Indo Supreme

Today's Thoughts...

The very next week after Pai, with a sudden lull in classes, I packed up and shipped off for post-tsunami zone—Banda Aceh in the far tip of Sumatra, Indonesia. I stopped over for a night in Medan where Dylan met me in the airport and after several illegal runs in and out of the country to procure cash for a visa-on-arrival and an investigation by plain clothes police (complete with backroom, brightly burning interrogation lamp, full investigation like I was in a black and white detective movie, and a very touchy body search by a giggly forty-something year old woman), I finally (legally) stepped foot into Indonesia. The airport was a bit rundown with taxi hawkers gawking and lingering nearby trying desperately to convince us that their sky-high rates were so good, so good. Luckily, our five-star hotel (oh yes) had airport service and swooped in like a hawk to save her babes from the vultures. The plush leather interior SUV drove us into the city with its coolly tinted windows so we could gaze open-mouthed at all we saw. In many ways, Medan reminded me so much of Lima (Peru), I couldn’t stand it. The same loitering men on corners, peeling billboards and posters half-heartedly glued to walls, garbage trucks, their wonderful aromas wafting in the breeze, women with over-sized shopping bags, grit, smoke, a distinct buzz in the air—the works. It was astonishing. The only difference as far as I could tell was the sudden explosion everywhere of women in hijabs, or jilbabs, as they are known in Indonesia. Somehow I had managed to forget that Sumatra is Indonesia’s most conservatively Muslim region.

Our hotel was beyond first-rate and for $30 each for the night, was superior. We stayed on the ninth floor with a walk out deck to the balustraded pool, little white cherub-looking stone fixtures ringing the edges. There was hand to mouth service all throughout the hotel with a bevy of eager faces greeting you to provide in any way they could whatever you might need. There were arrival mocktails, strawberry and bubbly, and a huge bed, glass-encased shower—we were in absolute bliss, Dylan especially after two months of life in Aceh, a different world compared to Medan. Our bliss was short-lived however, as we woke early to partake in the enormous Indonesian and Western breakfast buffet (followed by room service of our leftovers), explored the mall, dashed off to try to see Harry Potter, failed in that attempt, and returned in a bejak (tuk-tuk with a sidecar) with a driver belting Michael Jackson’s “Black or White” at us and telling us about his travels through America. In the blink of an eye, Medan was behind us and we were on a plane to Aceh.


Aceh is breathtakingly gorgeous. Sort of ensconced in a ring of mountains with the ocean along the edge, it is beautiful. The tsunami (of 2004) did not destroy that. Though the infrastructure leaves much to be desired, the city itself is still teeming with people, many of whom returned to their lives (sans homes) in Aceh soon after the tsunami swept through. You can feel it in a sort of pride in the people in their home, whatever the damages done. While I was there, we did the “touristy” things, whatever those might be in a still re-developing Aceh—we stopped by the unfinished Tsunami Museum, visited the mass graves, and circled around a huge steamer, drifted over two miles inland during the flooding. But that wasn’t Aceh, not really at least. Aceh is in the people and that was the most outstanding part about the place. Medan had its seedy underbelly with men openly hostilely staring/glaring at me, convincing me that anything would be better if I had just bought a jilbab myself. In Aceh, people at least waited until you passed before they gaped openly most of the time, despite the fact that women here were even more conservative than in Medan. I mean covered ankles to wrists conservative—I felt extremely out of place even with my shoulder shrugs, sweaters, and leggings.

Dylan’s roomies Andre and Oczie along with two friends, Dede and a girl whose name has escaped me, picked us up from the airport and raced through the night in a semi-broken down jeep-truck?, nearly splattering an unsuspecting cat on the road as we went. The guys I found out were real class acts, hilariously goofy and Aceh-style laid back. As proof of this, when we got to the house, Dylan and Dre showed me the remnants of “Star Wars,” an all-out ink battle with yellows and reds and blues splashed on the walls from the office printer (the office for Dylan’s NGO is based out of their house—“Basecamp”). Did I mention there’s not much shakin’ in Aceh?

At night, rather than frequent bars with booze since Aceh is dry to all citizens and expensive alc to all foreigners (bules), young people flock to coffee shops, Sumatra being known for some of the best coffee in Indonesia. We popped on over to two shops, the first a stop to meet Dylan’s army of Acehnese friends. I could only DREAM of having half as many Thai friends as he has Acehnese, literally. Most all of them work at NGOs or government organizations and LOVE to practice their English, not to mention the relative ease of learning Bahasa Indonesia (a bunch of which I picked up while I was there in like…two days, almost as much Thai as I’ve digested in two months). Whereas here, sometimes it can be like pulling teeth to get Thai compadres to even squeak out the countless words of English they know, ever fearful of somehow maiming a ridiculously complicated and complex language. I mean, really, five tones in Thai—I’m the one who sounds like a fool, not them. His friends were incredible and promptly cooed over me, friended me on Facebook, and invited us to join them for a camping trip the next day. Sadly, we had to decline because of my flight out, but I spent the rest of the weekend secretly mourning it.



So that’s Dylan’s friends. Dylan’s place is another story. Basecamp is a one-floor bungalow, fairly new as it was built right after the tsunami, a real boys’ bachelor pad. No furniture in the living room except a huge wide-screened TV and a coffee table. Dylan’s room was decidedly more posh (hahahaha, I’m dying just saying that) for which I reference, the twin bed (one leg missing so the end was propped up with his suitcase), two posters slowly detaching themselves from the wall, a dresser, a desk (which he has assembled himself by hand!), and a frosty AC unit that sort of chose when it would share its Arctic breeze or not. His bathroom consisted of a Western-style toilet (you dump in a bucket of water to wash the waste go down), a drain to serve as a sink after brushing of teeth, and a large water-filled cistern called a mandi for showering with icy cold waves in the morning. The mandi is an experience all itself. You have to brave the icy buckets of water to wet your body, soap down in a rapid lather, and then douse yourself again with the frigid liquid to rinse off. It’s sort of like a washing marathon—how fast can you douse, how quick can you lather, and how many minutes till you are back on the other side of the door, clean and cold. I considered it a triumph when I could complete the feat in under five minutes. Go team, go!

Aceh went by in a daze and once again it was time to move on but not before sampling some of Aceh’s “finest” (although in a way I much preferred the food stands). My second night, we were serenaded at a fancy over-priced Italian restaurant populated primarily by all the bule in town and were served sheet-thin crispy pizza. The day I left, instead, we partook in the ritual that is Pizza Hut restaurant style with a waitress and full menu and background music. Surreal, I’d say. What a world, what a world.