. I was actually glad when the cyclists pulled ahead as the terrain started to level off.
Many of them were riding a little more dangerously than I could watch. Bravely they played chicken with the oncoming cars, tempting fate as they tested the nerves of the motorists. I sat back at a comfortable distance, not wanting to be part of any possible collateral damage. Much to my amazement we made it to Medan in one piece, parting company with the last of the cyclists before looking for lodging. Later in the day we ran into one of the cyclists at the mall (where else?) with his family. His children slurped ice cream while he advised us of the location of a bike shop.
His wife seemed to ignore our presence Andy surmising her disapproval of his hobby due to safety concerns. The mall proved to be a great place to stock up on supplies and recharge ourselves away from the stifling heat and rancid smoky air of Medan. I had wanted to pedal up to the orangutan reserve in Bukit Lawang, but Fred thought it wiser to motor up and leave our bikes to be serviced in town. He had broken a spoke on the way down from Brastagi, and both our chains needed replacing. When I called the bike shop our friend had recommended in order to get directions, the friendly voice at the other end of the line said, \"I'll just send my driver by to pick the bikes up.\"
I could get used to Indonesian-style service... The ride up to Bukit Lawang, however, proved to be less easy. Everyone we talked to gave us different advice, and in the end we chose to trust a travel agent, who went so far as to flag down a passing *bemo* for us. \"This will take you to Binjai,\" he instructed, \"and from there you can take a taxi to Bukit Lawang for only 5000 rupiah.\" It sounded to good to be true --for good reason too, since it was a lie. The bemo unceremoniously unloaded us ten kilometers short of Binjai. When we finally did make it there, the \"taxi\"
turned out to be a minivan that cruised the highway looking for more passengers. At first it seemed like a pretty good deal, since we were the only passengers save a chatty guy in the front seat asking the usual questions. But as we progressed, the van quickly filled up. At one point I counted more than twenty people squeezed into the van, which was so crowded that the ticket-seller had to hang off the side. And the music --sappy Indonesian love songs---was cranked up so loud that I feared the windows would blow out. I looked out at the endless palm oil plantations, trying to think of anything but my discomfort.
The two-and-a-half hour trip seemed five times longer. When we were finally able to disentangle ourselves from the limbs of other passengers and get off the noisy tin can, I promised Fred we'd take a proper taxi back. Our first impression of tourist-infested Bukit Lawang wasn't overly favorable. A pair of sleazy-looking touts fell upon us, pushing hotels and jungle treks. Once beyond these unsavory characters, however, the place felt pretty hassle-free. After a necessary shower we headed upriver to the orangutan rehabilitation site along a long path lined with cafes, guest houses and low-budget travel agencies. A dugout canoe took us across the river to the rehabilitation center (visions of strung-out orangutans filled my head), where we had a quick lunch with a Dutch dude traveling solo.
A steep and slippery trail led first past a group of caged orangutans (most of whom had been kept as pets in nearby Medan) into the forest. After only a few minutes climb we began to hear them swinging noisily through the trees and caught glimpses of orange fur among the leaves. The end of the trail was a stiflingly hot muddy patch looking over a small wooden platform, upon which two Indonesians were seated. One guy was banging the wooden planks with a rock to call the orangutans, while his partner removed bananas from his backpack. A handful of other tourists encircled us, and we all took turns slipping on the mud and falling on our butts.
Three of them showed up. The first one came right along the path, forcing us to move out of its way, while the other two swung wildly through the trees. They drank milk from a cup and ate entire bunches of bananas at a time; one of them made away with a pack of cigarettes. The orangutans seemed more interested in the human contact than the food, though, and apparently enjoyed hamming it up for the cameras. We all clicked and flashed away until the rain began to fall, at which point we were sheparded back down the slope. The whole experience wasn't that different from a zoo, yet it felt magical somehow to be in the jungle among \"wild\"
apes. We met two other Dutch while waiting out the torrential rain on the way down. Arian and Sandra were attractive young newlyweds on their honeymoon. They had just arrived from Amsterdam the previous day and we gave them some advice for the road ahead. They joined us for dinner back at our lonely hotel, during which we tried our best to explain for them Indonesian food. The next morning I went back to see the orangutans again while animal-hater Fred chose to chill. At breakfast we met an American dude called Eric, all kitted out for a safari. He worked for Prudential Securities and was putting together a deal in Kuala Lumpur.
It was his first visit to Southeast Asia and he was committed to experiencing the highlights, which he believed to be the Sumatran jungle and Cambodia's Angkor Wat. Along with his guide Anton, he planned to visit the orangutans no fewer than four times. I wonder if he made it to all four feedings, since I found it to be pretty much the same experience the second time around. The only major differences were the far greater number of tourists (mostly old Germans) and the addition of a mother orangutan with her tiny baby. Another added bonus was seeing one orange ape puke up some bananas onto the platform and then casually scooping them up to taste them again.
Recognizing the three orangutans from the day before, I asked one of the rangers if it's always the same animals who show up. He told me that six of them come regularly and that they all have names. The baby, for example, is called Jan, after the month he was born. On my way back down river, I arranged a van to take us into Medan, where we learned on CNN that anti-government riots were going on at a nearby university. Maybe it was time to leave Indonesia after all... In the dark and dingy waiting area of the \"fast\" ferry to Malaysia I sat flipping a coin while Andrew inquired as to why we were so late.
Bryan came up to me and introduced himself while I watched an Indonesian babe flirt mercilessly with Andrew. Andy came back and explained to us that he'd just been proposed marriage and that we were waiting for the Indonesian immigration officials to arrive. It is too bad that the customs officers couldn't double as immigration. There were at least six of them and they were far more interested in smoking and working on a crossword than what anyone had in their bag. Bryan was (I suppose he still is...) an actor who became disenchanted with the whole Hollywood scene and somehow escaped the vicious cycle of waiting tables while auditioning for parts.
His tale is, however, far more interesting than the average thespians'. Just as he found himself at his low point an attorney contacted him and explained that an interested and anonymous individual would like to finance his studies in the Seattle area. He could choose any school and any program as long as it was in Washington near his grandparents. I'd just finished a nostalgic rereading of the parallel Dickensian tale of Pip and his benefactor so I couldn't help but ask him, \"Did you ever figure out who your 'Havisham' (or convict) was?\" He hadn't yet but supposed it was a good friend of his grandparents who had some vested interest in their happiness.
Bryan took up studying Asian literature and moved to Seattle. We finally boarded the \"fridge-boat\" and found seats in the back. Andy's girlfriend from the waiting lounge boarded and passed out vaccination cards. Jokingly (and loudly) he pointed to Bryan and told her he was looking for a mate much to the amusement of the entire boat and the embarrassment of the girl. She blushed and ran from the cabin. I feared retribution and it seemed I might be correct when \"Mr. Andrew\" was paged on the boat's public address system. Andy returned promptly with her notebook indicating that she wanted Bryan's coordinates so she could write.
After scrawling Andy's brother's (Marty's) details in her notebook we passed it back to her as they cranked the motors of the vessel. Immediately we realized we were sitting in the wrong place. The metal hatches leading up to the deck rattled with the vibration of the motor. I envisioned a five-hour headache and went forward to find seats in the other cabin. We moved and spent a peaceful trip sleeping, reading and chatting with Bryan about our respective travels. When we arrived we were made aware of our error in switching cabins. We had been sitting in the occidental cabin and had moved into the Indonesian cabin.
We then had to wait shivering on the icy boat for an hour and one-half while the Malays processed all the *bules* and most of the Indonesians before we got to exit the boat. After a ride into town and a shower we set off to meet Bryan for dinner. As we entered the lobby of his guesthouse across from the Chinese mansion where they filmed Indochine (the movie) in, we discovered Bryan in the middle of a little crisis. Bryan had inserted his credit card in an ATM and the machine had eaten it. The big problem was that Bryan was to be in Penang for only one night.
He'd only come over to renew his Indonesian visa, not wanting to worry about it as he toured eastern Indonesia. Now he had no cash and no card and was testing the viability of Visa's lost card services. We went on to the restaurant to wait on Bryan as he spent his night in customer service hell. Arriving during happy hour we slurped down two cool beers and munched tasty appetizers (reserving two icy Guiness Stouts at the happy hour price for Bryan). Our waiter, Jeff, who we'd pegged as a sister, cared for us well. Bryan, who finally arrived, didn't see his plucked eyebrows nor any of the other tells that led us to our assumption and doubted us.
I took it as a challenge and managed to not only get him to admit he was a drag queen, but to produce photos to prove it. As a male, one might say that Jeff had unfortunate looks, but as a girl he was exquisite. Something of the dinner or our lunch on board the boat did not agree with me at all and the result was a rather problematic (is there any other kind?) IPFE. The next day I spent the bulk of the day not knowing whether to sit or pray in front of the porcelain Buddha while Andy forewent the ride around the Island of Georgetown.
Finally by evening I'd recovered enough to eat some white rice after eating only yogurt and crackers during the day. I even felt strong enough for a walk around town. Penang was more interesting demographically than Indonesian towns. Indians lived along side of Malays and Chinese in what appeared to be perfect harmony. Colonial deco architecture, similarly, cohabitated with Asian and other styles to make it a visually eclectic town. Somehow Andy convinced me that it was a good idea to see the movie \"U.S. Marshal's\". After the screening I wondered whether it ever achieved commercial release in the states. Before and after the movie it became clear that regardless of race, religion or creed the god that Penangians prayed to is food.
Nearly every inch of retail space, meter of sidewalk and scrap of dirt in the park is dedicated to the preparation and service of meals. Colorful, fragrant and delicious looking food is everywhere you look much to my consternation. I felt though I was in culinary heaven without a stomach.