60 - Low Calorie Acid Trip (Bukittinggi, Sumatra, Indonesia)
Tiger Man’s house was a short walk from the cafe, so he suggested we drop in. I agreed…Follow an enigmatic stranger down a dark street to meet a known big game poacher? What could go wrong? Having spent so much time traveling and meeting people, I intuited the unlikelihood of a trap. Still, in the back of my mind…
by The Nostomaniac
SOMETIMES SHIT GETS A LITTLE WEIRDO. Case in point? The Rooster Monument of Arosuka (West Sumatra). I passed this en route from Kersik Tuo to Bukittinggi and was compelled to stop. Compelled I say! The statue screams, “Behold, the CHICKEN!” So, I halted and beheld. Filed nicely in the “No fucking clue” category. I made inquiries but received an explanation somewhere between incomprehensible and nonsensical. The language barrier sealed my bewilderment. This is for the best. Honestly, I preferred not to know. Life’s a mystery. Enjoy the mystique. Don’t like it? Go cluck yourself.
And sometimes shit gets more weirder. I hadn’t relinquished my tiger fantasy. Tigger was certainly out there, and I certainly wanted to see him. My eyes and ears were open to possibility. Bukittinggi’s Turret Cafe was the place to explore possibilities. On any given day, quirky characters milled about offering tours and whatnot. I spent a couple of days chatting with a local whose name I can’t recall. Honestly, I don’t think I ever knew. He told me but I had a difficult time understanding the man. Pria Misterius (Indonesian for “mystery man”) mumbled constantly, and though his English was better than my Indonesian, it wasn’t enough to square the circle. He had dark skin and shoulder-length black hair redolent of (in my mind, anyway) a South American aborigine. He hadn’t given up tribal life for the big city, but it sometimes seemed like the social dynamic at play.
For lack of a better description, Pria seemed a tad “touched” as they say in politically incorrect circles. Besides mumbling, his expression (of the somber serious ilk) never altered. Never. He was one of the least excitable people I’ve ever met. I don’t believe a nuclear detonation could’ve sparked a reaction. It was as impressive as it was odd. And even when I did understand his words, I was often baffled as to their contextual meaning.
And yet, I was drawn to his mysterious nature and reciprocal curiosity. Wanna see a tiger, you say? Well, he knew a guy. Of course, he did. Not just any guy, but a tiger whisperer, if you will… or would. For the right price and a fair amount of patience, we might succeed in “summoning” a striped crusader. This tiger “shaman” (my word, not his) lived just outside the town’s center. According to Pria, Mr. Whisperer, with the aid of a spirit man, had the power to compel tiger attendance. Difference between his guy and a spirit man? Dunno. Shit got confusing and stayed there well before the actual meeting. If the spirit guide was the one doing the calling, then what was the purpose of the man we were going to meet? Dunno. Perhaps, they were one and the same a la communication barrier? Dunno. I dunno what I dunno.
Skeptical? Yes, yes I was. Still, bullshit or not, meeting tiger guy felt like an endeavor worthy of my time. I couldn’t care less if it was a scam. Sure, the more I learned, the less I understood. Such is life, no? Ever visited a psychic? I’ve always enjoyed the experience, likening it to a mental massage. I know its bullshit, but I prize the exchange for its own sake, not as a means to personal enlightenment. This situation reminds of that.
I had to investigate, so I inquired about price. Approximately $450 US, $100 of which would be for purchasing a sacrificial goat. (Ever watch King Kong? Kinda like that except in the film it was a blond woman.) Yes, that was a lot of cheddar, but a small price for adventure and mystery.
The more we talked, the shadier it got. I started to feel as though I was skirting the underworld. And then my new friend confirmed it. Supposedly, no tourist had ever been a party to this “ceremony” and, much to my chagrin, it’s normally undertaken to hunt/capture a tiger. His “guy” was known to bring down a kitty cat on occasion, as did his father before him. Red flags and alarm bells, grasshopper. It was then I made it abundantly clear I had zero wish to see harm come to the animal. My interest lay solely in viewing the beast. I think he understood, but there was no way to be sure.
I probably should’ve pulled the ripcord right then and there, but curiosity fueled my foray into the unknown. I didn’t consider it at the time, but you’d have to wonder what would happen if the Tiger Team Six went through all the trouble of conjuring an orange kitty just to smile while you snap photos and shit yourself as pretty kitty demolishes an unsuspecting goat. Tiger parts bring a pretty penny on the black market, something these “shamans” know all too well. I wonder if Pria thought I might be a denizen of the shadow world myself, perhaps a smuggler or trophy hunter.
I decided to follow Pria down the rabbit hole. Tiger Man’s house was a short walk from the cafe, so he suggested we drop in. I agreed. If memory serves, he called ahead, but it may have been an impromptu visit. We meandered our way down a shadowy residential neighborhood just past dusk. It was a marvelous place for an ambush and had I not been more familiar with Indonesia by then, I might have bailed out of fear. Follow an enigmatic stranger down a dark street to meet a known big game poacher? What could go wrong? Having spent so much time traveling and meeting people, I intuited the unlikelihood of a trap. Still, in the back of my mind…
All was well. We arrived at the house without incident and were greeted warmly by the 70-year-old eccentric. He waved us in and invited us to sit on his couch. I never understood how the two men knew each other. They seemed fairly acquainted but my perception might’ve been off. Tiger man shared my guide’s stoic demeanor. They were both so fucking serious. Flattening my smiles required Herculean effort. And thus the “conspiracy” unfolded. As I sipped local tea, the high-level talks began. Reality began warping around me (per my perception). It felt like a reduced-calorie acid trip. Maybe it was the tea. Maybe it was a flashback. Maybe I was born with it. Maybe it’s Maybelline. Either way, shit got way strange.
There were eight tigers in West Sumatra roaming across eighteen or so different districts. (No idea how they knew this but questions could only fomented chaos.) Considering the large area, small population, and roaming tendencies, I was told it was extremely difficult to summon Khan. Mmmmm… not quite a news flash, but okay. As such, one spirit guide wasn’t going to cut it. We needed two. And one night in the jungle? No fucking way, José. In fact, the whole shitshow could run fifteen days or more.
Also, summoning jungle cats requires an enormous amount of energy. Enormous. And this means channeling the combined energy of expedition members. Conclusion? Shit would only work if we (including me) believed it would work. Debbie Downer could jeopardize the whole enterprise. Bring your psychic “A” game or go home. Did I believe in spirits? Does a tiger shit in the forest? I answered “yes” as I clearly didn’t have a choice. It was haaaaard not to giggle. This was a roundabout way of saying if the mission failed, my non-believing psychic frailness would be to blame. Nice liability waiver, eh?
Each spirit guide runs about six dollars a day. Until the goat is slain by the dragon, it’s considered a rental. ($2.50 US a day with $70 US payable upon death.) Food, transport, lodging brought the total to around $350 for the two weeks… probably. We’d lodge near a cinnamon plantation and sit, chant, eat, poop, and sleep until one or more tigers arrived. I was hoping for at least one but up to eight (the entire local population) could make cameo appearances. Eight tigers in one place? Right, cause tigers love big groups. I was also informed there was a variety and abundance of wildlife and that additional trekking was available. Thing is, I wasn’t sure if this was the consolation in case the tigers ignored our summons or just an add-on feature. I kinda got the sense tiger calling is so energy intensive we’d need to remain still while doing so. Would not all that movement threaten the summons?
Context is everything. In this case, it’s almost impossible to describe with any accuracy. I didn’t want to sour the mood with a never-ending string of “I don’t understand.” I smiled. I nodded. Pria “translated.” Seventy-five percent of everything said was lost. I pieced the tidbits in the above paragraph together as best I could. And there were long, uncomfortable periods of silence. Some sort of culturally enforced elder reverence? Not sure, but awkward it was. Long discussions ensued between the two for which a translation was never rendered. And then my guy, for reasons I can’t fathom, began sharing stories, opinions, perspectives, etc. in a manner I found inscrutable.
Something about how money can’t buy everything and about tourism and the relation between him and clients or friends or strangers. There was a guy from Argentina that stayed with him for ten days and only wanted to talk about Islam, but he is already Muslim so why bother. He offered a little money but did not pay or something. He moved to Bukittinggi and has wife, but his sister was supposed to send money but no money. He start business but sister not send money, and he go somewhere, maybe back to Argentina or something. The old man didn’t know me well so he would only come into jungle for one day, maybe on the fourth day. And Pria would come also, and we’d eat sardines or noodles or rice or whatever I wanted. Something, something… tiger… what type of camera (video tax?)… something, something… spirit guy difficult… something, something.
Confused? Well, now you know how I felt. And just to underscore the louche nature of the evening, the host produced a few tiger teeth, a claw, and then suggested, I think, that perhaps I could fashion a necklace with them… if I were to purchase them, that is. Sooooooo, not only should I violate an international treaty, but I should also display that violation around my neck? I politely declined. I should’ve explained I needed to save room in my bag for the ivory, rhino horn, and baby seal fur I’d be acquiring on my way home.
After passing on the contraband, it was time to leave. I suspect a potential transaction was the impetus for my introduction all along, but who’s to say? Not me. I wasn’t clear where we stood on a tiger seance, but the outlook wasn’t good. Back at the Turret Cafe, I thanked Pria for his help and bid him good evening. Part of me considered giving it another shot, but I didn’t have the psychic energy for prolonged negotiations, much less conjuring a tiger streak. And so the dream died… for a time.
I was rested. I was relaxed. Go north, my son. My destination was the town of Parapat on the shores of Danau Toba. I knew it was a long haul, but I didn’t know how long. I asked around and received no less than eight different responses, none of them accurate. Three people in Bukittinggi estimated nine or ten hours. Another said twelve. The Lonely Planet said fourteen but was referring to public transport which usually takes longer than personal transport. After traveling a few hours, a woman at a roadside restaurant told me I had one night and one day ahead of me. Some dude said three or four more hours. Another said eight. When I was five hours away, a woman said I had three hours left. One gentleman said once I reached the lake it was another hour to Parapat. It took another two-and-a-half hours. Feeling me?
All told, I spent over fourteen hours on the Phantom and had the leathery ass to prove it. This was not my intent and had I had correct info, I would’ve split the trip up. Problem was, there weren’t many lodging options along the way, so once I’d gone a certain distance I was all in. Let me tell ya what's not fun. It’s not fun driving a motorcycle at night on a North Sumatran road with a shitty headlight. The light functioned but was slightly askew, pointing upwards into the abyss. I hadn’t noticed before because I avoided driving after sunset, especially in poorly lit areas. So, because of the headlamp’s askewness, every yahoo coming at me thought I had my brights on. If flashing their headlights spasmodically was any indication, they were not pleased. With each passing vehicle, I'd scream, “What the FUCK do you want from me!?” into my helmet as they drove past. Let's just say I was a bit punchy. And scared shitless. I could barely see the road ahead and was forced to use the rear lights of lead vehicles to stay on the road and avoid obstacles. I slowed my roll and stayed the course… barely.
When I finally arrived in Parapat, I stopped at a gas station to inquire about suitable lodging and was directed to a fine looking set of buildings nestled on a hilltop. It wasn’t a hotel. It was a beacon of hope. I was exhausted, my willpower compromised. It was more than I wanted to spend, but finances were of little import. And then I faced true injustice. No remote control for the TV in my room. Oh, the cruelty.
Amid my marathon cruise, I passed through an area (North Sumatra) that I perceived to be more devoutly Muslim than other regions. I saw dormitory-type buildings (indicating religious schools known as madrasas) and many adolescent boys milling walking about in traditional garb (dishdashas and skull caps). I also came across the largest, most impressive mosque I’d ever seen in the middle of what felt like nowhere.
The truth is, and I hate to say it, it wasn’t a place I felt I should linger. There was unfriendliness floating in the wind. Something felt off. Not that I have anything against Islam, but I had the distinct impression the region has a more fundamental flavor. This is underscored, I presume, by the community’s presence in a relatively isolated area.
On the other hand, I could be guilty of paranoia and bias. I accept this, but you should ride through on a motorcycle by yourself before passing judgment. It’s quite possible had I stopped and struck up a conversation with locals I may have found them as friendly and warm as all the Indonesians I had met, Muslim or otherwise. More often than not a grave countenance (and their countenances were extremely grave) can be instantly dispelled with a kind “Hello” and a hearty smile. More often than not smiling is an excellent method of disarmament. Still, this area seemed to be immune to my boyish charm. I made a few stops (food, gasoline, etc.) and encountered some not so friendly characters. The exception, not the rule? Maybe and hopefully.
In light of my fluid timetable, I passed on some superb photo opportunities. One in particular still haunts me, as it was the stuff of National Geographic. For some reason, there’s a buttload of motorbikes with small covered sidecars in that part of Sumatra. And not just any motorbikes, but Vespas. They were everywhere, and I saw this nowhere else in Indo. Well, I drove by an elementary school and outside were a good twenty of these contraptions (Sumatran school buses?) all lined up with young passengers awaiting their chariot ride home. Imagine fitting as many rugrats as you can on, in, and on top of said motorcycle sidecar combination. There were kids shoved into every crevasse of these Indonesian “clown cars.” School’s out. Let’s ride. Stopping was impractical for more than one reason. In addition to my nebulous Parapat ETA, it would’ve been nigh impossible to monitor my belongings in the midst of the swarm. Still, what a hell of a picture!
Vespas. Vespas in North Sumatra and nowhere else. Why? Dunno. And not just Vespas, but Vespas with ridiculously oversized sidecars attached. Not sure Vespas are rated for towing a couple of hundred pounds of school child. Sidecar on a Vespa. That absurd sequence made the fourteen-hour, ass-shredding journey worth the trouble all by itself.