A New Beginning

Hoping for a quick smoke, I peeled the lighter from my partner’s sweaty palm, moments before we were pounced on by throngs of hawkers. 

‘Danau-toba danau-toba?’ They greeted. I shook my head. 

‘DANAU-TOBA DANAU-TOBA!!’ they pursued. As I lifted my hand to light my cigarette, the connecting elbow was dragged toward the side of a moving bus. The back door flew open. My 15 kilo rucksack and I were pulled onto the moving vehicle. As promptly as we had arrived at Medan’s decaying bus station, we left. 

They were right to fling us on board. They weren’t hawkers trying to sell me dud anythings but incredibly keen station attendants. On spotting our oversized rucksacks they had correctly anticipated our intended destination. The bus pulled out of the station and gently pushed us into seats. The dreaded strip along the back row. Sweating already from the humidity I  nestled into my stovetop prison, ready for the journey. The cheeky chap that had pulled us on board sat on my knee and put out his hand. 

’40. Each, each’ he said. 

The bus was a dump. It consisted of little more than a tin shell and four wheels. (I didn’t count, I can never be sure.) It juddered on roads, slipped round bends, and bungled over potholes. Cigarette butts were embedded in the floor like a map of the night sky. A limp cloud reeking of cinnamon and tar skulked over and under the seats. The seats, once floral and dainty, were cancerous from second hand smoke. There were two guys guarding the two exits of the bus. Whenever the bus slowed they unlatched the doors and jumped out, threw more people or boxes or unattended canisters of petrol onto the bus, hoisted themselves back on, whistled, and off we went again. During the 5 hour journey the bus slowed at least a hundred times, yet was only stationary twice. (The latter of those occasions of course being when the clumsy foreigners needed to get off the bus) As we moved, the two attendants hung out the windows, whistling at everything that moved, and occasionally banged a screwdriver on the metal handrail. The rest of us, in silence, breathed our hot tarry smoke. 

We left the raw sewers of Medan. We drifted through fields of palm and rubber, past the site where Bridgestone obtain their raw material. It was soon after that we came to the first full stop. An entire band of bongos were thrust into the chaotic holding space behind my head. The boy swung round and sat on my lap again. 

‘Do you like music?’ he asked, knocking on the drums. I winced yes. His face grinned like the Cheshire cat. Suddenly the bus erupted with a screechy rendition of my least favourite ABBA track. Better than no ABBA, I guess. 

As we drove south, the previously sunless sky began to puff its gunmetal chest. Each window clicked shut simultaneously. The skies were gratuitously dark. The clouds burst. Thunder blundered over the cheesy pop. Water drenched the dusty roads, within minutes they were submerged. The bus doggy paddled along the river roads. Gusts of wind rocked the bus. Droplets of rain snuck through every crevice and panel. A thousand tiny waterfalls emerged from the ceiling. Luckily for us, our stovetop prison happened to be the only dry seats on the bus. We giggled as everyone else scrambled, shading their shoulders under scarves and plastic bags. People alighting from the non stop bus were thrown into the newborn rivers with their belongings. We waded further south. 

We turned sharp around a bend in the road. Just as effortlessly as the storm began, it died. Like Truman, we had driven over the edge. The muddy roads were cracking, as though rain hadn’t fallen in fifty years let alone so recently just over the ridge. Dust coated the bus like an ink wheel, tracing our path. We clambered up the bumpy slopes, a meter or three higher at a time. The foliage became more primitive as we gained height, Trees shortened and leaned hard, clutching its last roots on the incline. As we drove higher even the tarmac began to crumble over the hillside precipice. We passed a bus in the alternating direction, stopped by the cliffside. A crowd of teenage boys stood in the grass, crouched over one other. An unlucky victim of the winding road. 

About an hour of incline later, we navigated one final bend and emerged over a giant lip. Only the azure sky lay above us while a triumphant cobalt blue lake winked beneath us. The bus teetered over the crater rim and began the descent. 

Lake Toba is the largest lake in South East Asia, something you will hear repeatedly even after you have comprehensively researched the place and subsequently arrived. More interestingly however, it is the Earth’s memory of a catastrophic event which changed the course of our little planet. Approximately 70 000 years ago a super volcano erupted, erasing everything in its path and plunging the world into a temporary ice age. The explosion left this enormous crater in Sumatra which eventually filled with fresh water. The tiny corner of the Earth which this vast volcanic lake colonised is more than double the size of Singapore. 

Many hotels and guesthouses line the narrow track to Parapat town on the mainland lake edge. Some perspired under the intense sun, cracking in the heat. Some more elaborate ones, blithely shut out the sun with parasols and surplus roofing. Parapat is a strange place. It has all of the trappings of a tourist resort, but the empty accommodation, empty buses and empty restaurants, smack of neglect which sinks deep into the heart of this great lake. Parapat seems to have forgotten what it was doing before the hoards arrived for full moon extravaganzas which have long since relocated to trendier Asian neighbours.

The centre of Lake Toba is occupied by a massive cluster of trees and hills which jut out of the crater lake. Samosir island is the world’s largest island within an island, although personally I would consider the accolade of the world’s largest (and perhaps only inhabited) island on a lake in the crater of a volcano a touch more impressive for the guides… We caught the ferry from Parapat to Samosir and landed at Tuk Tuk. Tuk Tuk village consists of one road which hugs the coast of a tiny wedge shaped peninsula, which protrudes from the much larger wedge shaped Samosir. The island is a benevolent, fertile provider, supplying inhabitants with every essential; coconuts, bananas, avocados, papayas, mangos, corn, rice, chilis, aubergines. Almost anything can be spotted growing on a stroll around Tuk Tuk. 

The natural beauty of this place is undeniably spectacular, but the true highlight is the Batak culture. As you cruise down to Parapat and across the water on Samosir you encounter the most incredible architecture. Little wooden houses with a stunted ladder which leads to a Wonderland style rabbit hole, covered by an enormous concave roof, not unlike the horns of a bull, pointed toward the sky. As you wander the unpaved streets you will find evidence of this previously animist society. Stone and wood sculptures still litter the countryside, particularly as elaborate graves. The faint strums of guitars are audible from valleys half a kilometre away. Even the food takes a step to the right from usual Sumatran fare, the fresh barbecued lake fish is ubiquitous and more importantly, delicious. Best of all is the cultural personality. A feeling of ease caresses the streets, hand in hand with the Batak's sense of humour. (On nearly hitting half a dozen of his neighbour’s hens with his motorbike my guide told me ‘It’s ok, it’s ok! Chicken is cheap’.) 

Despite this, I can see why the masses came and left. The temperatures may be cooler at this altitude but the intensity of the sun burnt even me to a crisp, when it didn't rain that is. A lack of beaches make the idle life difficult for hungover beach bums. Litter is endemic, and, let’s not forget the crazy insects… 

It’s no Bali, no Koi Samui, but Lake Toba shouldn’t be. Though some of its former visitors have been stolen by SE Asian resorts, there is no reason for the lake to reflect nostalgically on the moonlit socials. It is a different place, with a soul of its own worth seeking. Just remember to make time for it. I don’t think we ate a single meal in Tuk Tuk where the cook didn’t prepare everything from scratch. But that is a part of the charm. The a slowness, the disconnectedness from the wider world, and the gentleness in the community. The lake's tourist economy is beginning to see signs of recovery as a new generation rediscover this forgotten island. But the Batak should stick to their guns this time. The tourist economy can be rebuilt without the booze and the... other stuff. It is time for Lake Toba to delve deep into the vast lake and uncover its heart. 

Cautionary Tales From the Tracks (Part 2)

At the next stop, the pair hopped off the train. They speedily returned with a blue carrier bag filled with tangerines, gherkins, and two paper wrapped bottles. Coming from Olkhon Island, where I had been warned that vodka is evil, the sight of two bottles made me uneasy. The Chechen explained vodka drinking in Russia. First and foremost, no mixing. You pour two fingers in each glass. You make a toast, to something, and you each down your shot. Then you eat something. A segment of tangerine, for example. I cheated and snuck bits of tangerine whilst the others were occupied with pouring the next round. Lastly, you repeat until all the vodka is gone. I don't recall many things beyond the first four shots. But I know that was where I lost my lens cap.

I was locked out of the compartment. The Russian evicted us. I think he was being sick out the window. I stood in the corridor. I checked the time. It was now 4 o'clock. I sat on the fold-down seat in the corridor. The Chechen arrived. He stood next to me. I continued to sit. He asked where I had been. I couldn't remember. Suddenly, he said that he loved me. Feeling incredibly awkward, I blurted yet again that I have a boyfriend.

     'I know, but...' He continued his dirty confession. He touched my arm.

     'You have a daughter, HALF MY AGE!' I managed to retort. Coiling my arm back, I continued the verbal diarrhoea. Reasons spewed forth as to why he should leave me alone. None of them were particularly insulting or forceful. I didn't want to be 'UK Tourist Found Strangled On Transiberian'.

It was all a fairly stupid thing to do, agreed. But as a traveller, you run the risk of the company you keep. And, in the end, I escaped the situation unharmed aside from a cracking hangover I awoke to at 2am. But if I closed my shop for business, I'd never meet anyone except batty old ladies. Considering the distance I covered by train, it was to be expected that I would have at least one bad experience. But the majority do not follow that pattern.

Another occasion where my oniisan and I boarded a train in the middle of the night, we were heading west from Yekaterinburg. As a girl of very little stature, the process of making my bed on the upper bunk of a Russian train can be tricky. In fact, often resulting in head injury. The upper bunks are about level with my forehead and the headroom once you are up there isn't quite enough to sit upright. I was dreading having to make the bed in twilight. We hopped onto the train carriage and began the search for our bunks. We passed through the open platszkart carriage, looking into each section for a pair of empty beds. We edged closer and closer to the end of the carriage; closer and closer to the beds too conveniently close to the toilets. We reached the last section. A Russian boy and a Tartar woman sat on the lower bunks. They each smirked the two perplexed and clearly foreign strangers with giant backpacks. The woman stood up, snatched a peek at our ticket and pointed at the two beds above. My oniisan kicked off his boots and began to ascend onto the bunk. The Tartar lady began to talk to me very quickly in hushed Russian. From the crumbs of Russian that I had picked up, I understood that she wanted him to come down, for fear of angering the infamously cranky provodnitsa. We sat down next to the Russian and the Tartar. The Tartar continued to talk to me as though I understood and I politely nodded my head in agreement. She asked to see my passport. I let her have it. She pulled a pair of spectacles from the inside of her jacket and squinted at the document.

'Ah, so you're from the UK,' I imagine she said. 'And your name is Jennifer', she added. I smiled in agreement.

'Can I see yours?' I asked, one hand outstretched. She complied. That night we exchanged names and home towns, and somehow, bumbled through a conversation about where we were going. I could not quote the situation if I tried. But somewhere between the wild flailing arms and the slow repetition of words we formed mutual understanding. Meanwhile, the provodnitsa flew past, checked our tickets and threw our bedsheets at us. It was time to sleep. I stood up to tackle the bed. The main lights had been extinguished hours ago. Only the fluorescent glow of necessity strained to illuminate the train. I began to unroll the mattress when I was flanked by two stern looking women. The first was the Tartar from the bunk below and the second, also a Tartar, had been observing our disjointed communication from the side bunk. I was quickly squeezed out of the way. Without warning nor signal, the two women went to work. The mattress was unfurled, white cotton sheets flapped, the pillow fluffed. Wordlessly, the two women retired to their respective beds. I stood for a moment, bewildered.

Gracelessly, I bumbled into bed.

One of my favourite plays is A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams. The main character, the dubious Blanche, says time and time again that 'I have always relied upon the kindness of strangers'. I hope I do not fit in the same category as she was categorically delusional. However, there is some truth to her words. I don't rely on strangers for much, except for their interaction. I love sitting on a train as it lolls forth through gorgeous scenes of natural beauty. But I don't travel exclusively for that. I love to talk to people from everywhere, to challenge myself to be understood, to share stories, sunflower seeds, or just plain space. Since returning home I have found that a lot of people distrust the unknown or the uncertain. Yet I relish it. Perhaps it is naive, my unsolicited trust, but it's still a choice. An informed choice I have made, based on what I know so far. That is, generally, people are good.  

Cautionary Tales From the Tracks (Part 1)

I recently began daydreaming about leaving home again. I decided that for my next trip I should take off for two months. Hopefully that will be enough time to traverse the northern coast of Africa, snake off into the Middle East, blunder my way over northern India into Nepal, and finally re-enter China. Unfortunately three minutes of consultation with the British ForeignCommonwealth Office website conveys that my idea would definitely result in permanent injury or death.

     'The FCO advises against all essential travel to parts of this country.'

     'The FCO advises against all but essential travel to this country.'

     'The FCO advises...' yes, I get it, 'fuck off and make a new wish'.

I wonder sometimes how legitimate the claim to danger is. I do not doubt that the FCO has the best information. I would hate to find myself caught in the middle of a political riot because I thought myself better than to consult an informed advisory service. Safety is of course a basic priority. My insurance only goes so far, and even £10,000,000 wouldn't be quite enough to soothe the pain of death. The temptation, however, lingers. Not because I am a thrill seeker, rather the opposite. Someone had to hold my hands while I had my ears pierced at the age of twenty. But there is something about the unknown. Unknown distance, unknown people to meet. Even if you don't speak with similar tongues, hospitality, kindness, a smile will be understood deeper than any half eschewed words.

Many people think of me as naïve because I trust strangers. But provided you give me no founded or unfounded reason to distrust then I believe you need not prove yourself. On occasion, a toothier than average grin can set off the alarm bells, but usually I find myself trusting most people. And generally, people are good.

Generally.

On the train from Irkutsk to Omsk there was very little I could do to alleviate the forty hour journey. Cigarette after cigarette was passed in the smoky end compartments between carriages. Feet ticked like clockwork up and down the length of the corridor. We had boarded in the wee hours of the morning on direction from a sweet old man, into the private compartment where we would be sleeping. We settled in, trying our best not to disquiet the sleeping lady and her father on the lower bunks. The provodnitsa eventually returned to take our tickets. I delivered him mine promptly. My oniisan patted around his coat pockets.

'Eine minute,' he said. Whilst many Russians do not speak English, a rather surprising proportion of the older, including the provodnitsa, in fact speak German. He patted his jeans. His eyes widened in frustration. Turning around, he ripped open the zip of his backpack. He tore through, pulling out all of the contents.

'I think I've lost my pouch' he finally committed.

'What?'

'The pouch, the black one, the one with all my money, my passport...'

He continued to frisk the tiny compartment. The lady underneath me sat up and straightened her sheets to check nothing had fallen. I left to check the corridor. No such luck.

'I must have dropped it on the platform,' he said frantically. My oniisan jumped off the bed. The provodnitsa switched on the compartment lights. The man below my friend pulled the blanket up over his head. In German, my friend started to explain that he thought his money, his passport, and along with them, his ticket, had been lost on the platform. The man, who until now had pretended to sleep, sat up. He pulled straight his sheets. The black pouch fell on the floor.

We hadn't made the best first impression. I could feel the sizzle of temperance in the compartment. Coupled with the summer heat, the compartment was suffocating. Knowing my pigeon Russian would do no good, I decided to spend my time pacing the carriage, and chain smoking.

I was standing in the polluted smoking area when appeared a stocky older man with shoulders like a bull, and a boy, fresh from puberty. The stockier man asked me something. I shook my head.

     'Niet pa russki,' I apologised. Recognising the abysmal accent, in English he asked where I was from. He was from Chechnya, and the boy was Russian. He kept winking at me and the Russian. The alarm bells began gently tolling in the background.

     'I have a boyfriend,' I announced, quickly. The Chechen quickly finished his stub and re-entered the carriage. The boy took the opportunity to ask me if I could spoke German. Words, here and there, flickered to mind.

'Piva?' He asked me to join him for a beer.

Now that the sketchy older man had disappeared, the bells had begun to subside. I considered spending the next 24 hours on this train, sober, and possibly trapped with the corrosive couple in my compartment.

The beer washed down with perfect politeness. Unable to actually communicate, we spoke a stilted combination of Russian, English and German. Somehow, I garnered the boy was a twenty year old student of engineering. I told him I was an English teacher though I will never know what he understood. Eventually we stopped conversing, from little more than exhaustion of the overlapping languages between us. We silently sulked back to the smoking compartment. We were rejoined by the Chechen. He laughed when the Russian explained the language barrier.

     'Next, we drink vodka' he exclaimed, 'then, we understand everything!'

     'Uh... it's 2 o'clock in the afternoon,' I scoffed.

     'We eat, we drink, we talk, it's good!' He insisted. Beer subdued the alarm bells. I supposed that with the Chechen somewhat translating, the train ride might pass quickly after all.

    'Just one.'

To Be Continued...

The Blue Heart of Siberia

Standing outside a pseudo-Italian restaurant I waited for my guide to arrive. Drizzle was settling on my eye lashes and inside my bones. A man across the road stood staring, probably at my clear lack of preparation for Omsk weather. I lit a cigarette. Blowing grey smoke into a comparably grey sky, a man emerged.
 'У вас есть запасные сигарету? ', he asks.
 'Oh,' I mumble, my eyes explaining I don't speak Russian.
 'Oh,' breaking into English, 'do you have a cigarette?' he repeats. I give him one. We exchange smiles and names.
 'Nice to meet you', I say.
'You're a tourist?' he enquires. I nod. He takes a long drag from his cigarette...



 'WHAT are you doing in SIBERIA?!' he roars with laughter.

Standing outside a pseudo Italian restaurant in Omsk while rain soaked through my jacket, my choice of destination did seem absurd. When I had thought of Siberia previously, I imagined industrial snow and furry hats. What I didn't anticipate was Siberia's heart. You hear stories of tourists being duped by corruption, yet I never met any ill will. But the heart of Siberia is not just in people. It is also the clearest, deepest, most voluminous expanse of fresh water in the world. Practically a sea, sparkling like a sapphire, Lake Baikal is a lake even larger than some countries. Situated close to the western shore of Baikal is a small gem named Olkhon Island. It was on Olkhon that I discovered the heart of Siberia.

Arriving with the setting sun after a turbulent drive over the countryside, I went to locate my bed. Gandering across the dirt track streets I met wandering cattle grazing freely between wooden houses. My host kindly led me to my room and introduced me to his family. Night fell quietly. Across the cloudless sky, a clamour of stars fought for space in the sky. I took a walk in the blinding dark, guided by bonfires that illuminated the cliff coast. I fumbled in my pockets to find I had forgotten my lighter. I stumbled over knolls, precariously close to the cliffs, towards the nearest camp.
'Zdravstvuite' I managed in imitation Russian.
'Hello!' replied a young man. 'Come, come, sit with us!' I was ushered into the circle and introduced to at least fifteen names, of which I can remember not a single one. Here sat a collection of Russians, Belarusians, Kazakhstanis, even a French woman. My host plied me with roasted sunflower seeds, hot tea (because 'vodka and cigarettes are evil', I learned.), sweet sunflower halva, dark chocolate, dried apricots, and glorious warmth. The lady to my left sat on the lap of her boyfriend. The fire crackled and as though on cue, she began to sing. Our circle fell silent to the tragic melody. It was an old folk song about Baikal, she told me later.

Few of the travellers in this group had met before the creation of the bonfire, nor would meet again. But for one night, in the blue heart of Siberia, we were family.