Indonesian Inroads: Paths Less Trodden, Not Forgotten

We shed our packs and stood momentarily awestruck.

We had stepped into a sheltered world. A world of peace and solitude. Before us stood a pool of water as vast as an ocean, guarded on all sides by mighty walls. Its hillsides dripping with greenery, were littered with a hundreds of Bataks. There it was. Nestled peacefully in the crater of an inactive volcano of incomprehensible enormity. Lake Toba.

Exhausted by the crossing from Medan, we approached the water's lip. It was calm. Quivering expectantly. We dipped our feet, as our host Buana approached. A devout Muslim man he was as easy and as gentle as the lake itself. He spoke in broken English. "In this Batak, you only guests. Please ask for anything".

He offered us tea and then sat a little away from us. A Javanese man by birth, his country had been left reeling from a plague of Earthquakes and Tsunamis. Now it weathered the storm of declining numbers in tourism. He spoke softly about his country. It was beautiful place. Unruly and wild. A place of untamed chaos. But, better to be in the eye of the storm, than on the periphery. Then he gestured for us to join him on the jerry-rigged decking overlooking the lake. The view stretched for miles and as the afternoon stretched on we sat in silence, drinking our tea in intermittent slurps.

The first grumble of the mountain broke the silence with a low, deep groan. Buana smiled, while gesturing toward the far side of the lake. "Now show you my country."

In the distance the water began to thrash violently. The view of the hillsides blurred and distorted. In focus, out of focus. Then the air grew raw and earthy as rain began to fall in torrents, bridging the gap between the earth and the sky. Thick unyielding walls of water. Closer and closer. Thundering across the lake.

We sat transfixed.

50 feet. 20 feet. 10 feet. 5…

It stung the skin. Ice cold. Crashing down around us. Hair strewn across our eyes, our feet slipping on the decking, blinded as we ran for shelter.

I turned back.

The mountain had warped, now frantic and fragmented. The mighty walls encircled us for miles as dark clouds pressed down heavily from above, swallowing up the Bataks in hungry gulps. The water quivered no more, but danced wildly and seductively. The peace and solitude shattered to reveal a dark but beautiful face. Unruly, untameable, wild.

The true face of Northern Sumatra.

There it was.