The Way to Lake Toba

 We left the Sinabung Hotel Thursday morning for our drive to Lake Toba and Samosir Island.  As our driver and guide told us, we would be passing through many miles of palm tree plantations and rubber tree plantations.  They were right.  Mile after mile we passed by various private and semi private (government and private collaborative) of palm oil and rubber tree plantations.  The natural forests had been clear cut years ago and planted with these imported species.  The palm oil tree plantations are much more prevalent due to a big push by the Indonesian government more than ten years ago to increase palm oil production and become the world’s largest producer of palm oil.  They hope to produce biofuels with palm oil.  But in the meantime they are urging increased human consumption of palm oils and the use of palm oils in more and more prepared foods and food products.  Which of course puts them at odds with WHO and NIH and other health organizations which urge the reduction of palm oil consumption.  Besides it just tastes bad compared to other oils.  But Indonesians and many other people through out the world use it because it is cheap.

            While on our way to Samosir Island, we made a couple of short side trips to visit some traditional Batak homes and villages.  This whole area seeks supplemental capital through tourism.  As a result, you can go to some of these villages and see the tourist attractions they maintain:  some traditional Batak homes which you can visit, some ancient (300 years old or less) execution tables, ancient grave sites, traditional dance shows, etc.  Nothing is spectacular, all are interesting.  But they also all suffer from a lack of tourism to sustain them.  The problem is that the Indonesian government simply does not promote these areas adequately nor does the government supply the necessary infrastructure or economic incentives to make tourism a thriving business.  Infrastructural maintenance is non existent.  The roads are horrible getting in and out of anywhere.    It can take four or five hours to travel one hundred miles.  Signage is non existent.  Water of course is always undrinkable.  Toilets do not function.  Schools teach people to be guides, but the guides learn by rote and cannot deal well with unscripted questions and answers.  Indonesians are extremely friendly and hospitable, but they know nothing about the business of hospitality.  Nevertheless, despite all of the problems.  We had a great time and were constantly fascinated.

            We stopped in a small traditional (poor) Batak village where we had the opportunity to go into an old (100 years or more) Batak house.

  Four different families lived in this single house, which basically consists of a single large open area with four separate cooking fires, and areas separated by hanging blankets.  There are no chimneys in this house and so the smoke simply rises to the roof which is peaked about 25 feet above the floor, and escapes through holes in the roof. 


Smoke rises to the black roof



Although it does have electricity, it is quite dark inside because of all the smoke and the use of only a few lights.  This home was not simply a tourist attraction, but a real home, like many others in the village.  But the people would open their home to tourists like ourselves for a small (voluntary) donation by the visitors.  I have no problem in spreading the wealth around a village like this, so we would go through.  I found that the kids were just as interested in us as we were in them, and so we would exchange many photos of one another. 



As you can see from the pictures the village is interspersed with newer and older homes, but almost everywhere you can find the ubiquitous satellite dish.  Equally ubiquitous now are the cell phone tower and cell phone users. 

The Boy of Next

In addition to the village, we visited a long house and compound built by a local king a couple of hundred years ago and last inhabited by a local king in the 1920’s.  The King would live in the long house with his concubine while the queen had her own house.  Again, the cooking would have been done in an open fire within the house.  No chimney.  I imagine there was a lot of lung disease back in those times.



Queen's House



King's House

     

      We then also stopped at a small park which gave us a nice panoramic view of Lake Toba and Pistou waterfall.  Again, I got to trade photos with the Indonesian kids.  One thing Indonesians love is to have their photo taken by their friends as they stand next to a foreigner.  The taller and younger the foreigner the better.  It used to be that I could not walk anywhere without being stopped every couple of minutes by Indonesians (more often than not girls) who would want to take my picture standing next to them.  I ams ure my face is splattered across facebook.  Now that I am older and more like their grandfathers, they want to be photographed with Miles more than me.  But on this particular trip Ralph got the most requests.  He stands about 6’2” and is younger and not nearly as grey as me.  I cannot say I was jealous of his popularity.

   

   These kids look like they step out of the pages of an ad for the United Colors of Bennington.

            While on the way to Lake Toba, our guide told us the story of the Princess and the Lake.  It was a somewhat long story and difficult for me to follow because of his English skills and my poor Bahasa skills.  And at one point, I fell asleep for a few minutes during the story.  But I thought I would recount it to you.  It is a creation story that has been handed down for I have no idea how many years by the Batak people.  But like many such stories, it really was lacking something in supporting the reasons and motivations behind the people for their actions and decisions.  And so in recounting this story, I felt it necessary to make a few changes and flesh out the characters a bit more than as it was recounted to me, and thus give it the old Disney spin.  I am now just waiting for the music committee to get back to me with some trite and hackneyed songs to punctuate the story.   I also changed the end of the story a bit to reflect and accomodate the fact that almost all of the Lake Toba T shirts have pictures of two goldfish on them rather than simply one goldfish.  The real story of the creation of Lake Toba is much more astounding, but that will have to wait for another day




  

The Myth of Lake Toba 

            Once upon a time there was a farmer who lived on the side of a mountain.  It was a beautiful area where rice, durian, coffee, cacao, beans, greens and every other vegetable grew well there.  The farmer had a good farm that produced lots of fruits and vegetables.  He worked hard and prospered.  Often he would go to the stream and fish.  He had a good life, but he was not content.  He was always complaining and carping even though he had nothing to complain about.  His neighbors suspected that the man simply liked to complain for no reason other than to hear himself carp.   The farmer knew in his heart he had nothing to complain about, but he could not help himself.  That was the way he was.  But it was perhaps because of this, the farmer’s neighbors had little to do with the man.  And the man had no wife or children.

            One day the farmer went fishing in the stream.  He sat in the shade of a tree.  It was a beautiful cool sunny day and he caught many fish.  But each time he would haul in a fish, he found a reason to criticize it.  One was too small.  Another too bony.  This one’s fins were too sharp, and that one was not fat enough.  And so on.  The farmer groused and grumbled all day as his fish bag filled.  He was all set to go home with his catch when he decided to catch one more fish.  He tossed in his line and waited for a fish to bite.  He waited and waited, but no fish took his line.  He cursed and complained, but waited a few more minutes.  Finally when no fish bit he decided to pull in his line and call it a day.  However, as he was pulling in his line, he felt an incredible tug.  It pulled so hard he could feel his arms strain against the line.  He pulled on the line and he could feel his back and neck muscles strain to the task but he made no progress.  He pulled again on the line and he could feel every fiber in his body strain against the line.  The fish in turn pulled against the line and the farmer thought he was going to lose the fish, but the farmer was not one to give up.  So he mustered all the strength left in him and then some and pulled.  He pulled again with all of his might and he felt as though the breath was being pulled out of his body by the fish.  He pulled again and felt as though the fishline had wrapped itself around his heart.  His heart pounded.  His breath was ripped from his lungs. But the farmer was strong and stubborn.  He cursed and carped and told that fish that she can rip out his heart and take his breath away but he was going to win her over.   He pulled and pulled until finally he pulled that fish ashore.  It was a fish like none other.  It was a huge magnificent gold fish.  It was, quite simply, the most beautiful thing the farmer had ever seen in his life.

            The farmer picked up the fish in his arms and carried her to his home.  He forgot about everything else, his fishing pole, the other fish he caught. and all that had been wrong that day.  As he ran home with that fish in his arms he could do nothing but gaze at the fish.  It was amazing.  It was beautiful.  The gold fish stared back at him gulping for air, she did not struggle or try to free herself from his grasp.  Once caught, she fought no more and surrendered to the arms of the farmer.  But the fish started to lose color and became paler and paler.

            Once home the farmer put the fish in a large tub of water, hoping the fish would regain its beautiful color.  But the fish swam listlessly about.  The farmer ran off to find some food to feed the fish.  He saw some Durian fruit on the table and he cut it open and pulled out the pulp to feed the fish. 

But when he came back into the room to the tub of water he saw the most amazing thing.    The fish was turning into a beautiful woman.  The man was frightened and he ran from the room.  But then he heard a woman’s voice calling to him.  Her voice was the sound of golden honey, sweet, strong and fragrant.  The farmer could not resist that golden voice.  He came back into the room and saw the most beautiful woman he could ever imagine lying in that bath.  He took her up in her arms and he kissed her.  She tasted of sweet golden nectar.  Her kiss took his breath away.  And with her kiss she took in his breath deep into her lungs and with it a golden glow rose slowly all through her body and a blush glowed on her cheeks.

            The farmer was caught in the web of love and he asked the woman to marry him.  She said she had no choice for she had already surrendered entirely to him.  But she told him he had to make one promise to her that could not be broken.  He had to promise to tell no one that she had once been a fish.  If he broke that promise his world would come to an end.  The farmer of course promised and he and the woman married.

            They were very happy together.  And all the people in the village marveled over the farmer’s beautiful wife and at the transformation that had overcome the farmer.  The farmer saw the beauty in all things and no longer complained.  And the people in the village enjoined his company and the farmer had many friends.

            And so the farmer and his wife lived happily together for many many years, during which time the farmer prospered and his lands and wealth grew more and more.  And, after a few years the farmer and his wife were blessed with the birth of a beautiful little girl, who, from the very first day of her birth, glowed with the golden hue of the sun.  Over the years the little girl grew to be a young woman, much loved by her parents.

            But behind every silver lining looms a dark cloud.  The farmer had a bountiful farm and his land extended as far as the eye could see, but that also meant that he had to work longer and longer to harvest his fruits and vegetables, and he had to travel farther and farther from his home and his beloved wife to tend to his farm.  Many days the farmer would get up before the rosy fingers of dawn drew back the night curtain and leave his home for the fields afar, and he would not return from his labors until the moon drew tight night’s curtain.  But the farmer never complained.  At least not while he was in the presence of his wife, for although the farmer had aged over the years, his wife remained as beautiful in the eyes of the farmer as the first day he met her.  And she prepared the most wonderful food for him and her sweet golden voice still pulled tightly on his heart strings.

            And so the farmer would leave his house each morning in the golden dawn of his wife’s love, but as he traversed field and pasture far a field from home, it seemed to him his day grew darker despite the rising sun.  And although the sun would dip down behind the mountain before he returned from his labors, it seemed to him his day only grew brighter as he got closer to his home.  And so the farmer toiled in the darkness of his field and rejoiced in the light of his home.

            One morning  when the farmer left for his fields, he had forgotten to take with him his lunch, which his wife would make for him everyday.  When the farmer’s wife realized that her husband had forgotten his lunch she called to their daughter and asked her to take the lunch to her father.  The daughter was now a young woman of sixteen but still loved both her parents, and she was shy and obedient.  And so she took the lunch bag from her mother and headed out across the fields to her father.

            It was a long walk to the far eastern fields where her father was working, and as the day heated up in the late morning sun, the daughter could smell the lunch her mother had made for her father.  The bag was filled with sate and durian cakes.  The smell from the durian assaulted the poor girl.  Her parents frequently ate durian but she could never stand it as a child.  She could not understand how anyone could possibly eat anything that smelled so bad.  But it was a long walk in the hot sun, and it seemed to her with each step she grew more and more hungry.  She stopped under the shade of a banyak tree to rest.  The cool shade was a welcome relief.  She sat and looked across the fields.  She could not see her father.  He must have been on the other side of the hill.  A cool breeze brushed her hair and the grass rustling in the wind tickled her legs.  The girl thought of the long walk still ahead of her and realized that she had left without having her own breakfast.  Hunger crept up on her and gripped her tight in its grasp.  The girl looked in her father’s lunch bag and decided he would not mind if she had just a little of his sate.  She nibbled a little from the stick.  Its sweet pungent taste was new to her.  Her mother had made the sate with sambal _________, which being made from the fermented durian, the daughter had never before wanted to try.  It smelled thick and dark of the earth  and of ancient times long since passed.  At first she recoiled from the taste as it first touched her lips, but then, after her initial shock, the taste puzzled and pleased her.  She closed her eyes and slowly chewed, listening to the hum of the bees nearby.  A minute, or maybe it was an hour later she opened her eyes and realized that she had eaten all of the sate.  She stood up, startled and chagrined.  She must deliver the lunch to her father.

            The daughter hastened over the field to the top of the hill, but still she could not see her father.  But she could see from the trampled grass the path that he had taken, and so she hurried down along that path.  Still, the journey was far and the sun was now high in the sky.  As she walked, the bag  which she had slung over her shoulder gently tapped her on the back.  And with each step she was reminded of that sweet pungent durian, which until today she had always found to be forbidden.  A fruit to be feared rather than savored.  Still it was a long walk and her mother had made several small cakes for her father.  Surely the girl thought, it would not hurt to try one of these cakes.  And so she reached down into the bag and pulled out a small cake.  The smell of the durian was not as strong as that from the sambal, but its heady earthy tones of almonds were wrapped in a musky pungent blanket that was almost intoxicating.  She put the cake in her mouth and let it slowly disintegrate.  She closed her eyes and the day melted.

            When she opened her eyes again she saw her father at the far end of the field stooped over his hoe in the sweltering sun.  She called out to him and ran towards him.  Her father looked up at the sound of her voice.  Sweat streamed down his face and clouded his eyes.  He saw his daughter running to him but did not recognize her at first.  Maybe it was the hot sun or his sweaty tears, but she looked different to him, older, changed, different.  She ran up to him and handed him the bag.  She told him how her mother asked her to bring him his lunch.  The farmer took the bag from the young woman, and he stood and stared at her.  The sun was strong and he swayed a little unsteady on his two feet after being hunched over for so long on his hoe. 

The farmer had spent the entire morning digging out a huge tree stump in this field.  The work had been hard and he had cursed and swore at the root as he chased the tendrils down deeper and deeper into the earth.  Although the sun was out bright in the afternoon blue sky, it had been a dark day for the farmer, so far from home, away from the light of his life.  And the dark shadows of years gone by had clouded his mind.

The daughter could see her father’s face darkened and told him to sit and eat.  Her father, still a little woozy from the sun and exertion sat down on the ground near the pit from the tree root.  He took the bag of lunch from his daughter.  The lunch he knew would help clear his mind.  The lunch made by his beloved wife always gave him strength.  It was what he lived for out in the field. 

He opened the bag.  It was empty.  He put his face deep into the dark recesses of the bag.  Surely this was not real.  It must be a trick.  He could feel the dark empty void of the bag reach out and grab him.  He looked darkly at his daughter.  There is nothing here, he accused her.  What had she done?  Had she actually eaten all the durian, or had it consumed her? The father flung the bag to the ground.  The girl flinched and then flustered.  She did not know what happened.  It just happened like a dream.  Darkness devoured the farmer, and from out of that bag he pulled all of the anger, bitterness and complaining that had been hidden and absent for so many years.  He yelled at his daughter.  What a worthless girl, always thinking of herself, never doing anything productive, always lazying about the house, never working, never helping.  The farmer ranted.  He raved.  He carped and complained.  Never had the daughter heard her father like this before.  He called her all sorts of names.  The daughter was shocked and hurt and started crying.  But the farmer could not help himself.  He went on and on like this, and his daughter fell to her knees sobbing.  Then the father drew himself up and stood over his daughter and told her that he should never have expected anything different from this girl since she was nothing but the child of a fish.  And he should expect nothing more then for her to laze around in her small pool all day eating whatever came her way and growing bigger and bigger until she consumed the whole pool. 

The child looked up at her father.  What was this he was saying?  She stopped her crying and stared wide eyed at her father.  Could this be true?  Could she actually be the daughter of a fish?  She looked into his eyes.  She felt as though someone had sucked all of the breath out of her and her heart started pounding in her breast.  She got up and without another word ran back towards her home.

As soon as the words escaped from the farmer’s mouth, he realized what he said.  But it was too late, he could not take back the words.  He was not aware of what he was saying when he was cursing his daughter.  The words just sprung from his mouth as though all the world around him had been a vacuum and these dark evil things were sucked out from his mouth.  But that vacuum had also sucked what little light was left to the farmer and he stumbled about in darkness.  He knew he had to find his wife.  She could chase away this darkness.

The daughter ran all the way home and stumbled through the door of her house breathless, her dress torn and muddied.  Her mother looked up in shock.  What my dear daughter is the matter?  What happened?  The daughter ran up to her mother and threw herself in her mother’s lap as though she were a little girl of six once again.  The girl now sobbing told her mother the story of how she could not resist the durian.  She told her mother how she did not know what had happened to all of the lunch, but how a dark shadow had passed over her father and how he had flown into a rage.  But then the girl, now so tired and spent, looked up at her mother and told her what her father had said, and she asked her mother if it were true, was she really the daughter of a fish?  Was she, her mother nothing but a fish?

Her mother sat there stroking her daughter’s hair, saying words to soothe her daughter.  But when she heard what the father had said, she could not help herself.  She bit her lip and the daughter could see a small trickle of blood flow down her mother’s mouth.  It stained the small scar  she had always had on her lower lip.  A scar the daughter had never really took notice of before, but which now appeared cold and deep across her smile.  The blood settled deep into the fold of her lip.  Her mother’s eyes clouded with tears., and her mother gulped for breath.

Go, she told her daughter.  Leave this house.  Go now to the top of that mountain over there and wait.  Do not leave until it is safe.  Terrible things will happen.  But know always that I love you.  Your father also loves you.  But there are some things we cannot control.  You are no longer a little girl.  You are now a young woman and you must make your own way in this world.  Go now.  Go.

But, protested the daughter, what about you?  Who are you?  What are you?  Who am I?  What of my father?

Go, said the mother.  Just go.  There are some things that must not be told and there are some things you will learn on your own.  You must learn them on your own.  I cannot provide all the answers.

And as the girl ran from the house, dark clouds gathered over head and a fierce and heavy rain started to fall from the sky.  The girl ran through the rain up the mountain.

The sky was pitch black as the rain flooded down.  The farmer, blind in the dark of day, stumbled across his fields towards his home.  He was drenched by the rain.  His clothes stuck to him like scales to a fish.  He tripped over a root and rolled down the wet field.  He could not stop his plunge down the hill, and the rain waters came up to embrace him.  The water grew deeper and deeper, covering him head and foot.  He could see nothing in the murky darkness.  But he felt a strange quiet and calmness envelope him.  He heard a voice call to him and he swam towards it.

It rained for days and days.  All the farmer’s fields were flooded.  The house was destroyed.  The flood waters rose higher and higher up the mountain.  But eventually the rains stopped and the sun came back out from behind the clouds.  The girl, who had been sheltering in small cave atop the mountain, crawled out and scanned the horizon all around her.  She was on an island in the middle of a huge lake.  The waters of the lake were a beautiful blue green.  The girl walked down to the waters edge and knelt on the shore.  She reached out to the water and dangled her fingers in the cool clear waters.  She saw two gold fish come swimming up to her and danced around her fingers.  She smiled.  The girl grew to be a beautiful majestic princess.  She named her island Samosir and the Lake Toba.  Tuba in Batak means no mercy.  But there was mercy on the Island.