LVD Abroad

I'm in Sydney now, and have a few notes to record in this journal before calling it quits. I'll keep it short and sweet. Then I'll save this journal to pdf via the LJ book tool (thanks, CPL!). It should make an interesting record of a pivotal year in my life. I'll be writing at LeftVegDrunk only from now on.

The week before last I joined a couple of blokes from an INGO in Gunung Sitoli on a day trip to a village north of town. It's the place we went snorkelling a while back, so I was taking a box of books and stuff to them as a thank you for the lobsters.

The two fellas I joined were Indonesian, one from Nias and the other from Aceh. We visited a couple of schools, picked up building materials in the ute and dropped them off further up the road, and then met with the village head and some local women for the purpose of interviews about a project in the village.

Whenever you get out in to the rural areas of Nias, simply being there is enough to teach you something about the people and the place. On this day, though, the highlight was the conversation I had with these two young Indonesians. It was quite an eye-opener, especially given that the Javanese couple I had tried to engage about political issues were not interested at all.

We stopped for IndoMie and Coke for lunch at a small village and then things got interesting.

It all started when one of the fellas - a young bloke from Nias - asked me whether there were "villages like this one" in Australia. I said that there was nowhere in Australia that looked like the place we were in. I described country towns and major regional centres. I also said that, in Australia, if there were roads like the ones we were traveling on then people would complain to the government and they would be fixed. He replied, “Here, people don’t bother complaining to the government because they know nothing will happen. They just live how they can.”

We talked for a while about the differences between Australia and Nias - roads, schools, public health, tertiary education, welfare, jobs. The Nias bloke took all of this in - his brother had once studied in Australia on a government scholarship, so he knew a little about Australia anyway - and summed his thoughts up by saying, “So the big question is: when will Indonesia become Australia?”

As we discussed a few things it became clear that local people (well, some of them at least) consider Nias to be a much-neglected region of Indonesia. My new mate put it pretty bluntly. “Some people say, ‘I hope there will be another earthquake, because then the government will care about us.’”

The other fella is Acehnese. He had a lot to say, too, and laughed when I suggested that out Javanese housemates had not wanted to discuss politics with me. He told me a lot about the education system in Nias - how teachers are trained, what they are paid, how many kids attend, the issues facing children and their parents. This was invaluable. And he seemed to agree with the view that the island was neglected - underdeveloped.

On the way back to Gunung Sitoli I remarked upon the amount of rekonstruksi going on - we passed drains being dug, bridges being built, homes taking shape on the roadside, trucks and bechaks loaded up with materials. But the Acehnese bloke smiled sadly when I said this and replied, “No, there is no rekonstruksi. This is konstruksi. Before the aid came to Nias there was nothing.”

* * *

This is my last little post in this journal. I'm back at my main journal now. I'll be living in Nias for the next nine to twelve months, so I hope that I will expand up on these notes during that time. This journal will be closed off now and kept as a record of the first year I spent traveling and living in Southeast Asia. See ya.

Before I departed Australia a couple of months ago I had a few beers with some mates out at the Oaks, south west of Sydney. While we were chugging down schooners at the delightful Oaks Hotel, I found myself laughing at my mate’s mobile phone ring tone. It was the sound of a rooster crowing. The other blokes in the pub were amused, too.

Like a good tourist, I lost my phone during my first couple of days in Indonesia, so in Medan I bought a newie. I immediately selected the rooster ring tone. What a great idea that turned out to be.

Living on Miga Hill we are surrounded by jungle and by the sounds that accompany it. Moreso, though, we are within earshot of the various animals that our neighbours keep. Over the past few weeks I have become accustomed to dogs barking, pigs squealing, and roosters crowing.

In fact, a couple of weeks ago I realised that I had become so used to hearing the sound of a rooster crowing that I hadn’t realised my phone was ringing. Apologies to all of those who tried calling. Oops.

There are two roadside signs that I see all over the place that I have been unable to translate from Indonesian. All I know is that they are related in some way to sepeda motor (motor bikes). The first is Tempel Masak, often written in white paint on an old tyre. Masak, according to every dictionary I have checked, means ‘to cook’. The second is Door Smeer. Today an Indonesia fella explained them to me.

Masak does indeed mean cooking in this context. The word tempel means something like metal or solder. So Tempel Masak means ‘cooking metal’. It’s a motorcycle repair shop. The Indonesian fella had a bit of a laugh when he explained Door smeer. He says it has no english equivalent. It means “car wash for motor bikes”.

I don’t know all that much about it yet, but a few things that I have learned about the rice industry on Nias Island have got me concerned. I want to look into it further and perhaps speak with some NGOs in the field, but for now I want to tap out a few quick things as a starting point.

Naturally enough, rice forms a basis of the Indonesian diet. Yet if you are a poor family you may not be able to afford to buy rice. If so, rice may be supplemented with that other staple food, sweet potato, or in extreme cases replaced by sweet potato. This has nutrition impacts.

Rice is one of three cash crops grown on Nias, the others being cocoa and rubber. There is no rice processing plant on the island, so all rice grown here is shipped to Sumatera for processing.

A major problem for cash-croppers on Nias is the monopoly or oligopoly of buyers from the mainland. This means that the buyer sets the price at which the locally produced crops are purchased from farmers. So you may have consumer price inflation on the island (as a result of the inflow of aid dollars, maybe) but no commensurate increase in the sale value of your cash crops.

Processed rice is shipped back to Nias for retail sale. If retail prices are increasing and crop values are remaining static, then farming families may find themselves priced out of the market for the very rice they have grown. That’s when the ubiquitous sweet potato gardens growing around every rural home come into the picture, and sweet potato supplements or replaces rice in the family’s diet.

If things go poorly, you may have a situation whereby rice farmers cannot afford to buy processed rice. An over-reliance on sweet potato as a staple food may then lead to malnutrition.

In Teluk Dalam, Vasco and I saw a young boy with his hand extended to us for money. His mother then pulled him away and they disappeared into the crowd. He had blonde streaks in his hair. I didn’t know at the time, but I now understand that this is a result of malnutrition. Another common health effect of malnutrition is stunted growth, which we are pretty sure we identified in some of the villages through which we travelled.

This is a rough sketch that needs further research. More soon.

A couple of weeks ago I ate an odd-looking fruit called sour sop for the very first time. A certain shit-stirrer and her crazy Filipina mate were telling me it was very stringy and needed to be chewed adequately or it would, you know, come out stringy, too. Anyway, I quite enjoyed it, and have kept an eye out for it at the markets ever since.

It turns out that there is a row of three sour sop trees in our yard. Well, it’s the area between our house and the fence that surrounds it, so I had assumed it was our yard. It seems I assumed wrong.

You see, I had my eye on a beautiful big fruit hanging on one of the trees. I had consulted widely about how to tell if the fruit is ripe, and had commenced a fruit fondling regime whereby I paid the trees a visit each morning and groped them to see if they were ready to pick. I’d decided that the big one would be ready in a day’s time, and was excited at the prospect of having it for dessert that night. It was that large that I imagined it would probably feed us for three or four days.

Next morning it was gone. I had been out-fondled by an anonymous fruit-pincher with little regard for my hard work and patience. (I can just imagine some nice, sweet old Nias lady with a machete on the end of her bamboo walking cane, just casually lopping the fruit and dropping it into her bag with a satisfying plop. I hope it was awful.)

We now have four new fruits dangling from the three trees. I have been fondling them again to see how they are tracking, and this time I am confident of grabbing one before the keen-eyed locals do. I reckon I’ll get them a day or two early, then wrap them in a plastic bag and pop them in the fridge. Then we will feast for a week. I’ll let you know how it goes.

One morning this week I decided to walk into town because the weather was quite cool after some overnight rain. By the time I had done my shopping, though, I’d changed my mind a little and was sweating up a storm. So I spotted a becak and asked to be taken to the foot of Miga Hill.

I started chatting with the driver. He was a very young-looking bloke. I asked whether he could make the trip for 10,000 rupiah, which is pretty standard for the trip. He wanted twice that amount – naturally. I then asked his name and his age, just practicing my still-shaky Indonesian. He told me he was 12 years old.

Schools in Nias – as in many other parts of the developing (or less-developed, perhaps) world – operate two shifts each day in order to make the most of limited resources. This means that, in an environment of chronic unemployment or underemployment, kids go to work at a very young age and use the half of the day when they are not at school to earn an income for their family.

I suppose a young fella like my becak driver would have a few options. He could find work as a labourer – the high demand for building materials at present means that many workers are needed in quarries and in trucks.* I understand that the minimum daily wage is around five Aussie dollars, although it is not always adhered to.

Alternatively, he might work in a shop or restaurant with his family, perhaps without a paid income of any sort. (I have been served food by a lot of very young kids – I buy my bottles of beer from a girl who is five.) Or he could drive a becak, earning as much as he is able to negotiate from his passengers less whatever costs are associated with the vehicle itself.

There are other ways of earning an income, too, although these seem to be the most common for young people. Another option for the very desperate is to leave Nias for Sumatera where they can seek work on a plantation or in a factory.

My young driver probably sees nothing wrong with his situation, and his mates likely work after school hours, too. His work is not regulated by an award or a contract – indeed, he probably doesn’t even exist as far as the formal national economy is concerned. He pays no tax, he will receive no workers compensation when he is hit by a speeding Hilux, and he has no superannuation.

When I hopped out of the little seat and onto the dusty roadside, he did an expert u-turn and started peddling his way back into town. He had his next customer before he was out of sight.

* This demand is also met by elderly workers. One morning I walked past three very ancient and toothless women hauling gravel at a road works site. This is apparently quite common – they accept lower wages and their families need the income. I want to look into this more before writing about it in some detail.

A traditional village: rich in history, poor in tourists

After Sunday breakfast and a fuel stop at a dodgy-looking bensin place, Penny steered north again into unknown territory. We were on the road to a series of traditional upland villages which had been tourist attractions before the tsunami and the earthquake.

We had climbed quite high into the hills when we reached a fork in the road and were unsure how to proceed. Turning right, we followed a narrowing stone street and all of a sudden found ourselves in a massive town square. We stopped abruptly, and a local fella quickly asked us to park our bike and walk.

We stood in a T junction. Three wide streets led away from us each paved with stone and lined with tall traditional Nias houses. These houses are timber, on stilts, slightly rounded, and have high, pointed, thatched roofs. Stone walls stood nearby – for the much-famed stone-jumping that a couple of local blokes offered to perform – and a series of stone tablets, apparently where dead bodies were laid in the past.

I can’t say much more about the village – locals swamped us urging us to buy souvenirs or visit their shop nearby. It was all a little desperate, and given we had neither cash nor camera, we offered our excuses politely and left as soon as we could without causing offence. I’d like to return one day soon, better prepared for the whole tourist experience.

The Gomo Track and bum suffering

On the way home I decided that we should take an alternate route via an inland town named Gomo. Sadly, I had imagined a road from Gomo to Gunung Sitoli – there was none. Gomo is a dead end town and we had to turn around and head back to Teluk Dalam. I won’t forget that in a hurry. None of this would have been a problem, though, had it not been for the two or three torturous and painful hours we spent on The Gomo Trail!

I’ve seen some pretty shitty roads in Nias, but the road to Gomo is something special: steep inclines, sunken asphalt, collapsed bridges, loose rocks, and the usual collection of livestock obstacles. We shared the driving, and each of us spent some time on foot while the other attempted to negotiate the evil road ahead of us.

There were some highlights, though, as the land we travelled through was pretty stunning. We crossed several wide rivers, flowing clear and clean down from the mountains north of us, often cascading over rocks. And in the upland area we entered a plateau where rice fields were planted either side of a river and hills rose in the distance. Truly beautiful.

Gomo was a non-descript little town, although I think we’d have been more aware of our surroundings had we not been bum suffering quite so much from the bumpy road. The news that we had to turn around and brave the trail again was met with resignation, but we opted to see it as an adventure and a funny story, so we pushed on in good spirits.

By the time we were cruising north along the coastal road once more, our arses were battered and sore. We were constantly shifting in our seats and had to stop a few times just to stretch our glutes! But we had taken on the Gomo Trail and beaten it. It had been a very Nias weekend.

Teluk Dalam and Lagundri

The port town of Teluk Dalam passed us very quickly – we were hot, tired, and a bit sore. We stopped for lunch and a few cold drinks and then headed off again. But what I managed to see of the town was crowded, dusty, and noisy. The main street seemed to be chock-full of stalls and food vendors. A young boy approached us for money before being dragged away by his mother. I got the impression that the town was much poorer – and impacted less by the international aid community – than Gunung Sitoli.

The road out of town took us along the coast again. Evidence of last year’s earthquake was in plain sight – caved-in stretches of road, sunken bridges, collapsed concrete buildings, lop-sided timber homes. We could also see how the land had risen relative to sea level, meaning that rocks and coral are exposed, beaches contain stagnant pools of water, and the water itself is now a hundred or more metres further from the beach. That said, the views were stunning – palm trees lining the road, some beaut swimming areas filled with bobbing and splashing kids, and flat blue water in a series of beautiful bays.

Our final stop was Lagundri, a village of sorts that in the past has been something of a tourist attraction. Now the surf boards collect dust and the losmen (guest houses) are pretty much empty. There were some waves, but exposed rocks and a receding water line make them fairly unattractive. We saw perhaps half a dozen tourists.

At the end of the road – literally! – we found a sprawling resort. It, too, was almost empty. In it’s prime it would have been quite an attraction. It now carries an air of tragic decay and decline. Its bungalows are empty and dusty, the restaurant is bare and has no fish, the power is out for most of the day, and the swimming pool resembles a septic tank. It’s a pity that the dozens of empty bungalows cannot be used to house some of the islands displaced population who still occupy tent camps.

A very quiet dinner

That evening we took Penny for a cruise. We selected a couple of inland roads to see what was about. The first was a rocky mess and we abandoned it after a while, but the second led us into a quiet, dark village. There was no electricity, so families sat in front of their homes – some traditional, some more modern-looking – chatting by the light of fluoro lamps or candles. It was here that we found a small roadside shack that had sambal bottles on the table, so we stopped for dinner.

This rumah makan (restaurant) was literally a covered veranda area attached to a family’s timber home. As we entered, five kids were seated at the table eating their dinner and mum was tidying up behind a small counter. You should have seen the stares. The kids scattered so we could sit, and continued staring. We dined on elaborately prepared instant noodles served by a young girl. And we were treated to some singing, dancing, shy chit-chat, and a visit by a young fella (the kids’ cousin) who called in to buy two cigarettes. He was eighteen years old and took the opportunity to practice his excellent English skills. (I think Vasco may have something to say about that chat.)

When it was time to pay the bill, mum bumped up the price of each item a little. Her daughter wasn’t onto the game at first and insisted on a lower price, but mum won out and we happily paid. Good on her. I guess they don’t see many foreigners. A very interesting evening.

(Net access has been more limited than usual owing to some satellite issues. I’m now posting a swag of entries to catch up. This one is a bit long, too, so I will post in three instalments.)

On Saturday morning, Vasco and I set off on a weekend trip. Armed with a full tank of fuel, itchy feet, and an appalling sense of direction, we mounted Penny and headed south from Gunung Sitoli with our eyes set on the south of Nias Island. We both learnt a lot across the next day and a half. I’ll try to capture some of it here.

The winding road south of Gunung Sitoli

The road south of Gunung Sitoli took us past the airport and the Pertamina depot, through several villages, and along the coast line. The road is in decent condition in relative terms, but is quite a schizophrenic affair – some stretches of new bitumen are lovely while other decaying sections are pot-holed, rocky, and littered with loose rocks. The locals are adept at weaving between the various obstacles, although for us it presented something of a challenge.

We cruised through two villages where Saturday markets where in full swing. The road was blocked by people for a few hundred metres. Stalls and food sellers lined each side of the road, and the side streets were likewise throbbing with noise, colour, and movement. We stopped to stock up on pancakes – travellers’ food, you see – and said a hundred hellos as we walked through the crowd. Not too many foreigners stop at these markets, I guess.

Rice country and sea views

One of the highlights of the ride south came when we entered the rice-growing flatlands. The road was good – flat and straight – and the views were stunning. To either side we could see vibrant green fields of young plants that extended back to the nearby hills and mountains. Little walkways and huts dotted the fields. It was idyllic. We stopped to drink in the scene. In Cambodia and Laos I had seen fields of rice and wondered how they would look in the wet season. Now I know.

The road more or less followed the coast line, particularly as we travelled across a small mountain range on our approach to the port town of Teluk Dalam. Quite abruptly we found ourselves on a very high stretch of road overlooking the ocean and the rocky beach hundreds of feet below. Again, we felt compelled to stop and take it all in.

Yesterday morning a group of intrepid explorers set off from Gunung Sitoli to the community of Sisarahili to the north. The day unfolded with new friends, a picnic, beautiful views, fishing, and snorkeling. A couple of snaps can be found here.

I've spent the last hour or so sitting on a little balcony overlooking the Strait. There's unsecured wireless internet here for the use of NGOs and the like. It's a good connection, a great view, and pretty much the ideal office. There's even a shipwreck a hundred metres away.

A few minutes ago I felt my table move. I thought maybe a big truck had pulled up. Then I noticed that the floor below also moved. In fact, everything moved, albeit slightly.

There's an Indonesian fella seated near me, enjoying the view while he puffs a Marlboro cigarette and taps away at hs laptop. He looked up, gave me a smile, and said, "Earthquake, yeah?"

Then Vasco called, just checking that I had felt the tremor, and reassuring me that the gang in her office had looked out at the ocean and it was still flat. No tsunami.

We had a party last night - around fifty Indonesians crammed onto our veranda, cleaning out the fridge, and having a good old chat. A couple of the older blokes were surveying the house. They remarked that it was made of timber, which is good in earthquakes, and some very tough coconut palm wood. Very safe, they said.

On the way here Penny and I were getting drenched. It was pissing down. The last minute actually involved hail or something, and it stung like buggery. There's been sunlight since then, but now it is pouring again and the ocean view I was enjoying is obcured by mist.

Hello Pulau Nias.

A few things I have been meaning to mention but have been unable to for want of a reliable internet connection.

Bad boys on bikes

Young blokes in Nias seem to have a bit of a thing for black t-shirts adorned with slogans or band names in english. You know, Metallica shirts and that kind of thing. I'm not always certain that the wearers know what their shirts say, but sometimes I am sure that they do.

Yesterday I was doing the Honda Wobble along Jalan Diponegoro in the midday traffic jam. This young dude on a big sputtering trail bike flew right past me, weaving between cars, bikes, and school kids. The back of his black t-shirt featured a picture of a skeleton riding a motorbike. It read "Ride hard, die young".

A beautiful garden

For a few days now I have been setting off in search of the fabled German monastery. Not to over-dramatise, this means simply turning down streets I have never been down before and cruising on Penny until I get lost and either find a known landmark or do a u-turn. These little diversions have led me to some interesting areas both in Gunung Sitoli and on its outskirts. No monastery as yet.

Last week I mentioned to Vasco that I was a little sad to see no gardens in town. And no well-kept homes. Everything seems so utilitarian here and I am longing for some glimpse of the Nias that existed before the Honda shops opened and the tsunami struck. Or maybe some examples of traditional homes or art or music or something. Maybe in a village.

Anyway, this morning I was heading off to find the monastery. There was a road near the markets that I had been eyeing off for a while - it led up into the hills, inland, north, away from town. So off I went, taking a turn onto a windy road that circumnavigated a large hill above town. Homes up here were bigger and more traditional. I started to catch glimpses of some scenery between the buildings that lined the road. Mountains, jungle, heavy clouds. Very nice.

I crossed a dodgy old bridge comprised only of wooden planks - and not very bloody many of them. The road continued to wind. I had just decided to do a u-turn when I spotted a beautiful green garden in front of an old wooden house. It was the most carefully tended garden I have yet seen and had clearly been established for many years; ornamental palms, heart-shaped taro, ginger, flowers, and narow walkways of soft green grass. Even some of the tall, thin fellas I have planted at home along the front of our veranda.

Later, I brought Vasco along for a look. We hopped off Penny like a pair of timid tourists, said hello to a woman who spotted us from the doorway, and asked if we could look at her beautiful garden.

The town is exciting and interesting, and it's a great way to get to know the people and the place. But it does get to be too much from time to time. We're planning a road trip this weekend, and my itchy feet are longing to hit the road. Meantime, this garden has made my day, and reminded me that there is more to this little island than rattling motorbikes and muddy streets. It was a timely reminder.

Boats to Sebolga

Nias depends on mainland Sumatera for a number of goods, both food and non-food items. One such item is tahu (tofu), although Vasco has a bit of a scheme in motion to remedy that. So boats head to and from the mainland daily from a big ugly concrete dock down behind the central business district in Gunung Sitoli. There are also ferries that take people to and from Sebolga.

From my perch on our veranda - known as the "Bintang Seat" - I watch these boats almost every night. I can look out to the north and see a clump of lights on the water's edge representing the dock. Above it is a small lighthouse.

From here, the boats themselves look like a string of lights floating on the water. The lights become more dense as the boat fills. When it is full and well-lit, the boat detaches from the dock and heads north-east in a very straight line. I can watch them for a good forty minutes at which point they finally blink out on the horizon. At about the same time the next one detaches and starts the same journey.

I love watching the boats. A little string of lights on the dark water, moving steadily away. I have to remind myself that up close they are probably alive with noisy madness.

They head off in pretty much any conditions. It can be bloody pissing down with rain and they still detach slowly from the dock and make their steady progression out onto the sea. When the weather is good they head off en masse, pulling out every ten minutes or so instead of every half an hour, so there is a procession of lights moving away from the island. When there is a storm nearby, the lightning illuminates the water for miles around and I can see the surface of the sea, its vastness a reminder of how small the little Nias boats really are.

News

On the weekend I was able to spend a couple of hours online to catch up on some news from home. I needn’t have bothered.

A cease-fire in Palestine, Australia beating someone at cricket, the Opposition calling for an inquiry into something, deaths in Iraq, deaths in Afghanistan, an activist disappearing in China, shootings in the US.

Seriously, these stories could have come from the news headlines on any day over the past five years or so. Maybe I don’t need to worry about not reading or hearing the news for a few weeks. It will all be there later, just as I left it.

A brief encounter in morning traffic

I visited the markets early this morning, around eight o’clock. At this time of morning, the traffic at each of the main intersections in town is being directed by whistle-blowing police officers who stand in the middle of the road.

There’s a little bridge in town, just before you reach the markets and the big one-way loop that comprises the central business district. The bridge is always congested – bicycles, becaks, motor bikes, school kids walking along, four wheel drives – and this morning was no exception.

I slowed on my approach to the bridge and settled into the traffic alongside other wobbling motor cycles. I love the Honda wobble that occurs when things are going so slow but no one wants to actually put their foot out and stop.

On my left I saw a tiny little girl in a maroon skirt and white blouse. She was sitting on a bench attached above the back tyre of a bicycle and had her arms wrapped around the young, wiry man who I assumed was her older brother or father. Her head was resting on his t-shirted back and she was watching the traffic roll by.

The fella riding the bike spotted an opening and moved forward ahead of me. I slowed to allow him passage, and he gave me a smile and a "pagi". The little girl waved and smiled as they disappeared into the surging flow of traffic and around the bend ahead of me.

Beard

I had my silly little ginger beard trimmed in Medan. The barber did a very professional job – including an interesting move that involved shaving my, err, forehead. Anyway, I think maybe it’s now time to cut the beard off completely.

You see, as I was wandering around the markets this morning, a lovely young lady said to me, "Selamat pagi, pak", or "Good morning, old man."

Cheeky bugger.

So I’m thinking about visiting a barber tomorrow. Maybe he can dye my grey hair, too. That’s a request that will really test my Bahasa Indonesia.

Our home on the hill is a big wooden place on stilts with a veranda extending half way around both the main living area and the two bedrooms. This affords an amazing view of the Strait and the town below, with jungle on both sides and the hill rising behind us. And so when the weather turns wild - as it seems to do most days - we have front row seats.

The sea can tell you a lot when you are lucky enough to look upon it from a height. For example, today I remarked upon the semi-circle of brownish haze that was hugging the coastline near Gunung Sitoli. I hoped it wasn't pollution. Indeed, it is silt from the two rivers that flow through town - likely some of it is also waste.

I'm perched on the veranda to type these words. Right now the sea is warning me to go inside before it pisses down - there's a monstrous body of dark cloud moving across the mountains behind us and to the north, and I saw it's shadow over the water before I saw it. The water is dark, and becoming choppy.

Last week a pretty spectacular storm rolled in off the Strait, originating north-east of here. I've chatted with a few people about it and we reckon it was a small cyclone.

I was in the kitchen that afternoon, having just finished painting our timber furniture. The kitchen faces the sea on one side through large windows. I had noticed that a storm was moving toward us, but when the water started to churn and darken I knew this was going to be a bewdy. From up here, the water actually looked like it was being sucked into the storm.

When the rain reached land I could hear the water lashing the buildings in town. Gunung Sitoli all but disappeared into a mist. And the rain was coming in on a vicious angle. I watched the rain move up the hill toward us like a sheet. There was a pause after a few minutes - like in the eye of a cyclone - then it continued on again. We lost several sections of the roof and the place was drenched.

The big black cloud I mentioned before has headed north, but it is still pretty dark here. When I sat down to start typing around fifteen minutes ago it was sunny with a nice sea breeze. Now it is still - sweaty, quiet, and almost tense.

Before I landed on Nias, a few Indonesians I had spoken to had referred to Nias as "wild". I'd laughed then, but now I agree.

A few nights ago the Tropical Correspondent took me to dinner at a noisy road-side restaurant named Bintang Terung. The TC spotted a UN bloke that she knew and asked him to sit with us.

We had a pretty good chat about Nias, the development issues here, and a few other things. When we were talking about the island, this fella asked if we had been to the old German Convent near town. Huh? Yeah, apparently there is even an old German nun who lives there.

I have seen plenty of churches around the place and have spotted religious paintings on walls and so on, but a convent would be so out of place. I just didn't know what to think.

Anyway, this morning the TC and I headed to the Gunung Sitoli markets on Penny.* We'd sloshed through the mud to the fresh produce stalls and were hunting down spices, fresh veggies, and tofu.

We were in the process of buying black rice and tofu when we noticed an old nun standing beside us and making purchases from the same stall. The German nun! She was chatting away with the stall owners in Indonesian and when she noticed us asked where we were from and what we were up to.

As she left, she joked that she always left the market with less money, then she said goodbye to us in German.

Okay. Indonesia. Small tropical island. Saturday morning. Fruit and vegetable markets. German nun. Of course this makes sense.

There are a lot of things that catch my eye as I wander through the streets of Gunung Sitoli or cruise on the roads along the coast to the north and south. Little things that make me want to know more about this place and its history. This is another one of those things, I reckon.

* Penny is a blue 125cc Honda SupraX and I love her.

There is a lot to be said about Nias Island. About its people, its history, and its future. Among many other things. And I reckon there's probably plenty to be said about its natural environment and ecology, too. I'd like to make a small contribution to these discussions, and will do so down the track a little bit.

For now, though, I'm concerned with the present. And I am conscious that my notes to date are a poor offering when compared to my more robust journal entries from earlier this year. I'll attempt to make amends for this, and we'll pick up where I left off – arrival on Nias Island about two weeks ago.

Such a vibrantly green island

I was stunned by the beauty of Sumatera's dense tropical forests, and yet I only saw them from a distance. Upon arriving on Nias Island, I found myself looking upon this greenery at very close range. And now, settled as we are atop a hill, we are surrounded by jungle. It encroaches on homes, provides canopy above roads and walking tracks, and is literally moving with life throughout the day and the night. Even standing in the town centre, you can see the thickly forested hills above.

So Nias is a green island. There is much I am yet to see, and frankly I wonder how it can be navigated. Apparently there are some caves nearby (indeed, just a few hundred metres away) and some tracks that a few international residents traverse with their mountain bikes. I can't help but think that, when the post-tsunami work wraps up and the NGOs move out, there will be an urgent need for new sources of income for the local community. The opportunities for eco-tourism are immense, although I fear that at this point they are not being realised. But more on that later.

Lazy (chicken-littered, pot-holed, dusty, muddy, riveresque) Highways

After marveling at the jungle surrounding the tarmac, it was time to jump into a four wheel drive and head into town. A very windy and narrow asphalt road snakes its way along the coast toward Gunung Sitoli, never out of sight of the water and never taking us too far inland where the hills begin their steep climbs. Timber and brick homes cling to the road like the artery that it is, set back only far enough to allow space for deep, open concrete drainage. Many of these drains seem in need of maintenance, and just as many are currently being repaired.

Most of the homes along this main stretch are road are small, built on the ground, and with thatched or currugated iron roofs. All have small green patches of garden in front, beside, or behind. The little heart shaped leaves of sweet potato and taro are everywhere. Some gardens also host headstones for deceased family members adorned with a cross. And there are churches everywhere! Chooks, naturally, run all over the shop. School kids walk along holding hands and chatting, their little blue Unicef backpacks strapped on, seemingly oblivious to the traffic but managing to stay clear of danger.

Traffic in Nias is a slower, less intense version of what you would encounter in the larger cities of Southeast Asia. Bicycles, motor bikes, trucks, four wheel drives, and pedestrians all swim chaotically and largely unharmed across the road. Drivers toot their horns only to let others know where they are, it's okay for kids to walk three or four abreast on the road, and everything just kind of works. Even the dogs seem to understand the rules – they just sit and scratch themselves while the trucks and bikes hurtle by.

The approach to Gunung Sitoli itself brings the road very close to the sea again. Here the sight is breathtaking and, sadly, the smell is much the same. Palm trees line the road, leaning out toward the seas. The water is flat and dark blue. Sumatera is invisible, shrouded somewhere on the horizon.

Gunung Sitoli

I'm perched on our veranda as I type this, looking down on Gunung Sitoli to find the words to describe the place. From here, it is nothing more than a tangle of shiny iron-roofed buildings clumped together in the jungle, clinging to each other between the tall palms. There is no city noise. Indeed, all I can hear is the wind in the trees, the distant rattle of Honda engines and the blurting of their overworked horns, and some old bloke cutting down bananas with a machete. There are no high-rise buildings, no factories or huge warehouses, no highways or overpasses, and no railway tracks or stations.

Well, that's covered what isn't in Gunung Sitoli. So what is there?

The main road into town is know as Jalan Diponegoro*, or Diponegoro Street, and it is simply a more cluttered and congested version of the coastal road. Here it is toko (shops) that hug (sometimes strangle) the main arterial – barbers, hardware stores, roadside restaurants, motorcycle repairers. Most shop fronts are weathered concrete or timber affairs.

There are two main points of congestion before the road reaches the town centre. The first is the petrol station – the only one in town, although two more are being built – and the bus terminal (where the word bus is simply used for want of an appropriate english equivalent). The petrol stations generates very long queues of both trucks and motor bikes which almost constantly spill out onto the street. The roadside near the bus terminal is crowded with becak drivers and motor bikes.

The centre of town comprises a large one-way loop which is home to dozens of shops, hotels, and restaurants. Nearby is the traditional market, another point of congestion – bikes here wobble dangerously as they almost come to a complete stop behind trucks and four wheel drives. You can imagine the noise. Backing onto the loop is a water front strip littered with vendors of imported foods and goods and a gaggle of restaurants. Oh, and I have seen a few goats, too. Then there's a series of streets leading away from the town centre and towards the hills, and this is where we find homes, banks, schools and government buildings.

Gunung Sitoli isn't all that big, but it can be as noisy as any other city, particular at the congestion points. With so much construction work being carried out around the town the roads are constantly rumbling with the passing of trucks. Those stuck behind them toot their horns. Shops play music as loud as possible. The Muslim call to prayer rings out. Honda engines crackle angrily and demand to be serviced. As Vasco says, there is no volume control in Indonesia.

I guess that's enough for now. Welcome to Gunung Sitoli. I'll post shortly about Home on Miga Hill.

* It is my understanding that the name, Diponegoro, derives from a Javanese prince who fought against the Dutch in the nineteenth century. It was also the name of a military unit that Sukarno served in during the war for independence.

Just a quick g'day. All is well, and job-hunting is now under way.

I'll post some words on Gunung Sitoli in the next couple of days or so, and a few thoughts about Indonesia and its people.

There are now a few more photos up at my Flickr page including this peak through our kitchen window which is my favourite.

See ya.

I sent a text message to a mate last week and she helpfully transcribed it for posterity and emailed it to me. Here tis.

Haven't thought about Sydney for what seems like a very long time. Now chillaxing on the veranda in the sun. Kids across the road keep yelling out and waving. The city is tiny below our hill, and the noise of the traffic occasionally reaches me looks like rain coming slowly over the hill. There's a nice breeze. The ocean is flat and blue. Have bought my second long neck from next door. The girl serving at the little window cant be more than six. Vasco will be here soon with her knitting, sitting on these low plastic seats we have and nattering about the NWAB at work. Hope you can perch here with us one day.

Sums it all up quite nicely.

I realised last night, as I knocked the tops off a few Bintangs on the veranda and watched a heavy storm break over the sea north of here, that it's been less than three weeks since I walked out of the office for the final time and struck out to find a new path. Since then I have become immersed in a new culture and a new climate and have settled into a new home. The adjustment period has been pretty smooth, and I have finally found a net cafe in Gunung Sitoli, so it's time to update this journal. [Edit: The buggers are always full, closed, or suffering a bad connection, so I am actually (eventually) posting this from an undisclosed NGO office.]

Medan via Singapore

When I packed my bags a couple of weeks ago I was proud of my efforts to pack light. Nothing spurious qualified. However, no sooner had I boarded the plane then I realised that I had forgotten a number of important articles: designer sunglasses, Italian shoes, a gold-plated watch...

Fortunately for this travel-weary consumer, all of these things plus much much more can be purchased at SIngapore airport! Imagine my relief as I fossicked in my pockets for my plastic. And what's more, all of the advertisements featured white people like me, so I couldn't get confused by the sight of an Asian face.

Yes, I found SIngapore airport quite interesting, and very amusing, in a dark kind of way.

The contrast with Medan's Polonia airport could not be more pronounced. It's a fraction of the size, and reminded me of the airports in Cambodia and Vietnam. A lovely black labrador sniffed me enthusiastically for contraband - failing to notice the antibiotics for which I had no prescription! - and that was that. Hearing a shout of "Tofu!", I quickly located the Tropical Correspondent at the taxi rank.

Hati hati!

Our taxi driver was a madman - seriously. Even by Southeast Asian standards, this bloke was loopy. He'd nose the vehicle out into traffic, spot an opening, slam the accelerator down, and then shout "BINGO!" This happened several times, sometimes topped off by "Here we go!" or "Let's get it on!" Even Vasco's shouts of "Hati hati!" could not slow him down - he simply laughed maniacally. Great fun.

We spent a few days in Medan, a big commercial city with (I think) a population of around two and a half million. Travel is by bechak (bay-chuck), a motorbike rickshaw. Medan reminded me a lot of Phnom Penh, although a marked difference would be the number of cars on the road - much more than in Cambodia - and most of them big new four wheel drives, just what you need to negotiate crowded city streets. A sign of new wealth, I'm guessing, just like the large new houses we saw on a couple of our bechak trips.

We ate primarily at street restaurants, except for one night when the noise was just too much (and we had spent three hours trying to find a restaurant that had closed down) and a lunch we had in the food court at the scarily large Sun Plaza shopping centre. I am a big fan of the street food - compressed rice, tofu, different curries, rice porridge, noodles, roti, and plenty of veggies.

But Medan was merely a stopover. Once we had stocked up on lentils in the Little India area and my beard had been expertly trimmed (and photographed) it was time to hop on a light aircraft and cross the sea to Nias Island.

Crossing the Mentawai Strait to Pulau Nias

I don't think I've ever been in a twelve seater plane before, but I am looking forward to doing so again on my way back to Sydney in December. I was perched right behind the pilots and had a great view of both the scenery around us and the flight controls.

From the air, Medan's sheer size was breath-taking. We then headed out across densely forested mountains toward the Mentawai Strait. Crossing the water, small islands could be seen here and there. The plane was buffeted a little by rain and wind, but I am assured that this is normal. Indeed, the Correspondent slept in the seat next to me for much of the journey.

After around an hour, Nias Island came into sight - basically a jungle rising out of the water - and we touched down on a strip of tarmac etched out of the jungle. I was absolutely speechless - everything was so green and wild and beautiful.

I've realised that this is getting quite long, so I'll leave it there and post more soon. If the connection speed will permit it, some photos will be uploaded to my Flickr page, too.

My bags are packed and I am leaving tomorrow at midday. First stop is Singapore, albeit briefly, and then Medan, Indonesia. I'll be spending a few days in Medan and surrounds with the Tropical Correspondent before heading to Pulau Nias for a two month stay. A trip to Aceh may be in there somewhere, too.

Net access will be limited, so I expect there'll be radio silence for a week or two, then I'll log in and post some thoughts and images. See ya!