Berastagi Bound

Last weekend, Erin and I made our first trek outside of Medan to a beautiful little mountain town called Berastagi.  After reports from other people that the trip is only an hour and a half by motorcycle, we decided to drive ourselves and avoid the stuffy, overcrowded, uncomfortable public transports that pass for intercity buses.

Our trip started at 4pm.  Fortunately, there is one road that goes directly from Medan to Berastagi, so once we were on it, we thought we were golden.  Shortly after we began, the rain started.  Like every other Indonesian on the road, we pulled over at the first available shelter - an awning over the door of a family's home.  Within seconds the owners of the house were outside, offering us a dry seat inside their home.  With no other option - it would be rude to refuse to go inside but continue to stand right outside their front door - we went inside.  In no time we were talking about Obama and the war in Iraq and Justin Bieber and the healing power of guava fruit for malaria.  Together Erin and I make a great Indonesian language team - she knows the words, and I've tackled the pronunciation.  When the rain stopped half an hour later, we left with a fresh guava in our backpacks and the phone number of the family for a future visit.

When we hopped back on our bikes, it was still spitting a little rain.  Within ten minutes, we were totally soaked through.  After another hour on the road, we pulled over to ask how much longer it would take to get to Berastagi.  The first person we asked said it was very close - maybe half an hour.  So half an hour later we pulled over again, and that person said "jauh!" - very far.  Maybe another hour and a half.  So again we hopped onto our motorcycles and plodded along.  By this time it was dark and rainy and we had just started at the foot of the mountains, so the road was getting curvy.  After pulling over a third time and getting yet another conflicting answer, I couldn't help myself.  I started to laugh.  I was wet to the bone and freezing cold driving up a mountain on a motorcycle in Indonesia with no idea where I was going.  I think I lost my mind for awhile because I was laughing like a lunatic, so loud that Erin could hear me 30 feet ahead and over the roar of the engines.

Finally, five hours after we began, we made it to Berastagi.  All we had to do was find our guest house.  The only thought in my mind was taking a hot shower and climbing into bed.  I made reservations at a specific guest house that boasted hot showers, and I was not about to let go of that dream!  After driving up and down the one road in Berastagi for half an hour and asking people for directions, we finally found the guest house.  We went inside.  I thought it was odd that the owner wasn't expecting us, but I didn't think too much of it until I went into my room, hung up all my wet clothes, and went into the bathroom ready to warm up.  I turned on the shower head and was met with ice cold - mountain ice cold - water.  As it turns out, there are two guest houses in Berastagi with the same name.  One has hot water.  Guess which one we ended up at.

Ok, now I'm tired of writing so I'll just post a bunch of pictures and say that I LOVE LOVE LOVE Berastagi.  The weather, the food, the fruit, the people - it's my favorite getaway from the city!

Although we had planned to sleep in the morning after we arrived, we were awakened promptly at 7am by the loud, tone-deaf, English-language music from the Christian praise band at the high school directly behind the guest house.

Before heading out to Mount Sibayak for a nature hike, we went to the local traditional market.

In case you wondered, this is where trash goes.

The market is in sections.  This was the pork meat section.  The FDA would have a field day.

And this was the chicken section.

And this was the goat and beef section.

Everybody loves to get their picture taken!

This is tofu.  They cut it, weight it, and bag it for you right here.

These are dried fish and dried fish scales.  Turning these into a paste for seasoning dishes is very popular.  Not my cup of tea - the dried fish taste like oversalted pork rinds.

After the market, we drove our motorcycles through the mountains.  This is a family burial site, traditional to the ethnic tribe Batak Karo.

Everything was just beautiful.  

Happy Slaughter Day!

I had the pleasant surprise of a two-day holiday this past week.  Idul Adha (aka Eid Mubarak) is the Muslim holiday of sacrifice.  In honor of Abraham sacrificing a sheep instead of his son, Muslims all over the world will slaughter goats and cows once a year and distribute the meat throughout their families and communities.

The week before the holiday, goats started to appear in the markets.  On my way to work, I would discover cows staked in the front yards of houses.  Everyone was revving up for the big feasting to come.

At my school, a few teachers went in together to buy a cow.  Meat here is very expensive, especially beef, so it's a big deal to buy a cow.  They invited me to join them at the traditional ritual slaughter on Thursday morning.  Although I had every intention of arriving in time to see the cow while it was still alive and perhaps give it a name, the warm comfort of my bed and the cooling breeze of my air conditioner gave me cause to push the snooze button a few too many times.

Although I missed the killing, I still got experience enough for a long time.

Why yes, that is me holding the head of a dead, skinned cow by the horns.

Here is what it looked like before I picked it up.  Notice the hair between the horns.  Not cute.

Slaughter Party!  This is in the parking lot/basketball court of my school.  

This was the final portion of the slaughter.  He was using the hatchet to break up the skull.  Bone was flying everywhere.

It's Not All Sunshine and Roses

Today I had one of the most miserable Indonesian experiences ever.  I went shopping.

I have needed to buy some things for my house for the past oh . . . six weeks.  But I hate shopping, especially here, so I've been putting it off.  Today was finally the day, though, and I grabbed a becak around 4pm to go to Carrefour.  Some things I forgot to consider before heading out:

1.  Sunday is the only weekend day for most Indonesians.  Most schools and many jobs are Monday through Saturday.
2.  Carrefour is like Wal-Mart, both in quantity of products and congestion of people.
3.  Going to Carrefour on a Sunday evening is like going to Wal-Mart after church lets out.
4.  I can never be inconspicuous.

After trying to haggle with the becak driver and still getting a totally unfair bule price, I arrived at the mall that houses Carrefour.  As soon as I walked into the mall, I was overwhelmed by the number of people.  Screaming babies, annoying teenagers, and families of seven or eight people filled the aisles and made it impossible to move at more than a snail's pace.  The whole time, I kept thinking about a blog my friend, Kathryn, in Thailand wrote about people in Thailand having no spacial awareness.  I think it might be a larger trend throughout Southeast Asia, one that couples with a very widespread, slow, meandering walk.  I get teased a lot by the teachers and students at my school for "walking like an American."  In other words, I walk quickly and with purpose.

Once I finally waded through the crowd to the Carrefour entrance, I had to find a buggy (aka a cart for you Yankees).  All of the buggies in the stall were gone, so I wandered around outside looking for an unclaimed one.  There were plenty - I counted at least 15 empty buggies - but they were all attached to people who were just sitting on benches with no indication of going into the store.  I assume they were waiting on family members, but I have no idea.  And no one would give me their buggy!  I finally pounced on one that an elderly man abandoned - the only person in Carrefour who decided he didn't need a buggy for his one bag.  Sheesh!

Once I got inside the store, I kept a kung-fu grip on the handlebar.  I was paranoid that someone was just waiting to steal my buggy away from me.  As I walked up and down the aisles full of gleaming pots and pans, cooking utensils, and kitchen hardware, I began to amass a small following of curious Indonesians.  They peered into my buggy to see what kinds of things the bule buys.  I could feel their eyes following my every move.  If I picked up an item, they would look at the price to see how much money I would spend on a blender or a spatula.  Normally I would laugh at the situation - who would have thought that I was just a few paparazzi short of Hollywood fame - but I was not in the mood.  Instead, I got angrier and angrier.

By the time I paid for all of my items, I was fed up.  In the course of an hour of shopping, I had been hit in the thigh by a random, snotty-nosed little boy, followed around by a pack of overly curious, rudely intrusive Indonesians, and pushed out of the checkout line on multiple occasions by people who don't understand the concept of a queue.  Then I had to find a taxi.

The beauty of malls in Medan is that, in a city where taxis are scarce, you can always find an available taxi.  Each mall has a taxi concierge service.  Although you usually have to haggle with the driver for a semi-fair price (they don't like to run the meter), the convenience is well worth it when you have a buggy full of items to lug home.  The starting quote from the taxi drivers is always Rp 50,000 (about $5).  Always.  I've used every taxi service in Medan at every mall, and every time I always bargain down from Rp 50,000.  On this particular night, however, I walked out with my overflowing bags in my overflowing buggy.   The taxi driver was ready and waiting at the door.  I told him where I wanted to go and asked how much he wanted to charge.  Before answering, he took a long look at me, a looooonnnng look at the things in my bags, and then said "80,000."  I could just see the dollar signs going off in his head.  I laughed and countered with 30,000 (the actual cost of a metered ride), but he wouldn't budge.  He would not BUDGE!  I pulled out my cell phone to call a taxi from a reliable service, but the concierge came over at that point and told me to put my phone away.  I obliged.  Despite the concierge's best efforts, the driver would not go lower than 80,000.  It was not just annoying - it was an insult.  Finally I couldn't take it, and I stomped my foot and yelled "Saya tahu saya bule! Tipa saya tidak mau harga bule! Saya tinggal disini!" The translation: I know I'm a foreigner! But I don't want the foreigner price!  I live here!

The concierge started laughing uncontrollably.  The taxi driver's face remained stone cold.  The concierge started pointing at the driver's very dark skin and saying "Dia orang Africa! hahahahahaha!"  Basically that means he's stupid because he's black.  It's wrong on so many levels.  Anyway, he shamed the taxi driver enough to bring him down to Rp 50,000 - still too much, but worth it if I could get home before my meat spoiled.