Lake Toba

Berestagi up in the Karo Highlands wasn’t special, pretty much a one street town with a War Memorial at one end and a Cabbage Memorial at the other (really), but I would go back just for the attraction of these accessible volcanoes. I had arranged my journey to Lake Toba with the local tourist information centre, which was really an agency for its own tours. I decided to combine it with a couple of sightseeing opportunities, which could easily be accommodated on the way down to the ferry port of Parapat.

The night before I travelled the agent ran after me in the street to ask if it was okay if I let another couple come with me in the car. I had no problem with this, particularly as it would substantially reduce my costs; originally exorbitant for the distance I was going. Needless to say the couple were from the Netherlands.

The drive to Parapat took us through a richly diverse agricultural land with coffee and tobacco growing in fields adjacent to potatoes, tomatoes, oranges and cabbages. Drying cloves and other spices were laid out on large rectangular sheets in the gardens and driveways. As we passed through various villages they all seemed to have some celebration or event on, and the kids not attending these were practicing their marching and raising the national flag in readiness for the National Day celebrations, which were to take place some three days later. It was a busy and vibrant Saturday morning.

We drove into Merek, a traditional Batak village 10km or so south of Berestagi, to find the town and its people resplendent at a wedding, and those not there were readying themselves for the subsequent festivities. Virtually the entire village were there. Invitations must be a nightmare with the complexity of relationships in the clans here. You can have several fathers in addition to your paternal one, and these can even be younger than you. Misaddress an invitation and you probably risk starting a blood feud or a clan war.

In the village we get out to walk around the traditional longhouses and get a chance to go in to one of them. These longhouses are very different to the Kelabit ones in Borneo. I would have called them Tall-houses myself, as while perspective is difficult, they certainly look taller than they are long. These outrageously high roofs are there to accommodate the smoke from the cooking rather than choke the inhabitants. The architects have been slow to appreciate the use of chimney flues; or I dare say negligent.

Rather than the 33 families that were in the Bario longhouse there were just 8 families in the house we visited, but the floor area they had was still tiny in comparison, and there was no equivalent separate communal area. Indeed the whole house would really be considered a communal area. There are no walls between the living space, with the only dividers between family areas comprising the cooking areas of which each family had one each. The only formal separate areas were curtains separating the sleeping quarters from the living/cooking areas. Heaven knows what happens here if you fall out with your neighbours in this cramped living space.

Two things I liked about the place was that cobwebs were left in place untouched, as these act as natural mosquito nets (who’d have thunk it!?) and the place was left black from the cooking fires, as the soot covered timbers prevent termites (to borrow a famous advertising phrase, ‘Pure Genius’). So mum, next time you see my house bear in mind that I have no need to cover myself with Deet or burn mosquito coils and don’t worry about the house falling down following an aggressive termite incursion. If I had any house cleaning products at home I would be throwing them out on my return.

The kids in the house and the village were not fazed by us visitors and cameras and if anything played up to it. There was alarge scale marble game going on outside the longhouse, which one of the Dutch women got involved. Marbles seem to be a universal game, very much like Soccer (you can see I’ve been away).

Leaving the village to the post wedding festivities we headed for the Sisoso Piso falls. The waterfall was very impressive emanating from an underground stream several metres below the lip of the sheer cliff. The narrow falls spill into a small plunge pool and the water then pootles off much more sedately south, the hundred metres or so to Lake Toba. The views of the falls and the lake vied for the best view, but like the 2005 Euro cup final, it was a high scoring draw – though the Dutch couple seemed singularly unimpressed by either and were more interested in scoring a packet of Chitato’s and a bottle of Sprite (unfortunately while Malaysia has the lovely and ubiquitous ‘100 plus’ the Indonesian equivalent is ‘Pocari Sweat’, which tastes pretty much like it sounds – avoid!).

Following this visual pit-stop we continued our journey south and called in at ‘the Kings Palace’. Unfortunately I failed to jot down the name of the place, but we had now passed out of the Karo Batak region into another Batak clan region, where even the language is different (so pretty much like going along the East Lancs from Fazakerley to Salford really). There had been kings here from the 17th Century, though to 1947. It wasn’t clear what happened then, but I suspect it involved blood-shed. The kings’ massive residence housed himself, his guards and various wives and children. The adjoining property was full of prospective wives and concubines at his beck and call. I suspect that the guy had little time for politics and chit-chat and probably missed out on hearing any buzz on the upcoming movement toward Republicanism. The massive wooden buildings were an impressive construction feat using massive timbers from the surrounding forest. Kudos to the architects, engineers and the brute force and ability of the construction team – especially to take the weight of all of the king’s retinue.

Other than one ‘panorama’ stop above the lake (again the ladies weren’t interested) it was pretty much straight on to Parapat along the jungle road, which was now only occasionally interspersed with coffee plantations. We arrived at the port in time to catch the Saturday market melee, which was every bit as chaotic as you may expect in south-east Asia, which made the vehicle movement for the last few hundred metres sporadic and tortuously slow. The ladies got off to wander around the market for the half hour before the ferry, while I drove off with the guys to find an ATM, having been unable to locate one in Berestagi which would actively welcome my card. Luckily the first ATM we got to, around the other side of town, was Andy friendly and gave me my requested 1.2million rupiah. Yes, 1.2 million the last of the big spenders. Well, not really, that equates to about £85, with the current exchange rate of 14,125 rupiah to the pound. They are currently discussing devaluing the currency by knocking some zero’s off. Don’t debate it; just do it (to borrow another advertising slogan – perhaps I should consider sponsorship for this blog?).

Avoiding the market on the way back we got back in time for me to catch the same ferry as my earlier Dutch companions. The ferry had some more Dutch on board of course and a couple of Scandinavians and one American (who presumably was lost), but the majority of the passengers were locals going to or from work or the market.

The trip across to Tuk Tuk, which is a small peninsular on Samosir island, took about thirty minutes. After stopping at the main ferry terminal, read ‘tiny crumbling concrete jetty’, the boat makes request stops at several of the hotels private jetties, including the Hotel Carolina which I had booked via email the day before. In the travellers bible (LP latest edition), the hotel is described as the ‘swankiest in town’, but then qualifies it by saying this term is ‘relative’. Still, it proves to be in a stunning location and has been designed to make the most of its lake aspect. My ‘deluxe’ room has twin beds, one for me and one to spread all my gear on, an average bathroom with nose height shower (the Indonesians are short), a fridge for my beers, and a lovely veranda to sit back and watch the world go slowly by. For the £10 a night it was hard to complain, though I met a German/Canadian who loved the place but wouldn’t stay any more since hiking up the price by 30%. Get a life, just think how much of a bargain it was before and move on.

To give a little background Lake Toba is a massive crater lake from what must have been one of the worlds’ great volcanoes. It is the biggest and highest freshwater lake in south-east Asia, and Samosir Island, which sits inside the lake, is the size of Singapore (circa 45km long). It is not in fact an island with an isthmus joining the mainland on the western side of the island, roughly 180 degrees around from Tuk Tuk. Incidentally, along with bikes (not too many), cars (a few), motorbikes (not many), and scooters (everywhere) the one thing you won’t see here is Tuk Tuks; strange but true.

The altitude of Lake Toba is such that it is relatively cool for the tropics and very much ‘Andy friendly’ (I do seem to have spent at least half my trip around the equator at a thousand metres or so). If the term ‘laid back’ had yet to be invented some cunning linguist sat back here for a few weeks, with a fridge full of Bintang and the odd bottle of Arak, would no doubt have come up with the term, or something equally evocative. Failing that with the said vibe he could have been lazy and just said it was ‘relaxed’. It is very much the place to bring a library and sit next to an appropriately stocked fridge while kicking back with your feet on the veranda rail. Alternatively, if you are that way inclined and have enough time, you could always get some people and tunes together and fry up some of the locally legal (for some reason) magic mushrooms.

The locals, just like the LP bible says, do wander around with guitars strumming away and those without are just as likely just to burst out into song at any given time; quite refreshing (as they all seem to be able to sing, and have not yet been infected terminally with Euro-pop or the musical cancer that is modern R&B).

Along with Bario, this place is on my shortlist of places to come back too (along with a library of course).

I hired a bike on one day (yes, a pedal one!) to get out to see a few of the local sights including the King’s Tomb (a different one) and the Stone Chairs. The latter place was used 3-400 years ago to ‘try’ and convict various felons, usually from adjoining tribes, where the elders would decide how guilty they were before cutting the poor blokes skin in preparation for rubbing in chilli and garlic – tenderises the meat dontcha know – and then chopping off their hat holder. And yep, they did often eat their victims, presumably with some nasi goreng and a banana lassy (or a durian CenDOL) to wash it down with.

Incidentally women were never tried for a crime as they were seen to have been too busy with all their chores to have had time to commit a one! The devious women of Sumatra have obviously not boasted to the men about their multi-tasking abilities; so they could literally get away with murder. Clever.

I quickly mastered the bike, like they say you do never forget how. In case you haven’t tried it what you do is walk up the hill with said bike, then climb on to it and freewheel down the other side, and repeat - until you are where you want to be, or at a bar, or back at where you started. Other than remembering this correct sequence (freewheeling up-hill just doesn’t work from a standing start folks) my main problem here was signposts, just like Bario, there aren’t any. So I managed to go about 300m south passed the tomb, and then I went a kilometre north passed the turn-off for the chilli and garlic stained chairs. Still, this created opportunities to legitimately stop and ask directions from a cold drink joint, where it would be rude not to stop for a coke or a Bintang and chat to the locals. By sheer coincidence the drink would take almost the same time as it took me to regain my composure and get my breath back prior to my return the saddle.

One thing you can’t get over while pedalling or walking around the place is how many cafes, restaurants, hotels and shops there are here; with no-one in them. The place has apparently fallen of the tourist map (apart from in Holland, where everyone has failed to get the memo that Indonesia is shut). It is amazing how all these places can stay open with no visitors. If you do stop for a drink in a place you feel guilty not buying anything else. I got guilted into buying a sandwich in one place and the chicken and avocado on homemade bread was gorgeous, and did not feel any guilt about being surrounded by the brothers and sisters, which were pecking around my feet. An avocado tree 20 metres away held the biggest avocados I had ever seen too (ooh, Matron!).

The Carolina itself seemed to have a few westerners, including the Dutch couple from Berestagi, but mostly housed holidaying locals. Unfortunately they seemed only to come for a day or two at the most and they didn’t seem to eat at restaurants. Once more Dutch arrive in Tuk Tuk (or the rest of the world gets the mysteriously missing second memo that Indonesia has re-opened for business) then there are plenty of eating and drinking (and mushrooming) options waiting here.

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From here I travelled further south (in fact my first time in to the southern hemisphere) to Bukittinggi by the only available method – a 15 hour overnight coach, leaving Parapat at 4pm and arriving at 9am. Not sure yet if I want to get into that journey or destination as it is still burned red into my brain (and purple on to my bruised arse after 15 hours on a thinly cushioned seat completely unsuitable for the journey over the uneven and unendingly winding jungle road).

This was very much the homeward leg, with just a short but terrifying drive the hour and a half south to Padang airport and KL to follow. Four days later it would be back to dear old Blighty; football at a decent time and dark none-fizzy and tasty beers (at predictable prices*).


* You may have heard about the Big Mac Index, where countries prices for the delicacy are quoted in an attempt to gauge local costs. Well, given that I eat less Big Macs than I drink pints I propose an Andy Index, which would just give the price of local beers - this would be much more useful as a barometer of costs for understanding how expensive a country visit will be to me and most people I know (can’t think of anyone I know who regularly eats Big Macs).

Thanks to the twin joys of Islam and high alcohol taxation (and blatant profiteering in some places (see Singapore blog)) beer prices in all these countries are not particularly cheap anywhere with prices ranging from approximately £1.50 a pint in Borneo to a gigantic £7.50 in Singapore (even in KL you can find yourself paying £5.80 for a pint of Tiger outside of Happy Hour).

Poland and Romania from my visits earlier this year are still easily winning on the Andy Index; and of course have better beers.

Anyway roll on Thursday and my £2.60 a pint will be spent in the Dizzy watching Liverpool beat Trabzonspor; hopefully.