Rough Living

by Vago Damitio

  Yellow shirt stepped within a foot of me. Both of us had our faces set in resolve and our eyes locked on one another’s.

  “Can I play guitar now?” The intensity was still there, my first reaction was to say “fuck no!” but I remembered my own words. “… if you want to play, you wait until I’m done and then you ask.”

  Feeling trepidation I said, “Sure, here you go. You okay?” Surprise was quickly replaced with mistrust on yellow shirts face.

  “Yeah, me okay…okay you?” He took the guitar and sat down next to me on the bench.

  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  Yellow shirt sat down and began to play. His hands were much more nimble than my own. He played a sort of classic rock meets flamenco and started to sing a song. His voice wasn’t terrific, but he carried a tune better than most Americans. The song he was singing was a Thai song, which coincidentally I had been taught the week before when I was camping on the island of Ko Lipe. I actually knew the words, it was a song about a traveler who finds himself far from home and misses the people who love him. It was a song about hope and never giving up. It was a sad and beautiful song.

  I began to sing counterpoint to Yellowshirt on the chorus. “O hi no hi, chang tom te hi, nam the lo de lai…long lim”

  Yellow shirts eyes flickered with surprise. He smiled as he played the rest of the song, our voices finally complementing each other as we found the correct range to sing in. A small crowd had gathered around and listened as we finished the song together.

  “…Yang mei liang lao, e mach mai, hai… kun ha.”

  A smattering of applause filled the open-air bus station. Yellow shirt turned to me.

  “How you know Thai song?” the hostility was gone.

  “I like Thai people and Thai music,” I told him, “My name is Chris.” I held out my hand.

  Yellow shirt took my hand firmly.” My name is Pi… very nice meet you… Creeese.”

  For the next half hour Pi and I serenaded the two girls working inside the ticket window. The other men around laughed as Pi made suggestive comments to the girls and the entire atmosphere of the place was light. Suddenly though, Pi, got serious “Creese, when you leave?” “Four” I suddenly realized what time it must be.

  “Come….” Pi took off running with the guitar, I followed after grabbing my pack. On the backside of the station a double decker bus was pulling out. I hadn’t even known there was a secondary station; you couldn’t see it from the bench. I looked at the clock, ten minutes to four. The bus was leaving early.

  Pi jumped in front of the bus, waving the guitar. The bus stopped and the driver came down, checked my ticket and loaded my pack in the lower compartments. Pi handed me the guitar and walked me to the door.

  I climbed up the steps and looked back to see a half dozen Thai people waving at me. I waved and called goodbye out the still open door.

  “Goodbye Creese,” Pi called out to me “Nice meet you.”

  Dagooze and The Bataks

  The ship landed about 30 miles from Medan.I was a bit worried about coming to Indonesia in the midst of economic and political turmoil. Malaysians, Europeans, and even the American Embassy in Chengdu, China had warned me against coming here. I’d read up on the problems in Aceh to the North and Java, Sulawesi, and Ambon in the South. I had heard about the graft, greed, and corruption that were rampant throughout the country. I expected to run into problems with customs just like the Canadian I met in Thailand told me he had.

  It was a breeze. I was through customs in seconds and every officer along the way had asked to play my guitar. The Steward from the ship instructed each passenger to go through customs and get on the blue bus that would take us straight to Medan. It was part of the fare we’d paid coming from Penang, Malaysia.

  Dozens of poorly clad men offered rides to Penang, Bukat Luwang, and other destinations on motorbikes, minibuses and tuk-tuks, the three-wheeled motorbikes. I listened to the Steward and got on the bus despite my hesitations as to whether he was the guy on our ship or not.

  As the bus drove the poor roads from the port to Medan I saw dozens of rough looking young men walking down the streets. Most of them had guitars. The bus finally arrived at the Medan bus station. Getting off the bus all of the passengers were accosted by scores of men on bicycles, motorcycles, and tuk tuks. Being white, I was an immediate object of attention.

  “Where you go now? Where you go now? Hey where you from? What you do?” No time to answer between the barrages of the inquiries. I tried to get a little distance between myself and the bus station, knowing that the other passengers would cause more distraction. It didn’t work, there were just too many of the taxi men as compared with passengers. The Indonesian problems had destroyed the tourist economy and left the Indonesians with little or no work. They saw me as an opportunity to make some money. I saw them as a threat to the little bit of money I had left in the world.

  I had less than $300 dollars and no way to get back to the United States. It was foolish of me to have come to Indonesia in the first place with so little, but there was no way I was going to miss an opportunity to visit Sumatra when I was so close. It wasn’t like I had a great job at home, I had no job, I had no home. I had about $275 dollars. That was all. It translated to roughly three million rupiah…a huge sum in Indonesia…but I was terrified of what might happen to me if I lost it.

  I had picked out a guest house from the newspaper a Malaysian friend had given me. It advertised dorm rooms for 6000 rupiah a night. About fifty cents. The taxi men followed me and continued demanding to take me somewhere. I stopped.

  “No” I said firmly” I will walk to the Lucy guesthouse.” “Oh,” they all said at once,” Lucy, very far from here…very far..too far to walk..take taxi..motorbike..”etc etc.

  Suddenly a young Indonesian in Sunglasses stepped from the crowd. “Come with me. I will take you there on my motorcycle.” There was something about him I trusted immediately and I followed him through the crowd as he spoke rapidly to them and they dispersed. Some of them laughed and taunted him good-naturedly.

  I became suspicious “How much? Barapa hagris?”

  “I don’t care” he said “You pay me and if its good for you, its good for me. You play guitar?” He motioned to my blue Thai guitar.

  “Yeah, a little” I said. “You?”

  “Of course, I’m Batak. Batak man and guitar are one.”

  I got on his small motorbike wearing my big traveling rucksack and holding my guitar in one hand while I held onto the seat post with the other. He rode down either side of the street, on the sidewalk, and dodged traffic like a daredevil. It wasn’t too far to Lucy, maybe a couple of kilometers, but it was terrifying and exhilarating as I tried to keep my guitar from scraping the ground or the large trucks we whizzed between.

  When we got there, I checked in. At first they refused to give me one of the cheap rooms, but Dagooze, my guide, communicated with the house girl and soon they were okay with the fact that I would sleep in the cheap dorms. The price remained at 6000 rupiah even though another guest I met later had paid the “new” rate of 15,000 rupiah.

  I asked Dagooze if he wanted a coke and paid him 5000 rupiah for the ride. He told me it was twice what the ride was worth but I insisted he take it for pulling me out of the confusing situation and getting me to the guesthouse.

  “Can I play your guitar?” He asked, picking it up. I nodded yes and sat down. He began to play and i n moments six or seven men came from outside, inside, and who knows where and suddenly I was introduced to Batak culture.

  The melodies were strangely classical and the voices of the men rose in the most hauntingly beautiful harmonies I had ever heard. The guitar was passed from man to man and each played as well as the one before. I was astounded by the way their voices blended together.

  Someone lit up a joint. Someone else passed a number of beers around the room. An old man I recognized from the bus station said to me “You buy beers…one round..and we provide mary ja
ne…okay?” I agreed quickly.

  We sat and played and sang until the early hours of the morning. “We are Batak” someone would occasionally explain to me. “Batak man and guitar they are one. Batak and music they are one.”

  The Batak men played guitars until the sun was rising and my head was feeling like a million butterflies were fluttering somewhere behind my eyelids. The house girls Flora and Hotma had joined us and sang the traditional songs from Lake Toba, the homeland of the Batak people. Flora’s voice was raspy but her English was good. She carried an English/ Indonesian dictionary.

  The men seemed uncomfortable with the women singing, but welcomed them. This after all was the city and not Lake Toba where the men would go to beach side bars and sing while drinking the coconut whiskey, tuak, until dawn or their wives came to lead them away.

  Hotma and Flora expressed their undying love to me despite our new friendship and lack of actually knowing each other at all. It was the end of the first day I’d spent in Indonesia. It had been a wild day and though I was in a sort of musical heaven. I had to go to sleep. I stood up and everyone groaned their disappointment at my heading into the cot reserved for me in the dormitory.

  Hotma called out “But Chris, I love you. Wait for me, I love you.” I was a bit drunk and naive and called back I love you too, at which point she gave the universal symbol of fellatio with her hand motioning toward her mouth and tongue pushing on her cheek. I hadn’t expected that and chose to take it naively. “I love you too…but am very tired.”

  She was a beautiful girl and I rushed into the dorms to hide the erection that popped up instantly upon understanding her less than subtle insinuation. I went to bed elated and regretful. The paper-thin walls allowed me to go to sleep hearing the same wonderful songs I’d been so lucky to participate in.

  In the morning I made preparations to go to Lake Toba, the home of the Bataks. Flora, a pretty girl with extremely large teeth flirted with me and kept Hotma at bay as the younger girl made more and more offers of sexual union to me.

  At one point she said “Chris, I love you very good… very good” as she washed some of the other guests laundry in a large tub in the open courtyard behind the guesthouse. Flora quickly pushed her out of the way and said “She’s young, I’ll love you much better.” I laughed and Hotma quickly got up and left. I sat and talked with Flora for a minute asking her about her dictionary.

  We spoke for a few minutes before I left for Toba.

  “Chris,” she called, “Remember me and bring back mangoes.”

  From Aceh to Medan

  (A woman told me this tale minutes after she got off a bus in Medan, she walked up and sat next to me in a noodle shop and began to talk. Introductions came after she had found a small bit of relief telling her tale to another Westerner.)

  Jan got on the bus, pleased to be leaving Aceh. It wasn’t that she’d had any bad experiences there; it was the sense that something bad could happen at any moment. The strife torn province of Indonesia was virtually paralyzed as rebel forces clashed with government troops on a daily basis. Casualties on both sides were mounting as gunfights occurred with more and more frequency.

  People had questioned her sanity in wanting to come here in the first place, but it was a dream. A dream like the one I’d had since I was a little boy as my grandfather toldstories of clearing paths through the jungle, examining rocks and soil for telltale signs, and finally marking a particular spot with ‘x’. His ‘x’ had turned into a gushing oil well and one of the biggest wildcat fields of the 1950’s. It was the same field that Exxon was still pulling thousands of barrels a day out of.

  But it wasn’t the oil that had brought Jan to Sumatra. It was the way her Dutch grandfather, like my American grandfather, had described the people, the orangutans, and the jungle itself. It was a vision of a wild Eden imprinted on her that she had needed to see for herself.

  The people on the bus with her were mostly Indonesian. Ethnic Indonesian. Acehnese Muslims with boxes of fruit, chickens, or bundles of clothing stuffed into the utility bags made from tarps too worn to be useful as anything larger. Some Christian Batak people on their way to the city of Medan. The Christians looked nervous. They had every reason to. Aceh was a mostly Muslim province. Throughout Indonesia battles between ethnic Christians and Muslims turned into deadly scenes rarely seen on Western TV.

  The bus passed half dozen Mosques under construction in the first ten minutes. At each one women in full veils stood holding baskets on long handles and severe looking men with long beards and black headgear sat in covered shelters watching as passing motorists paid tribute to Allah and contributed much needed funds toward the construction of the Mosques.

  The road was split up by makeshift roadblocks and orange highway cones. The bus had to stop and occasionally men with guns would come on the bus asking for additional contributions. The driver refused each time. Each time Jan expected a confrontation.

  The bus hit the countryside and began picking up speed on the rough road. Jan began dozing She bounced in her seat and wok with a start. She looked out the window and saw the orange cones. It didn’t occur to her sleepy brain that there was no Mosque in sight. Then she was too distracted by the men in camouflage carrying automatic weapons. She saw the military vehicles as the bus came to a stop.

  The soldier motioned for the driver to open the door. This time he could not say no. The door opened and three men came on the bus. They were small and looked hungry. They wore regimental patches identifying them as Indonesian Regular Army. A Javanese unit.

  The oldest of the three, who looked no older than 17, spoke rapidly in Indonesian. She understood the part about rebel activity in the area and this being a routine check. She got her passport ready. Each of the soldiers spoke with the people on the bus. Sometimes they took their packages or bundles and passed them out the windows to other soldiers waiting outside. She presumed it was to search them for weapons.

  The oldest one got to her. “Oh, Hello Miss…you Dutch, okay?” His smile didn’t comfort her. “Very nice bag…here…let me see.” Suddenly she was very glad she had put the bulk of her cash in the money belt she wore. The little bit of cash she carried was pulled from the bag and put in the boys pockets. “ You very good to help Indonesian Soldiers fight hoodlums and rebels, you have more bags here?” “No,” she swallowed and tried to look brave. ”This is all I have.”

  “Maybe you like to stay with soldiers for a while…” he laughed and said something to the other two soldiers who also laughed. The three finished their examination of the bus and its passengers without having looked at anyone’s paperwork. Jan saw them take a few pieces of Jewelry from other passengers. They didn’t return the parcels they had unloaded. They left the bus and motioned the driver to drive on. The soldiers on the side of the road laughed and tossed things back and forth to each other as the bus rolled away.

  The bus had gone perhaps five miles when it again slowed down. This time the men holding guns were dirtier. There were fewer of them than there had been soldiers. They didn’t look nearly as happy as the soldiers of a few minutes before. In fact they looked miserable and bedraggled. Some of them wore dirty bandages on their arms, faces, heads, or legs.

  They didn’t speak Indonesian. They didn’t bother with asking the driver to open the door. They screamed out commands in Acehnese and fired their weapons in the air. The driver opened the door and everyone hurriedly got off the bus.

  “What’s happening?” Jan asked the man who was next to her, ”What did they say?”

  “They say we get off the bus quickly or they kill us all. Quickly, get off the bus.”

  Jan stood up with the others and got off the bus. Several of the rebels outside were separating the men from the women and children. Men on the left, everyone else on the right. The rest of the men, boys really, were rifling through all of the contents of the bus. Tossing the remainder of the bags and packages out the door and windows into a pile that was pitifully small.

/>   A man a little older than the rest of his comrades approached Jan. “Where you put your things? You tell me now? Where is money and things?” Trying to control her fear, Jan looked at the man “The soldiers took nearly everything just five miles back…they took it all..we have nothing left.”

  “Foreign slut, you lie…no soldiers this close,” he was panicking. He screamed out orders to the rest of the rebels who threw their haul into a battered taxi truck then pointed their guns at the men and motioned them into the jungle on the other side of the road.

  Jan couldn’t understand what it was they were saying, but she understood the tragic cries of the women and children around her. She understood the menacing motions of the gunmen as the men moved into the dense jungle. She understood the sound of sustained automatic weapons that came from the jungle.

  “Why? Why?” She tried to get one of the women around her to explain.

  “They say we helped the soldiers and so have hurt them. We must pay with the lives of our men.” It was a stoic young woman who explained. Jan suddenly wished she had given the rebels her money belt, maybe they would have let them go then. This was so unthinkable, so unbelievable. So unreal.

  After about a minute of silence there came a rustling from the jungle. The men, all of the men, both rebels and those from the bus emerged from the brush. The passengers looked grim, scared, and humiliated, but alive.

  The older rebel began to laugh when he saw the confusion on her face. “You tell people that Aceh must be free, you tell them we show mercy on you people, even though you help the soldiers. Next time, maybe we be not so nice.”

  He spoke to the rest of the people, most likely translating what he had just said to Jan. The rebels around him began to laugh. They motioned with their guns that everyone should get back on the bus and then they melted into the jungle.