Having suffered claustrophobia and thalassophobia (fear of the ocean) I couldn’t imagine myself living inside an encapsulated vessel plunging the deep, dark seas for days where gigantic and eerie sea monsters roam free. Perhaps I had too much of Jules Verne and his Nautilus during my younger days; perhaps it is a fallout of my childhood obsession of the sci-fi movies and Greek mythology. And the tragedy of the Kursk gives me the willies.  The only happy thought I have about submarines is the Beatles’ version. A yellow one.

So when I found out there’s one submarine for sampling near where we stay in Surabaya, I knew I had to see it. If I can’t handle it on sea, at least I can experience it on land.  We were just a few hours from boarding our flight back to Kuala Lumpur and had nothing else to do anyway. The submarine monument  (i.e. Monumen Kapal Selam, shorted as Monkasel by the locals) is just a short walk from our hostel in Jalan Embong Kenongo that within a few minutes we arrived at its front gate.

Located at No. 39, Jalan Pemuda, the relic of Indonesia naval history is just next to Surabaya Plaza and has been there since 1995. The fleet – Pasopati 410, is one of the first Indonesia’s submarine of the Russian Whiskey class, a type engineered by the Soviet Union during the Cold War period. Built in Vladivostok in 1952, the sub was purchased by the Navy of the Republic of Indonesia a decade later and saw service in the Battle of Trikora to liberate the West Papua from the Dutch occupation and was in used ever since. The submarine was only decommissioned in 1990, and five years later saw it reassembled at its current location as museum.

The submarine is divided into several chambers, and each chamber is separated by watertight doors. It could get really hot inside especially when all doors are secured and it is hundred metres below sea level – the condition the navies had to endure as no air-conditioners available inside the fleet at that time. In fact, now with all the doors open and fans at every corners it was still suffocatingly hot, that every now and then I had to wipe the trickling sweats on my face.

Bow Torpedo Chamber with four torpedo launchers, which also serves as torpedoes storage room. There is another Torpedo room at the stern of the sub with another two torpedo launchers.

One of the torpedo in the Bow Torpedo Room. Even though heavily used in battle it is said that the sub had never fired any of its torpedoes.

From time to time we had to bend down and watched our head when passing through the sub’s small chamber doors and narrow space. Imagine living inside the small and cramped submarine with another 63 passengers including the commander for days.

The Sonar Room.

Photos of the sub’s commander lined up the wall in the Crew’s Chamber, above the narrow bunk beds. It was so small, the bed  - that you hardly able to sleep comfortably. Not even a roll-over. Well, the vessel is not for leisure anyway. The room also served as dining area and crew’s lounge, while a small kitchen with metal basin could be found nearby.  The Commander’s Compartment is located next to the Crew’s chamber and it it just a small space with a bunk bed, a small side table and cabinet.

The Commander’s Room.

The Control Chamber is fully loaded with confusing valves and gauges of all shapes and sizes, inundated by labyrinthine pipes and wires. I wonder how the navies distinguish which one to look for, especially in time of crisis. Sure one hell of a pressure.

The highlight of the submarine is off course the Command Room, where the periscope is equipped. Although corroded and blurred by age it is still viewable, and seeing the Kalimas River flowing into the city from the glass finder is something that should not be missed.

Diesel Engine Room. When the sub afloat it used diesal to move, and battery when operating under the sea.

The museum opens from 8:00am to 9:00pm every day. Admission is Rp5000 per person. Visitors can also enjoy the audio visual serving history of Indonesia maritime which located in the compound of the museum.

We set off to Bondowoso for another leg of our excursion just after we completed the morning tour to the Whispering Savannah and Bromo. We met Nick and Jeremy in front of Café Lava waiting for their transport to Surabaya; while Loo was nowhere in sight. I remembered he told us the day before that he opted to stay behind photographing the stair trails. After saying our goodbyes we hopped into the minivan that will take us back to Probolinggo. I was chatting with DH when I heard a sound from the back of our ride, and was surprised to see Chris. Eventually he decided to follow us to Ijen, and was actually resting at the back of the minivan all the while.

We reached Arabica Homestay in Sempol when the sun was about to set – after a long, tiring drive from Probolinggo. Dinner that night was simply set meal we ordered from the kitchen – basically fried rice, a small portion of chicken and vegetable soup. At Rp50k per person we found it a bit expansive to our standard.  Knowing that we were somehow in a remote coffee plantation with limited means; apart that we are simple people with simple wants so there was no complaint there. After the meal and small talks it was time for some sleep before leaving for the crater. After all our fellow trip mates decided to see the very much talk-about blue fire of Ijen which requires early climbing; thus only allowing us a few hours of sleep.

We left Arabica for Ijen at around 2.00am, where our driver sped off through the dark via a very bad road. It took about an hour to reach the mountain base, and met our guide – a skinny elderly that was going to take us down into the crater. A retired miner of 20 years, he now runs a small cafe at the base of the trek apart from his part-time guide job.

We started hiking almost immediately as we only had an hour left to witness the blue light. Falling behind, I tried to walk as fast as I could, but barely able to catch up with the others – who am I to compare with those experienced hikers and westerners in our group? They were quite fast too; not to mention they were all tall and have longer strides. What has been an average 2 hours climb to the peak we attempted doing in an hour. It was a race against the time, as the sun was going to rise soon and so our chance of seeing the blue light. To make it worst, I started to feel my right calf twitched with burning pain; a sign of muscle cramps – induced by the cold temperature and my lack of training. And to my shame the track is not that difficult after all; except for the fact that it constantly inclined at 40 to 50 degree all the way up.

After discussing with DH we decided not to pursue the blue fire and climbed at our own pace. It was not in our initial agenda anyway. Chris was so kind and insisted on walking with us, but I urged him joining the rest as I don’t want him miss seeing the fire. With Chris gone we hiked in the dark to the peak, equipped only with a small headlamp to light up the way. But it turned out not a bad decision after all, as we have more time to enjoy the walk and the scenery – which turned out perfect came morning light!

Merapi was behind us all the time, bathed in blue in the early morning mist.

About an hour later we arrived at the workers’ canteen and weighing post of Pondok Bunder. It was just another 1km hike to the crater from here.

We bumped into several miners as we went further up; their sulfur-laden whisker baskets swung as they tramped on the steep terrain. From their swift yet organized steps, balancing those massive chunks of yellowish blocks on a bamboo pole seemed so effortless but in reality a single load could weigh up to tens of kilos. From time to time they eased their heavy burden by shifting it from one shoulder to another, and I couldn’t help to notice skin lesion and muscle disfigurement. Such is the working life of these miners, which making a living simply means constant battle against heavy loads, backbreaking 6km journey up and down the mountain, lethal gas, low pay and permanent damage to one’s health and vital organs.  Everyday they have to choose an unsympathetic and ironic options : To risk their life or to risk not having anything for a day in their life. And we think our job sucks.

On the way we met this Bapak (it is how they call an elderly man or mister in Indonesia), on his morning routine. Despite the burden on his back he managed a smile for us and made our day.

Approaching the crater. 5am and it was already daylight - too many photo stops I guess!

A choking smells of rotten eggs hit us as we nearing the crater. Beyond the barren ridge lies a beautiful milky blue lake, which color changes to emerald green by the intermittent sunlight. Deceptive as it looks, giving no inkling what-so-ever to its corrosive states.

Man at work. These miners’ laborious tasks begin as early as 3.00am, with a 3km climb to the crater rim and down into the vent where sulfur forms and extracted. Fire is set at the fumarole to melt the sulfur, which combustion produces beautiful bluish flames only visible at night. Noxious fumes fill up the air, and their protection against it is simply a piece of rag used for covering their noses and mouths. The molten sulfur is then filtered, and once it solidifies it is broken into manageable pieces. These chunks of sulfur are then hauled down the mountain for weighing and sold at the nearby sugar refinery (the sulfur is used to whiten sugar, among other things). Typically they make three round trips a day, and that’s for a very small reward.

DH and Chris

Strong man of Ijen. Imagine carrying up to 80kg of rocks up and down a mountain for a mere USD12 a day! And that’s living to them. Suddenly I felt ashamed of myself and of any complaints I ever made about my life.

We felt sorry for the miners and the condition they work in, but they have our utmost respect nonetheless. Our sorrow where somehow soothed by the admirable scenary as we went down. Ijen is beautiful indeed, and the beauty is made more meaningful by these courageous men.

Another scenic path

Merapi in daylight

Instant noodles and fried egg prepared by Pak Im, our guide at his warung after the climb down. The best breakfast ever!

As I was having my breakfast at the cafe, I observed the miners walked past us with their loads and disappeared from view at the end of the trail, which somehow hidden by thick bushes. I glanced around -  everybody was so engulfed with eating and chatting, and didn’t seemed to notice. I quickly ate my breakfast, and when the next miner passed by I simply tailed him with curiosity. The man I was following smiled when he saw me, and was intrigued when I told him that I want to know where the trail ends. The path lead us to the miners’ quarters – which eventually empty, as most of the miners were on leave for the long holiday (we were on the second day of Eid al-Adha, a second major muslim’s festival in Indonesia).

Here the chunks of sulfur were further broken down into much smaller fragments, using nothing but a primitive tool such as a rock. A lorry will come a few times a day to pickup the sulfur and transported it to the collection base 3km away, where these miners get their pay of the day.

Ijen miners. I cannot say how much they inspire me – not only they were physically strong to carry the sulfur, but life’s burden with a smiling face! A strong man indeed is he who could smile and laugh at the face of hardship.

Ijen’s blue fire – as captured by our guide using our compact camera.

So, what happened to our quest for the blue fire of Ijen?

No, we didn’t get to see any blue lights. But it didn’t matter; after all as what Chris jokingly said when I asked him about the fire – “it was blue!”

Not for once we regretted our decision for ditching the opportunity to witness the sulfur burning. Nor will I be able again to see  a grain of white sugar without thinking of all the pain and tears that made them. Our trip to Ijen was not totally vain as so to speak, and we managed to find what we came to seek for and what travel has to offer – an invaluable lesson of life that we will never forget!

“It doesn’t look that hard, climbing Bromo” I pointed out to DH, as I squinted on the straight, white staircase that connects the Tengger caldera bed to Bromo smoky rim. The jeep drove off across the sea of sand, spinning dust as we passed. Little I know back then how wrong I was.

Cruising across the Sea of Sand, in the direction of Mount Bromo. The Sandsea itself is a part of the larger Tengger Caldera, formed around 25,000 years ago of what must have been a massive eruption.

Rider of Bromo

By the time we reached the parking area near the Pura Luhur Poten, the Tenggeran temple and the start of the Bromo walking trail, there were only few jeeps left. We had spent our morning at the savanna, and arrived a bit late. It turned out to be both good and bad. Good; as the crowd was gone hence less people cropping in the background of our photo; but bad as the sun was already high, heating the volcanic soils of the caldera bed that it was almost unbearable to walk.

Horse for hire if you don’t fancy walking on the dusty, hot plain.

Trudging the sandy path under the hot sun to the base of Bromo.

Like at Penanjakan, we were swarmed by the horsemen as soon as the jeep pulled over. They insistently offered the horse riding service and followed us as we walked. They were quite bothersome really, but you can’t really blaming them because that was how they earn their living. In an attempt to ignore these pesky pushers I focused my gaze on Bromo and its long, straight stairway instead. It was a strange view, the white stair; popping out from the grey, hazy background. It somehow reminded me one of the scene in H. Rider Haggard’s novels (which include a staircase to the smoldering volcano set in an African safari, leading lady being chained and dragged to be thrown into smoldering pit as sacrifice, and tribesmen in colorful loincloth and head gears ululating and high on ritual dances at the back). But the insufferable heat and the lack of stamina brought me back to reality, and walking on hot sand was no way easy. I trudged alongside DH who never failed to motivate me; more of dragging my feet instead of walking. As we get closer to the crater the ashes thicken and started accumulating in my socks and shoes, adding burdens to every steps.

Looking back. I was with throng of tourist, mostly locals who came to pray at the sacred volcano. The tiny dots behind the Pura Luhur Poten are the parked jeeps and the drop-off point. As to where we were standing was only half way of the journey.

The steep climb to the crater and our final hurdle.

Before long we arrived at the staircase and this time it was all up to me. The walk was already exasperating, and now we were challenged with another 250 concrete steps that leads to the edge of the crater. The staircase were almost covered with inches thick of hot volcanic sands and ashes that our feet sunk upon stepping on them. We forged ahead carrying dirt that conveniently found their places inside our shoes, and the climb was made difficult by the easily shifting sands that sometimes I can’t get enough resistance to push forward. Panting and gasping for air we finally made it to the top.  We were actually standing on the verge of a very much active crater, and breathe its poisonous, white gas. Not that it matter. At least not today.

 Half way to the top.

Smoking Bromo and the broken railing that divide us.

Between us and the precipitous slope of the volcano mouth was just a broken railing, and the reeking smell of the sulfuruous steam fumed out of it was nauseating. The fact that we were standing on a meter-wide ledge didn’t help either; and the thought that any slight unbalance movement would see one slipping and stumbling right into the deep, smoky cavity – a definite one-way journey.

This was the closest I’d been to any volcano so far, and an active one at that, with the latest seismic tremor recorded was just a few days before that had prompted the Indonesian Volcanological Survey to raise the alert level from 1 (normal) to 2 (unrest) on a scale of 1-4. Anyway all was well that day, and we counted our blessings for being able to conquer yet another volcanic mountain.

Somebody was celebrating birthday that day.

Pura Luhur Poten temple viewed from on top of Bromo.

I gingerly walked to the broken railing for a photo or two, and that was all about it. Standing precariously on a narrow crater rim without anything to hold on to made me anxious and dizzy, and to made thing worst it was kinda breezy up there. I couldn’t express how glad I was when DH finally said about descending.

On the way down.

The journey down supposed to be fast, but there I was lingering and taking photos of the unearthly view of the Tenggeren temple that sat alone in the middle of the Sea of Sand. By this time there were not so many people around, saved a few locals dressed in orange cloth, paying respect to the volcano.

Bromo has been part of the Tengerese (who mostly devoted Hindus and animist) since the time of their ancestors; and considered sacred. Eruptions are taken as signals that the gods are angry, and offerings or sacrifices were made from time to time to appease the  unsettling volcano. I can’t help admiring these people; notwithstanding the danger of the land they are living in, the Tenggerese brave the odds and live side-by-side with nature. And despite its wrath Bromo indeed continues to provide the blessing to the Tenggerese – of fertile soils and tourism.

Goodbye Bromo, for now. Till we meet again.

The fresh scent of grass and morning dews hit my nose as the dark green jeep we rode bumped all the way across the misty plains. We had our eyes transfixed at the view in front of us as the fog faintly unfolded a beautiful valley surrounded by towering cliffs – like walls separating us from the hot and barren plateau we had just passed. The sun was beaming down on us, radiating the rich, deep blue sky while cool mist marched slowly, coating the green mountains far ahead. Withering shrubberies of gold carpeted the earth floor, and the ferns and weeds were dancing gracefully to the occasional breeze. Unfortunately our arrival was in tandem with the approaching cold season; and the wild flowers, were not there where they should be. But the lack of blooms and verdure were in no way impaired the scenery.

Still it is not easy to describe the loveliness of the Whispering Savanna – a picturesque meadow and a contrast sight to the arid and sulfur belching Bromo. Located not far from the volcanoes, the savanna can be accessed via the sea of sands or from Malang. Peeking into this little valley is like entering a different world, of beauty and peace. The exhaustion of climbing the Penanjakan earlier seemed to fade away. In silence I scaled every inch of nature in front of me, but my soul were like little kid running around amidst dried edelweiss and bushes. According to our driver, the savanna sometimes caught fire especially during the hot season, explaining patches of burnt mark we spotted on the grasses. But I guess it is part of the law of nature; as it will accelerate the spring of new vegetation that will envelop the hill with greenery comes raining season.

On the way back to Bromo we spent the time listening to our driver about the exciting locations beyond the green hills that surround the savanna – the serene Ranu Pane lake, the refreshing Coban Pelangi (Rainbow Waterfall)  and the thrill of trekking the majestic Mount Semeru, the highest mountain on the island of Java.

I wish I could reach these places one day.

To the savanna, via Sea of Sand

When we asked our driver to take us to a nice photographic spot of the savanna, he brought us here. It was a beautiful spot indeed, and we were lucky that no one was around.

Dried Edelweiss

I was so absorbed with nature that when I turned back I realized how far I had wandered.

Green foliage of a new life, sprung in the middle of dry and yellowish land.

Our driver and his jeep waiting for us patiently, while we frivolously taking photos of almost everything.

Note: Click on the photo for larger image.

I was already awaken to the cold morning in Cemoro Lawang when I heard a knock on the door. It was Pak Ecok, Cafe Lava front person, calling us to get ready for the pre-dawn hike to Mount Penanjakan – the favourite spot for catching up with the sunrise at Bromo-Tengger-Semeru National Park. DH was still groggy when I woke him up, and continued with his pseudo-sleep  as I headed to the washroom for my daily morning rituals. He was still sleeping when I returned 10 minutes later. I threw a glance at my watch; it was 3.00am  and we were already late. I woke up DH again, this time more firmly. We quickly slipped into our jeans and layers of clothing, and walked to the Cafe Lava’s front door.

The sleepy Cemoro Lawang we discovered the day earlier was already alive and on its full swing. The deserted streets were now cluttered with colorful jeeps, and boisterous guests in their beanies, gloves and scarves – proudly bearing Bromo knitted logo. Prolly they came very early morning either from Surabaya or Malang. We also spotted our driver, leaning back on his green 4-wheeler. He quickly tossed his cigarette away as we approached him, opened the door and asked us to hop into the back of the jeep. The jeep picked up a few passengers from other guesthouses, then sped off into the darkness to the base of the hiking trail, passing through beds of onions and some faithful farmers. As I turned my head around I saw a line of jeeps trailing behind us which headlamps flashing at me; it almost hurt as my eyes adjusted from the pitch black surrounding to the blinding brightness.

The short bumpy ride took us to the start of the trek, of Penanjakan 2. Another viewpoint is at Penanjakan 1, which is much easy on foot and provide better view of the three peaks, but unfortunately closed for renovation. From the drop-off point we hiked up the ash-covered slope; the air was thin, and endless demoralizing taunts by hordes of horsemen offering horse ride half-way to the top making it a challenging climb despite an easy trek.

“Ayuh bu, pake kuda aja, olahraganya nanti di tangga.”

(Come on, use the horse. Save your energy for the stairs)

“Jauh lagi bu, pake kuda aja.  Jalannya nanti mendaki terus. “

(The trek is far, it is better to ride a horse. It’s a steep climb all the way)

We continued climbing despite the discouraging words and our thinning morale, and arrived at the viewpoint just when the sun was about to rise. Arriving a bit late most of the strategic spots had been taken, so we climbed up a bit higher for the uninterrupted view of the volcanoes. We experienced the sunset from behind Bromo a day before, hence it was only logical that the sunrise would come from opposite direction. We turned our gaze towards Mentigen, and voila! A fine streak of red and orange started to appear on the horizon, just above the caldera.

Sunrise at Penanjakan 2.  The tiny white dots were the distant lights coming from Cemoro Lawang, of which we came from.

A few minutes later the sun shyly appears with its majestic glow breaking through the  clouds. I’d seen a lot of sunset and sunrise that it is difficult to say which one is the nicest, but the sunrise in Bromo is one that will not be easily forgotten.

As the sun rose higher in the sky it dawns the land beneath with its golden rays, slowly illuminating the far distant Semeru. We stood in awe as the orange hue touched the smoldering rim of Bromo and crawled down the eroded gullies of Batok, until it finally dissipated through the vast expanse of the Sea of Sand.

A surreal view of the Tengger Volcanoes.

The crowd at Penanjakan 2. Amidst the early morning spectators, hawkers set up their make shift stalls selling hot drinks and bowls of instant noodles which aroma enough to stimulate one’s appetite.

It was all bright and sunny when we decided to head back to the hiking base. Going down was easy, only that the path was so covered with thick ashes that a single step causing the dust to stir up, squirting into our eyes and nose. I stopped along the way to clear my eyes and my neck warmer now doubled up as face mask, and when I turned around I was blessed with this beautiful sight. The sun shone brightly, radiating the green land beneath through the morning mist, giving it a soft glowing effect.

Riders of Bromo, at the foot of Penanjakan 2.

As we reached our jeep we looked back at Bromo, now bathed in blue.

Going down from Penanjakan 2 towards the Sea of Sand.

“We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.”

Fyodor Dostoevsky used to say that. A great novelist, and a wise man. And that quite exactly describes how we found Loo.

We first met Loo onboard the early morning flight to Surabaya. As we approached our seats we saw a guy already settled himself over the window, fast asleep with his face covered with the hood of a blue wind breaker. A travel notes written in crooked Chinese characters and a bulky DSLR camera were sprawling on his lap.

We didn’t spoke throughout our flight, as he continued sleeping and we were trying to find ours too. More or less it was me, cause DH was already dozing off as soon as the plane left the tarmac. I always have this difficulty falling asleep, especially after waking up, so I past the time browsing through the inflight magazine and observing the sleeping guy. He was barely moving except stretching his back from time to time or adjusting the hood over his face. I wasn’t sure what drew my attention to him; it was not my first time meeting a Chinese man and another traveler. Perhaps it was his camera and understated manner, apart from that striking blue wind breaker. Or perhaps it was my intuition – somehow  my sub-concious mind was telling me that our path will cross again later.

The blue minivan to Cemoro Lawang

Arriving at Surabaya and without the check-in luggage, we passed through immigration and custom at Juanda Airport with a breeze. We took the airport shuttle to Terminal Purabaya, and in no time were already on the public bus to Probolinggo, the small town that serves as gateway to Mount Bromo. That Chinese guy in wind breaker was still sleeping when the plane landed, and was among the last to leave.

Two hours later we touched base with Probolinggo and were waiting to be transported to Cemoro Lawang, a village in the Bromo-Tengger-Semeru National Park where we would stay for the night.  The driver of the blue minivan that supposed to take us to the village sat nonchalantly on a makeshift platform under a frangipani tree, playing a game of checkers with his friends while waiting for more passengers. We were eventually the first to arrive and his first customers of the day. I put my backpack down and slouched on the plastic chair of the nearby warung (Indonesian for food stall) while DH finishing his cigarette. From time to time we peeked outside to see if anybody turned in but unfortunately there was no one in sight. The folks were mostly at the mosque performing the qurban (cow sacrifice) as the day itself was actually Eidul Adha (the second largest muslim celebration and public holiday in Indonesia) and with the recent increase in Bromo hazard level, apparently there were not many people keen on going in our direction.

 Kopi Soda in Probolinggo

It was a hot day, and we had been waiting for almost an hour. If nobody turns up that means we have to charter the whole van all to ourselves, instead the normal tariff of Rp12,000 per person on sharing basis. DH was pacing up and down the warung as if somebody would turn up from somewhere. It was a boring wait, but there’s no other way to get to the village and to charter the whole van was totally out of our budget bracket. To while the time I helped myself with some Kopi Soda from the warung refrigerator, a drink I picked up simply because of its odd name. Carbonated coffee is not your everyday thing, isn’t it? Weird at first, but after the third sips I had totally forgotten that it was not our typical cola.

While I was idly chatting with DH over our new discovery (the kopi soda that is), a white guy walked in. He introduced himself as Chris; he was looking for the transport to Cemoro Lawang and urgent need to buy the local SIM card. A blank stare was all he got from asking the warung lady. Obviously she didn’t understand English.

“Pulsa” I told him the Indonesian equivalent for the said phone subscriber card. The goodnatured lady laughed when she finally understood his words, and directed him (with my help) to the nearest selling booth. Ten minutes later Chris returned to the warung with a smile on his face. But that was not the end for him.

Installing a new SIM requires subscriber to fill up his identity and contact information, and too bad it was all Indonesian. Soon I was seating beside him, translating every words in his phone to English as he was typing it.  Making new friends while travelling seems so easy; all it needs just an ask for direction, sharing public transportation or a petty SIM card to start the ball rolling. A few minutes later another guy turned up. The blue wind breaker looked very familiar. He was the guy in the plane!

Apparently he noticed us too and was somehow glad to see us. Loo; as he introduced himself, is an engineer from China currently based in Kuala Lumpur. There were already four of us, but we decided to wait some more and have some Soto Medan for lunch. Before we even finished our food another two backpackers arrived; the cute and bubbly Jeremy from Canada and his quiet friend Nick, from France. With the six of us we agreed to share the cost of the minivan to Cemoro Lawang, as the day was getting late and we were already gave up hope that anybody will come after that.

 The road to Cemoro Lawang

 The village in the mountain

The journey was uneventful and most of us fell asleep inside that stuffy van. Me on the other hand, the only female in the group was given the privilege by the driver to sit in front and was kept awake by the stunning view of the villages in front of me. The temperature dropped as we climbed higher and higher up the mountain, leaving the putrid hot air of Probolinggo behind. Smokes came out from a far distant chimney, and crops cultivated on the mountainside of what seemed to be a barren land (October, and a coming of a cold and dry season).

 Cafe Lava Hostel

It was already 4.00pm when we finally reached Cemoro Lawang, and was dropped at Café Lava Hostel. Arriving on Indonesia second biggest hari liburan (public holiday) we had arranged our stay and all the tour to Bromo earlier (thanks to the help of fellow bloggers Zilla & Fatt), something which I rarely done during travel. I had no idea whether this was necessary (which turn out not – as Cemoro seemed to be extremely quiet), but it was better safe than sorry. The guys decided to stay at the much cheaper guesthouse opposite to us, while Loo opted the Cemara Indah Guesthouse as he wanted to wake up to the view of Bromo. Pak Ecok, Café Lava front person was giving us a good offer and overall it turned out we were charged much cheaper than their published rate. A happy sign to our trip.

 Cafe Lava backyard, where we spent our afternoon

 The rooftop. Don’t ask why I took this photo. I really don’t have the answer.

Our room at Café Lava was small and decent, but it was more than enough. My only concerned was how we were going to survive the cold night, as the thin Bamboo woven walls that make our room are not thick enough to insulate the heat. But I was all too excited that before long I had it totally slipped off from my mind.

 Mount Batok from the Look Out Point

We went out again later in the evening, taking a stroll around the quiet village and walked to the look out point nearby our hostel. That was our first sight of Bromo. I remember Fatt said something in her blog about how painting-like they look, and it was true! Unfortunately it was hazy and night was fast approaching (the sun sets around 6.00pm), and the photos I took described nothing of its beauty. As I was busy setting up the camera a local Tenggeran came to us and offered a ride to Mount Bromo, across the Sea of Sand. I brushed him off uniterestedly, as we had already booked the tour. But he was quite persistence, and was not accepting no for an answer. Me on the other hand was down with frustration with the bleak weather and our lousy photos, that I startled when I heard him saying about photographing the sunset at Mentigen. I’d never came across Mentigen in our quick study of Bromo (it was too quick perhaps LOL!) and his word made me curious. But I was a bit hesistant parting with another Rp50,000 for some unbudgeted event (with the previous back-to-back trips to Manila and Medan we kinda broke on this one) but when DH said he’s willing to pay for the ride I jumped at the moment’s notice and heard myself cried ”Let’s go!”

 The view at Mentigen

 Mount Batok and the sulphur belching Bromo from Mentigen Pass

It was an awful ride so to speak, and I who at first felt a bit awkward about riding a bike with a stranger (as DH was riding with another driver) was inching closer and closer and grabbed  the ojek driver’s shoulder with fear being thrown out from the bike. Controlling the bike against the sandy path was somehow difficult; he had to floor it to avoid getting stuck.  Nevertheles Mentigen is not that far away, and within minutes we arrived at the very much desolated viewing point. The view was much better from the look out point in Cemoro Lawang, and apart from taking photos, me and DH spent our time there talking about life and our dream, overlooking the stunning scene  until the sun finally set behind Mount Batok.

 The ojek drivers

DH watching over the sunset at Mentigen

 Stunning ray of lights over Penanjakan

Sunset at Mentigen

When the sun finally disappered we headed back to our hostel, and found Chris and the gang already there having dinner and we were called to join them. We had a pretty nice chat, sharing some travel stories and get to know each other better. Loo showed me the photo of KLCC he took recently and it was superb; in fact he’s really good at photography that I was so glad we met and able to pick up his brain on the matter. Chris was on his 2 weeks touring across Indonesia, and planned to end it by scalling the Rinjani or so before going back to South Africa, while Nick and Jeremy was on their way across the globe (oh, I really envy them!). We were so into eating and talking that it had totally slipped my mind about taking our photos together.

We ended our quiet day at Cemoro over dinner and some jokes. It could be our first and last meeting with some of them, but it does not really matter. The temperature was dropping fast outside, but we were all warm with our new found friendship. I guessed that’s the wonders of being in the Travel Land. William Butler Yeats once said, “There are no strangers here; only friends you haven’t yet met”.

Melancholy was the feeling as the ferry departed from Samosir. From the corner of my eyes I saw Lekjon’s red Batak rooftop getting farther and smaller until it finally disappeared behind rolling hills and mountains.  The emerald green water, bluish sky and lush hills waved us farewell in between the roaring engine. And the ferry continued to glide through the serene lake, without much regards to our feelings. C’est la vie. That’s life. Meeting and parting are life’s norm. Deep down I hoped I would set my foot on this beautiful and peaceful island again.

 A slight touch on my shoulder woke me up from my daydream. “We are here” said DH curtly. Faintly I saw the small town of Parapat, which we had just left the day before. We followed the flock down to the jetty as the ferry berthed, and found that our driver (whom taxi we had chartered earlier) already waiting for us. We thought of lunch as we haven’t had anything since morning, yet we felt a bit awkward in asking. But the growl in our stomach was getting louder by the minute and refuted any act of modesty.

We continued with our journey to Brastagi after a quick lunch. It is easy usually to fall asleep when traveling with a full stomach, but that was hardly the case today. The view outside was too much to be wasted dozing off. As we ascended the hilly slope I throw my last gaze at the lake, all sparkling and glittering like a canvas of diamonds as it basked in the afternoon sun. Colorful boats roam its calm waters and church steeples stick out from lush greeneries like mushrooms after the rain. I had my eyes fixed on the wonderful vista as they slowly faded from our sight.

A lonely and gloomy road lay ahead of us as I looked forward, sucking every single drop of happiness that I’d just been bestowed. Pak Deni, our driver had his focus on the road, while DH – with his MP3 player stuck on both ears (like always) was lost in his own world. Nothing interesting outside to keep me occupied and sleeping (when you are not sleepy) is really a feeble idea of fast forwarding the time (what a waste!). And it was still a long way to our next destination. Earlier I witnessed some boats headed to a secluded cliff, and that photographic memory of mine struck my curiosity hard. A good point nonetheless to crack the ice.

“Tadi saya lihat ada bot yang menuju ke tebing terpencil. Ke mana mereka Pak?”  I asked Pak Deni, in my very much noticeably unsuccessful Indonesian tone.

(Just now I saw some boats headed to a secluded cliff. Do you know where are they going?)

 “Oh itu, bot membawa wisatawan ke Batu Gantung” answered Pak Deni short.

(Oh, those are tourist boats going to the Hanging Rock).

 “Batu gantung? Belum pernah lagi saya dengar mengenainya. Tentang apa Batu Gantung itu ya Pak?“

(Hanging Rock? I’ve never heard about it before. What is it all about?)

“Kononnya dulu ada perawan yang membunuh diri disitu kerna gagal percintaan, namun mayatnya tersangkut di tebing lalu bertukar menjadi batu.”

(It says that there used to be a maiden who committed suicide at the cliff due to a failed romance, but her body got stuck and turned to stone.)

It turned out to be an off-putting folklore which I had no interest in pursuing, considering we were in the middle of nowhere. Pak Deni seemed to warm up as we changed the topic about his homeland and we ended up chatting all the way to Berastagi, or rather half the way. Cause I can’t really remember falling asleep out of sheer anxiety and acute nervous breakdown – thanks to his remarkable driving proficiency of dodging head-on collision with other vehicles at mere seconds’ precision!

Hello, Si Piso Piso

We were rudely awaken somewhere around Merek by the constant bumps of the pot holed road and Pak Deni’s oblivion to his own speed. From there he turned left, and continued driving until we arrived at a gate post. After one hell of a breakneck journey from Parapat I was happy that we finally in the presence of the majestic Si Piso-Piso, very much alive and kicking.

But I digressed.

As soon as he parked the car, I jumped out and rushed towards the food stalls. Si Piso Piso is just a few meters away, but that has to wait for more pressing matter. Finding the toilet.

The view of Si Piso Piso at 3pm, and the light was harsh. Plus I was too lazy to go down for a different angle, knowing how much it will take to climb up again. Plunging from a crevice at 120m precipice straight into the gorge down below, Si Piso Piso is the highest waterfall in Indonesia and one of the impressive. The high fall is thrusting every single drops of water into razor sharp dive, thus earned the name (Piso means knife). The thundering roar adds up to the splendor, and I cannot help to think how it feels standing on the verge of the waterfall and look down. A crazy blend of bewilderment and fear, it must be. Then suddenly it hits me. The memory of me sitting casually on the brim of Jelawang Waterfall last time, and it was twice in height. The only salvation was not being able to see how high the fall is. I shuddered to that thought.

 Some view of Si Piso Piso.

The falls flow directly into Lake Toba, and there she was, in her full gracefulness as I turned my back. The last time I saw her was hours ago and never thought I would see it again. It felt like we never parted, really! It was so huge that we were actually circumnavigating its perimeter and that took us 3 hours driving just to arrive at Si Piso Piso, which rest on the northern tip of the lake.

Berastagi, menjuah-juah!

The word “menjuah-juah” welcomed us as we entered the township of Berastagi. If Horas is the typical greeting by the Batak people of Lake Toba, menjuah-juah is a more preferred word of the Batak Karo, the ethnic people of Berastagi, and it is reflected everywhere – the streets, the landmarks, advertising banners, sign post etc. Since it was almost dark, we asked Pak Deni to drop us straight away at Wisma Sibayak, where we planned to stay for the night.

Wisma Sibayak was basic, but I really love the ambience. The room was nice and clean but again, lacked the water heater. Hot shower was somehow a luxury both here and Tuktuk, and comes only with the most expensive rooms (which unfortunately way out of my scarce budget and most of the time are fully occupied). The cheapest rooms they got were all taken, so we have to consider an upgrade. The room costs us additional few Rupiahs but compensated with breakfast and a view.

Sipping hot coffee in the cold afternoon overlooking the well manicured lawn of Wisma Sibayak was simply cozy.

We sampled some street food for dinner that night, and I’d been tempted to try the bread toast. At Rp6000 per piece the portion was hefty; with variety choice of fillings from chocolate to peanut butter and blueberry.

The next day we woke up early, with the intention of visiting the Gundaling Hill before going back to Medan.  As usual I went into the bathroom for a shower, and totally forgotten about the absence of the water heater. As the water touched my skin, my body jolted with pin prick sensation made by every tiny droplet, sending shivers all the way to my brain. It was so freezing cold that I found it really hard to convince myself for a second dipper. Being at 1400m above sea level, it is cold in Berastagi especially in the morning. The last time I had shower was a day ago when we were still in Parapat, so I was totally clueless how icy the water could be. Feeling sticky and musty, I decided to rather have a cold shower than no shower. Although to say it was the quickest I ever had.

After breakfast we scaled the Gundaling Hill with our rented motorbike, cruising through the winding road leaving the hectic Berastagi and Mount Sinabung behind us. The old Honda underbone took us past some lovely villages and verdant valleys,  while the smoky Mount Sibayak watching us from afar. Horses were seen grazing the grass freely and farmers, in their rubber boots and Batik headwear were already out working in the morning sun. We got our fingers numbed by the cold breeze, but were too fascinated with the fresh landscape to even notice.

Horses grazing the grass by the roadside unattended, spotted on our way to Gundaling.

Like any cold hilly areas, Berastagi is also synonym as the producer of various types of vegetables, fruits and flowers, and the production yields for the needs of people of Medan and other cities in North Sumatra. Stretching over thousand of hectares, the plains are full with squares of seedbeds of various patterns and sizes; they somehow reminded me of those quilts my late grandmother used to make.

 Little house on the prairie valley.

Happy farmers we met along the way.

Arriving fairly early, we found Gundaling relatively quiet. Despite a few stray dogs, some small kiosks and food stalls just about to start operating, there was no one else around and we got to enjoy the view all to ourselves. From the look out point we could see clearly the three mountains of the Karo Land – Mount Sibayak, Mount Sinabung and Mount Baros; standing aloof like some sentinels guarding the town of Berastagi.

Morning view, with the Barisan Range on the western side.

DH here is showing the technique of smoking without the need to light up – a new method for those who want to quit smoking.

We spent the time enjoying the view and a walk around the park under the pine, fir and colorful flowers (and got chased by the stray dogs!). There were horses for hire too, around Rp60,000 per hour.

Mount Sibayak. The kind lady that manned the Wisma Sibayak told us that there’s a replica of the famous Shwedagon Paya at the foot of the mountain, about 20 minutes ride from Berastagi town.  You could spot its golden colored dome from Gundaling.

Berastagi Fruit Market

The cool climate is very much in favour of these flowers.

After a few poses here and there and several takes at the smoky Sinabung, we left the Gundaling and made a quick stop at the fruits and flower markets in Berastagi.  As the name implies, local agricultural products are an easy catch here, especially the passion fruits and tamarillos, both being Berastagi specialties. These fruits could be bought fresh or in the form of processed juice.

Apart from vegetables and fruits, some of the kiosks were selling souvenirs from mere key chains and fridge magnets, t-shirts, bracelets, bags and sandals with ethnic Batak’s motifs. From our observation the price was much cheaper here than Parapat, albeit a little bit less on the variation. With only a few Rupiah left we didn’t venture into shopping; instead we walked to the post office next to the market for our pathetic customary habit of sending postcards to ourselves.

In the following week after returning home from Medan we found our cheapest souvenir safely delivered to our mailbox; although out of two postcards I sent out only one managed to find home. When we were there I didn’t bought anything for myself as keepsake, but I guessed a single verbatim proof of our memory in Samosir and Berastagi should be more than enough.

Our inaugural introduction to the Batak animism culture begun en route to Simanindo, where we accidently came across a stone-carved effigy and a signboard that says “Welcome to the Historical Site of Parulubalangan”. Curious, we decided to stop by and check it out.

 The stone-carved effigy that guards the entrance to Parulubalangan.

As we entered the site, an old man in sarong approached and introduced himself as the keeper. According to him, the place was once an orchard belongs to a village, and the fate of any enemy or thief who had been caught trespassing will be decided at the stone table and chairs by the village elders.

Another view of the stone table. One thing interesting about the Batak is that they were once practice cannibalism, with these wrongdoers being their usual targets. Victim deemed guilty and deserved death will be beheaded, their flesh cooked and eaten and their blood drank!

The place was also the village site of worship. Clumps of human hair, an old pottery and primitive figurines are some of the relics that could still be seen. I forgot to ask whether those clumps of hair belong to the victims. High chances they are! @_@

From Parulubalungan we continued our journey to Huta Siallagan, a small village in Ambarita, about 10km from Tuktuk. Founded by the Siallagan clan hundred years ago (thus explain the name), the village is surrounded by thick brick walls and was once planted with bamboo in order to keep the village of the enemy and wild animals. The entrance is guarded with a large stone statue known as Panglulubalang, believed to be the village guardian and to ward off evil spirits.

As we passed the entrance we arrived at the village courtyard, where eight traditional Batak houses were built adjacent to each other. Each house was usually inhabited by more than one to four families, and they are still looking strong and firm despite being hundreds of years old. The space underneath the house is where the livestock are kept.

In the middle of the courtyard there is a large tree known as Hau Habonaran which literally means the ‘Tree of Truth’, with a cluster of stone chairs and table rested beneath it. The tree was planted by the village founders; if it grows that means the place was suitable for a settlement. Similar to Parulubalungan, the stone chairs it is the place where the king and village elders held council and discussed about the village affairs, and also a place for trials and hearing criminal case.

While waiting for trial the offender is kept under the Chief’s house, with leg cuffs and all.

If the offender were found guilty of a serious crime, he will be taken to a second trial stone for execution, not far from the first one. The appropriate execution day was chosen according to the Batak calendar, and after consulting the village elders. What happen next is spine-chilling. To ensure the victims were rid of his supernatural powers should he have any, his body will be slashed with sharp knife over and over again until there’s no more blood coming out. This so called ‘cleansing ritual’ further continues where the lime water is dripped into the cut of the victim’s heavily mutilated body until the King shaman is satisfied that the villain no longer has any magical powers. The victim immediately executed afterwards, usually with a single blow, which separated his head from the body. The shaman then stabs the heart of the victim with a piece of wood and removed his heart, to be eaten by the king. The Batak believed that by eating of the flesh of the enemy, they will gain strength and power. This barbaric act also serves as a mean to frighten the would-be invaders.

I had enough of blood and killing for one day, so we walked back to the main courtyard and decided to inspect the interior of one of the Batak houses. What amazes me it was the same house built hundred of years ago during the King Siallagan era (except the roof, where they have been changed to modern zinc material), and we found it still stout and sturdy. If you notice, traditional Batak houses has typical small door and I always wonder the rationale behind it. I later learned that it was purposely built in such a way so that the guest will have to be careful and bow down when entering, as to avoid the low beam above. The act of bowing is thus indirectly showing respect and courtesy to the owner of the house.

Traditional Batak drums made of cow’s skin. It was a bit small and cramp inside the house – without any room, and I wonder how it fits four families staying together. Although the witty in me is more curious on how couples spent their ’private moments’ with the rest of families around. Haih!

Colorful Ulos, the traditional hand-woven Batak cloth that is mostly worn during important events and ceremonies.

We rode as far as Simanindo, and then returned back to touristy Tomok for some quick shopping. A glance at the watch showing 10am; as we still have a few hours before the boat back to Parapat me and DH agreed that we should pay a visit to King Sidabutar’s grave.

Since the tomb was hidden from the main road, we asked a local chap to its whereabouts and he was so kind to even extent his help by riding with us and guide the way. He took us through some small alley with souvenir stalls line up on both sides, and the tomb was located at the end of the path. We couldn’t thank him enough for his kindness; parked our bike under the shade of tree blossoming with pinkish bell flowers and walked to the main gate. No fee was asked for entering, in substitute visitors are requested to don the Ulos (which can be loaned at the gate) as a symbol of respect.

Our gaze immediately fell on the ulos-adorned sarcophagi as we entered the graveyard; with some of them look ancient while  a few seem more modern with sign of crosses embellished on them. The biggest and the most majestic of them have some carvings on it, which resembles the face of a man. A figure which looks like a woman is sitting at the other end, while another image of a man is carved underneath his beard. It appears that this is the tomb of King Sidabutar, one of the earliest kings of Batak that first settled in Samosir. The image of the man under his beard was the king’s most loyal guardian, while the woman is said to be his betrothed but without fulfillment.

Spotted some child-size tombs in the compound, perhaps belong to royal family members who died young.

We drifted to the back of the main graveyard, and found ourselves in a field littered with stone statues about waist high, which purpose still a mystery to me.

Another set of statues in the backyard of King Sidabutar grave.

Apart from the King Sidabutar stone casket, decrepit statues, sculpture of lizards and breasts (a symbol of fertility no less) there’s nothing much to see and visiting grave sort of giving me this creepy feeling so we decided to cheer ourselves with some shopping at the many souvenir stalls outside the compound. But that, is another story.

Two weeks had passed since my last write up about Samosir. Many had happened during those time – I’d been to several interesting places if not caught up with my menial day-to-day life; the reason why this blog wasn’t updated at the pace it should be. Other time saw me staring blankly for hours at my computer screen, fallen deep into the bottomless abyss of a writer’s block unable to find the best word to illustrate the beauty of Samosir and its people. I’ve left part of me there leaving an empty hole inside my heart, an emptiness that I fail to describe.  If any, the rock-bottom spirit and the lack of time (if not my lame excuses) are the main contributors of this backlog. For the sake of this entry and the next, I tried hard to reminisce over those beautiful moments I had there, but words seemed to inexplicably slip my waning mind. The two months lapsed after I returned home from Medan had completely turned those bitter-sweet memories into some ephemeral dream, if not for these photos of mine. A careless bunch of photos that I took during my journey are now the only evidence that I was there. In a beautiful dreamland. And I wasn’t dreaming.

 p/s: Untuk adik-adikku di Tanah Toba,  ini kakak titipkan foto-foto buat tatapan kamu. Semoga kamu ceria selalu. Terima kasih atas kenangan itu.

I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them bloom for me and you
And I think to myself what a wonderful world.

I see skies of blue and clouds of white
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night
And I think to myself what a wonderful world.

The colors of the rainbow so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces of people going by
I see friends shaking hands saying how do you do
They’re really saying I love you.

I hear babies crying, I watch them grow
They’ll learn much more than I’ll never know
And I think to myself what a wonderful world
Yes I think to myself what a wonderful world.

- ‘What A Wonderful World’ by Bob Thiele and George David Weiss

We safely landed at the Polonia International Airport on the early morning of Sept the 15th, after 45 minutes flying from LCCT. Ignoring the constant touts of the airport taxi drivers, we walked past the gate towards the emerald green gas station, and found it to be Petronas, our national petroleum company. We hailed a becak from there, and asked for Terminal Amplas. So much into cutting our budget short that we had to endure the back-aching journey to the bus station, squeezing ourselves inside the cramp becak and inhaling clouds of black exhausts and street dust. So much for an adventure.

 Us inside the becak to Terminal Amplas.

Since we haven’t had breakfast, we decided to eat first by one of the stall at the bus terminal before embarking another 4 hours journey to Parapat.  The only available menu was Soto Medan so we took the opportunity to taste it for the first time. A bit different from the typical clear chicken soup soto we have back home, soto Medan is cooked in thick yellowish spicy chicken soup more like a green curry. Instead eating with rice vermicelli or rice cake like we always do in Malaysia, it is eaten with plain rice and we simply add the potato croquettes as side dish.

Bus ticket to Parapat.

We quickly ate our breakfast and before long found ourselves inside our ride. It’s norm for the bus to wait until it’s fully occupied, and as we were among the last to get on so it wasn’t a long wait. The ride costs us 25 thousand Rupiah each and it is the cheapest mode of transport to Lake Toba.

Nothing much to say about the bus journey except that the seat was a bit cramped (like the bus seat on our ride to Tagaytay last time) but again there wasn’t many people on board so we had the seats all to ourselves. The inside was a bit stuffy as the only ventilation was from the small opening of the glass panels above our heads, and there was no aircond. A bit uncomfortable, but bearable until at the moment when it started to rain and we had to shut those panels to prevent the incoming rain. The man behind our seat suddenly decided to while the time with some cigarette, and he was smoking and puffing like nobody business inside that enclosed coach. Apparently it was common in Medan, as another man lighted up his Gudang Garam. Grey stale fumes wafted the air, and I was coughing terribly from the passive second hand smoking and so did DH. In low voice I heard him grumbling, albeit being the heavy smoker himself. With a laugh I told him that he should by now understand my feelings every time he smokes in front of me.

Fortunately the rain was only a while, and I quickly opened the glass panel for fresh air. More and more people onboard the bus, especially somewhere along Tebing Tinggi where we stopped to accommodate commuters from another bus which had broken down. From there we were sharing our seats with an old Batak lady. With DH in the middle I was squeezed to the wall and could barely move my legs. Definitely the seats are child-size, and not anywhere fit for three adults.  Well we got what we paid for, and wasn’t complaining. We were relieved when she get off from the bus an hour later and reclaimed our breathable space. The bus stopped for more passengers at Permatang Siantar bus terminal and from there we continued our journey to Parapat. An hour later the bus started climbing uphill, the air get chilled and cozy. Lake Toba was revealed to us bit by bit as we bent down the curvy road, and was so awestruck with the beautiful landscape of green rolling hills and bluish lake that served our eyes. Horas to the Land of Batak!

It was around 2pm when we arrived at the quaint Parapat town, and asked the driver to drop us at Tigaraja jetty. Eventually the bus didn’t go that way, and the driver was kind enough to let us off at the nearby street. From there we had to walk a few hundred meters to the jetty and had our simple lunch at one of the muslim restaurant there.

It appears that there is a morning market by the jetty, although not much since it was already noon. We managed to snap a few photos of the market while waiting for the boat to Samosir, an isthmus island of Lake Toba where we will spend our night. Before that we booked a taxi to Berastagi for tomorrow, and had to charter a private ride since the shared taxi was only available very early in the morning. There’s no public bus going to Berastagi from Parapat as it is not a popular route.

Batak woman selling bananas at Tigaraja Market.

Salak fruits at Tigaraja Market.

Dried fish sellers, Tigaraja.

Tigaraja Jetty in Parapat. Boats to Tomok and Tuktuk in Samosir runs every 1 hour, and the last boat departs from the jetty at 6pm.

We hopped onto the boat as soon as it arrived, and other than ourselves and a group of Westerners, most of the passengers are locals. Based on the recommendation we got from the net, we decided to stay by the quieter Tuktuk  instead of heading to the touristy Tomok. We paid Rp7000 each for the trip.

I saw this man with his nets, as the boat slowly left the jetty.

We chose to sit by the open deck, and enjoying the refreshing view was never boring. I saw a bunch of life jackets and floats, and wondered whether they were enough for all of us. Toba is also the deepest lake as it is large, and we were sailing in an old antic. I was hoping that all is fine.

Toba is the largest caldera lake in the world formed by super volcanic activity about seventy thousand years ago and it took about an hour to get across. Surrounded by green and lush mountains, it is a beautiful sight to behold. The stunning view kept us occupied most of the time, and that 1 hour seemed to fly pretty fast.

Samosir mountain range.

A local man came to sit in front of me, chatting casually with one of the Caucasian woman  that was onboard with us. At first I thought they came together, cause from the way they talk looked like they have known each other for quite some time. The guy then turned to us and asked whether we have booked any accommodation for the night, of which I realized he was one of the ‘tourist hunters’. He was suggesting Bagus Bay, and said that he could get us a good price if we plan to stay longer. He sort of lost interest in us when we told him that we were not, and that we have plan to stay somewhere else.  At least he wasn’t pushy.

 Another boat cruising the calm Lake Toba. Too bad it was a bit cloudy.

I love the house by the lake, and could imagine myself waking up to the beautiful view every single day and not be bored.

A traditional Batak house we saw on the way to Tuktuk. Batak, is the tribe people that lives around Lake Toba, and once famous for cannibalism although the ritual had ceased many years ago. Definitely not the people you would like to mess with unless you fancy ending up in their cooking pot! Most of modern day Batak people have embraced Christianity, but they still believe in animism which was their original faith and this is heavily reflected in their life and culture. Being near to Bukittinggi, I found their houses resemble the distinctive similarity with the Minangkabau pointed roof, although the whole structure is quite small compared to the latter.

The lake is not only just a water source to these people,  but also the pulse to the Batak’s socio-economy. It is a place for social interactions as well as generating the household incomes through tourism, fishing and agriculture.

Arrived at Tuktuk we dropped at Lekjon Cottage, where we got a room at just Rp100k.  The room was clean and spacious, and nothing to complaint at, less the water heater. It was pretty cold in Samosir, and water heater is sort of a necessity. But that is something that we could live without.  With a balcony fronting the lake it was quite a deal, and I thought with the fresh air and serene view we will finally have our ultimate holiday. Unfortunately that was not the case (which I will tell later).

Enough rest and shower, we set out to explore the area with a rented bike. Helmet was unnecessary, as we were leisurely cruising the scenic village road passed some colorful Batak houses,  smiling villagers, flowering bushes, running chickens, stray cats and friendly dogs while the stunning view of the lake is at our side all the time.  Nature was singing those delightful songs and I really fell in love with Samosir.

The path leading to Ambarita and Simanindo.

DH at a lookout point in Tuktuk, with the panoramic lake at the back.

Beautiful Lake Toba.

Tuktuk in the evening, overseeing Ambarita Village at the far end.

Some scenic views of Tuktuk. We planned to see the sunset, but eventually the sun down on the other side of the mountain, thus ended the chase.

Night falls quite early in Samosir, and by 6pm it was already dark. Lamp posts weren’t many; knowing that it will be difficult navigating in the dark, we hasted to the guesthouse and returned the bike. We made a deal with the owner to rent it again the next morning before we go back to the mainland. Our dinner that night was simply Indonesia typical pressed chicken (ayam penyet) and some soto Medan at one of the muslim restaurant in the island, but I would say the ayam penyet was one of the best I’ve ever had in Indonesia especially the sambal (chili paste).

Night life in Tuktuk is pretty dull except for the cafes and bars that worth considering if you are in good company, which was pointless in our case. So we headed back to our room for a good night rest. Or so we intent. Apparently there was this group staying at the same resort at the room below us, and they decided to throw a full-blast party that night. Two gaudy sets of sound theater were stacked on top of each other, with the volume amplified to the max. They were singing, laughing, drinking and dancing the whole night through, and from the way they act we were pretty sure they got drunk after a while. Annoyed, we tried to keep our cool since they were singing religious songs and we didn’t want to be labeled anti-religist (although the choice of songs were quite contrasting with the wild theme of the party!). I had my headphones intact with the Metallica banging in my head and can still hear them. I said to DH perhaps they will stop at twelve, more of a self consolation actually. It was the time when we really lose our patience when one of them said lets continue until morning! I wasn’t sure what happened next as I pretend to sleep, but what I know suddenly there was peace and quiet. I asked DH what actually happened, and he said that he just went out to the balcony and gave them the ‘look’. It was a daring thing which he did, but luckily one of them saw his face and immediately called it a night. I imagine what kind of look he was giving them haha…

The next day when we were on boat to Parapat we met a couple who stayed 5 blocks from us, which had been complaining about last night commotion. Imagine he was 5 blocks away and couldn’t sleep because of that, while we were on the other hand just a floor above!