Sumatra Tsunami Cafe (Episode 3). The Roads from Hell.

Seratus duapuluh kilo

The map on my lap looked like somebody had drawn it from memory. The spots were placed further away from each other than they really were. In real life, the thick red lines that marked the highways were either bumpy roads or dirt field paths. It was practically impossible to make out the distances between towns as the same spacing meant 20 kilometers in one place and 50 kilometers in another. The road chart of North Sumatra was the poorest excuse for a map I had ever seen. The locals know their way around and the tourists usually travel by bus so… what’s the use in having an accurate map?

– Ke Tele… kira-kira seratus duapuluh kilometer, mister.
– Duapuluh?
– SERATUS duapuluh.

I have another 120 kilometers? It can’t be. The map shows a very short distance to my next stop. Maybe he meant 20 kilometers and I misunderstood. I get my dictionary and look up “seratus”. It means “one hundred”. So, “seratus duapuluh” is 120, damned map!

It’s only 5 o’clock in the afternoon but it seems dusk because of the thick cloud bank. I’ve only covered 200 kilometers in the seven hours I’ve been on the road and I have another “seratus duapuluh” to get to Tele, the only access route by car to Samosir Island in the middle of Lake Toba. The road post indicating the way I should take is very old and I have no way of knowing if the numerous earthquakes that took place over the years haven’t spun it around in the wrong direction. I take the rocky “highway”. Right in front of me there’s an overloaded lorry that’s creeping at about 20 km/h. The red sign that says “40” painted on its rear is not a speed limit but an unattainable dream. The narrow mountain road is right between a steep and a ditch. Two cars can’t ride side by side on it so I find it impossible to overtake the lorry. As I divide 12 by 2 in my head I can hear myself saying in a loud voice: “If this guy doesn’t tumble down the mountain side, it will take you 6 hours to get to Tele”.

The arithmetic of overtaking a lorry

After a short while two buses catch up on me. Well, at least I have some company. Now we’ll all drag along at the lorry’s heel to the end of time. But the buses honk and flash their lights behind me. One of their drivers sticks his hand out the window and signals: Toyota, make way! I pull the car one centimeter to the left. That’s all the room I can make. It’s enough for them. The vans overtake me their right side view mirrors shoving my left side one. How did they do that? How?

The buses also overtook the lorry in front of me along with every one of my imagination boundaries. Are you familiar with the concept of “defensive driving”? I’m sure you are. It states that while driving you should anticipate dangerous situations and plan ahead to avoid them. For example, maintain a two meter distance from the car that you are overtaking and at least one meter from the side of the road in the process. Or, don’t decide to pass the car in front of you if the length of the clear road ahead allows you to see the brand on the sunglasses of the oncoming driver. And so forth.

Well, this concept doesn’t exist in Indonesia. They’ve never heard of it. Drivers make the most of every free millimeter of the road. Yes, ladies and gentlemen of the Science Academy, between the van and the lorry there is a minimum mathematical distance, between the van’s wheels and the ditch there is a minimum mathematical distance, thus if theoretically the van can overtake the lorry without tumbling into the ditch, it will. The driver folds the side view mirror, the copilot sticks his head out the window to better analyze the distance to disaster; he yells “Looking good! Looking good!” and they pass. Meanwhile, Azuria and I are left alone again, trailing the lorry. Yes, theoretically the road is larger than the lorry but psychologically it’s too narrow. I’m the defensive driver. The rear axel is clonking, the spare tire is creaking, the tires side-slip on the mud; I’ve got 5 hours and 50 minutes left to go.

While flying by night one easily detects the positioning of the lakes, seas or oceans from the airplane window as they are not in any way illuminated. The cities are lit up, the villages have fewer lights on, one can make out the road that connects different points on the ground and knows that the darkness usually means the plane is flying over water. But when driving by night through the mountains, when the darkness is so bitter as to resemble death and your heart stops every time the headlights light up a rock fallen in the middle of the road, the best way to find a lake is to fall into one. Every two minutes I would stop and get out of the car to figure out which way is forward. The air smelled like hot metal from my brake disks. I had only a little gas left. A bat made a dart for my head screaming: “Your readers will looove this!” You sadist! And I mean you, not the bat.

And the crowd goes wild!

Technically speaking, Samosir is nor really an island. A spit of land connects it to Sumatra’s body. I found myself on that spit of land it was 10 o’clock at night shouting for joy. I was only 40 kilometers away from Tuk-Tuk, my final destination and I couldn’t wait to take a shower and get into bed. I knew the way so I figured it’d take me about an hour to get there. But it wasn’t meant to be. I can bet my last dollar that you’ll never guess what kept me from getting to my well deserved rest.

The candidate’s lorry was rolling on the middle of the road. Its trailer carried two large outdoor speakers, a DJ and 20 campaigners singing, dancing and chanting “Obor, obor”. Seven all terrain cars customized with decals bearing the party’s logo were following, annihilating even the theoretical possibility of overtaking. I was doing 15 km/h.

When you are following an official convoy usually people can’t tell if you are the last car in the convoy or the first one behind it. So, the folks gathered on the side of the road were waving and cheering me without even seeing my face. For the first time in my entire life I felt like a true candidate – I hadn’t done anything yet, but the people loved and trusted me.

When they passed the villages, the convoy pulled over on the left side of the road. I wished them lots and lots of… luck, pulled myself together and drove like crazy over 50 km/h to Tuk-Tuk where I literarily fell out of Azuria. My legs refused to listen to me anymore. I think I had switched from the clutch to the gas pedal about 2.000 times. A lot of calories can be burnt driving a car.

– Good evening, I have a reservation on this name.

I show the young receptionist at Carolina Hotel my passport. The girl takes her eyes off the computer, takes out a registration book and starts looking me up. The PC was only there for Facebook.

– Yes, you do have a reservation. But there are no more rooms available. We thought you weren’t going to arrive so we gave your room to someone else.
– Well, then give me another room, cheaper or more expensive, it doesn’t matter.
– There are no more rooms available. There was a big Chinese celebration yesterday. We’re all booked until tomorrow.
– I want to talk to your supervisor.
– He’s not here. You can talk to him in the morning.
– And what do I do in the meantime?
– Come tomorrow. Tomorrow we’ll have a room for you.

English translation by Andreea Sminchise.

For more photos, please see the Romanian version of the article.

(to be continued)